Smell My Finger

Bryce held up her finger.

"Smell my finger," she said to the Mama.

"No, I'm not going to smell your finger."

Bryce sniffed her own finger and shivered, a comical sour frown in full bloom. 

I laughed. "What's wrong with your finger, honey?" 

"Stinky," Bryce answered, and then immediately went back to playing the iPad Dora Explorer game.

I don't want to know, I thought. I shook my head and yawned. Both the Mama and I were tired and "schloggy" -- schloggy meaning slow-motion foggy heads from being woken up at 11:00 p.m. by Bryce -- and not even because of the pre-New Year's fireworks already popping outside like gunshots.

Maybe that's what woke her up. But it's usually due to the fact that she didn't pee before night-night or she had a bad dream. Whatever the case, this has been a recurring waking "bad dream" for us for months now.

Bryce wakes up, seemingly every other night, comes in our room and then sits and/or squats at the foot of our bed and sighs and cries until we wake up. Sometimes I put her back to bed, but usually it's the Mama who has to get her settled again, which can range from 15 minutes to over an hour depending on Bryce's disposition. 

I can usually go right back to sleep, although it really breaks the normal sleep cycle for both of us, and it's really disruptive for the Mama, bringing the schloggies on full force. Combine that with the fact that both girls wake up really early between 5:30-6:30 a.m. (after 6:00 is rarer).

Bryce's wakefulness has been a pattern for months now. With the exception of last night, this week we were lucky because we had a streak of three nights in a row without interruption, with both girls sleeping sounding until morning. 

We've been told that it's normal neurological toddler development, although Beatrice wasn't nearly as wakeful and is a really good sleeper now. This latest cycle is haunting because Bryce was a nighttime nightmare from about 12 to 18 months old.

It really takes it's toll because we're more wakeful now feeling like she's right there crying and whining.

In our heads. Ack.

This too shall pass, but here we are again, a disruptive ghost of no-sleep past...sigh. We do love our B-hive no matter what.

(As we nod off to the schloggies...)

Here, smell Bryce's finger. Wait. Don't. 

Happy New Year!

B'eaming From Ear To Ear

"Let's go see Santa!"

Beatrice and Bryce were thrilled to bits to go see Santa this weekend. They didn't have long lists, but they did have their burning single requests ready to singe Santa's fluffy beard.

We arrived at Marini's Candies in downtown Santa Cruz, where Santa has had a regular gig for many years, and the girls lit up like Christmas stars. They immediately found themselves on each of his knees, smiles beaming from ear to ear.

And what made Santa beam ear to ear? When we told him we were just at an assisted care facility, one of the ones my wife works at delivering physical therapy, where we helped share a little Christmas cheer with the mostly older women patients suffering from varying degrees of dementia.

But that was the Mama and Daddy sharing proudly. What the girls really wanted to tell Santa was what they wanted for Christmas.

"That's a very nice thing you did today, girls," said Santa. "The nice things you do helps me do my job and give back to children all over the world."

The girls kept smiling; Bea looked a little nervous while Bryce was giddy with delight. We took pictures and encouraged them both.

"So, what would you like this year?" Santa asked Beatrice.

"Um...a Chuggington train for my tracks," Bea answered.

"And what would you like?" Santa asked Bryce.

"A space station!"

Santa laughed.

Right on, Girls. B movers and shakers. Always.

The Blech with the Blessings Year Round

"I'm so excited for Christmas! I'm so excited for Christmas! I'm so excited for Christmas!"

Exclaimed Beatrice, excitedly.

"Me too!"

Echoed Bryce, excitedly.

And so it goes with our little girls at the holiday helm. The Christmastime magic is upon us, like a warm blanket on a cold winter's morn. We've actually had our share of frigid mornings recently here in Santa Cruz, with a cold snap leaving our cheeks and bums a chapped cherry red.

Just like ol' Kris Kringle, who the girls got to see this weekend at the downtown Christmas parade.  Santa rode by in his white carriage, pulled by two gorgeous steeds.

"Look, here comes Santa!" exclaimed the Mama and Daddy, excitedly. The girls bounced in place.

"Is that Santa's deer?" asked Beatrice as Santa approached.

"Reindeer? No, those are horses."

"Oh, yes," Bea said, and then laughed.

And there was 50% off giant candy! (See if you catch that one.)

Although, there is the little issue of not sleeping for Bryce, or more accurately, waking up at 3:00 am seemingly every other night, which we're told has more to do with neurological development than holiday magic. Bryce tip toes into our room and sits at the foot of the bed, talking just loud enough to herself for one of us to wake up and hear, and then she takes forever to get back to sleep. This happened with Bea, too.

Blech. Sleep deprivation just so happens to be an serial rite of parental passage from child to child. Bea wasn't so bad, but Bryce from 6-18 months about drove us both bonkers, awake nearly every hour and every night for months and months.

However, you take the belch with the blessings year round with kids. And there are certainly plenty of B's in our blessings around here.

This is why I'm thankful: my angelic muses carry with them a special kind of perpetual Christmastime magic.

And so does Daddy. Amen.

"I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite -- only a sense of existence." 

--Henry David Thoreau 

Thankful for My Muses and Christmastime Magic

This is why I'm thankful: my angelic muses carry with them a special kind of perpetual Christmastime magic. The kind that casts imperfections into unique heartmeld spells of empowered adaption and inspiration. The kind that lights the world around me like triple suns rising one after the other, helping me make life-lesson connections I never would've seen before. The kind that guide me to be a better father, a better husband, a better man.

Muse Bryce has a fire in her belly that dwarfs even the Mama Muse's daily motivation. Her first year of preschool has gone well so far, even with her aggressive edge of reactive smacking, something we're working on. We're also still dealing with her exotropia -- a vision problem where one eye migrates outward and binocular vision can be difficult. This includes putting an eye patch on her right eye for one hour per day, since her left eye is the problem child. Hopefully early next year we'll find out it's helped, but this doesn't seem to slow her down; her belly fire only burns brighter, a dissonant dragon of do.

Muse Beatrice has a wonderful shy sensibility and sensitivity to those around her. Even with her processing delays, which she continues to work on and overcome, her intellect and grasp of concepts greater than her current age at normal development speeds is exciting -- especially since kindergarten is starting next year. In fact, her storytelling ability is more creative and rich than ever had at her age, and I was certainly an imaginative introvert as a child. She also has an eye for flexible patterns and design, something conveyed in her storytelling, as if she's working through problems unseen even by us. And of course, there's her Daddy love of Christmas, one that warms my heart and soul, us both longing for the holiday.

The Mama Muse has always been my primary sun burning bright who's prescient flares caress my surface daily, reminding me that no matter how harsh and cold things can get, it's the warming reaction of sunrise that makes all the difference. I've known that for 16 years since the day we met that one special day at the beach, the same date when we married six years later (this year being the diamond 10 celebration). Plus, falling in love again and again doesn't hurt.

And then there's the Nonna Muse, my mother-in-law, the Mama's mom, who lives with us and is a blessing to the girls. And then there are the other  muses I celebrate -- my sister, my sister-in-law, my niece, my Aunt Karen and Aunt Margene, and the much missed spirt of my own mother, whom I lost this time last year. And then there's the countless other female family and friends from then to now who I've learned much from. (Gentlemen, I'm still digging your influence, no worries.)

I'm blessed to have so much inspirational light from girl power and am thankful for muses and everyday Christmastime magic that feel like the warm sand from one day at the beach.

Us men need mucho more musing. Amen.

To Be Back Here Again

They laughed and decorated their pumpkins. A picture perfect Fall affair.

Beatrice said, “An-an-an-an-and I’m making this for Nonna.”

Her classmates and her sister Bryce sitting around her at the table kept laughing and decorating. An older boy sitting across from her, no more than eight or nine, smiled at her. 

Such a sweet moment, I thought. I took a few pictures. It was the Harvest Festival fundraiser for Bridges to Kinder, the preschool where both Bea and Bryce attend.

“Buh-buh-buh-buh-but I want the gold pen now for my pumpkin,” Beatrice said. 

Actually she stuttered a little. A vestige of her processing and speech delays and a work-in-progress with therapy, Beatrice stutters the beginning of sentences sometimes as a way to get her thoughts in order. It’s like saying, “Wait a second and I’ll tell you want I want to tell you.”

I handed her the gold pen and then the older boy did something I did not expect. He made fun of her stutter.

“Buh-buh-buh-buh I wanna a gold pen!”

The mocking face, the animated dance, the shrill inflection of his words — I remembered it well, being a giver and a taker as a child. Christ, sometimes as an adult. To date I hadn't ever considered this would happen; I had kept myself in the dark to this painful part of growing up.

Then her classmate and friend sitting next to her followed suit, although it was obvious he was unsure of why he did, and his taunt faded quickly with the uncomfortable confusion etched in is teasing echo.

I waited, not wanting to overreact. Bea seemed like she didn’t catch the sarcasm at all. Completely oblivious. Thank God, I thought. This time. Everyone at the table went on decorating and laughing as they had before, and yet I still wanted to say something. I fought it like trying to suppress a cough itching it’s way up an infected lung.

You little shit, I thought. You’re lucky she didn’t understand. A father’s overreaction to be sure, especially in the context I witnessed, but still.

But someday she will, and neither the Mama or me will be able to fend off the teasing, the bullying and other forms of verbal abuse, the unavoidable rites of passage. And we shouldn’t really, because Beatrice will have to learn how to deal with it, how to defend herself when necessary, and when to deflect, reject and accept. We’ll help her and Bryce both, encouraging the most healthy responses and defense mechanisms they can develop, and letting them figure out the rest, just as we did ourselves. Just as we all have done.

My flash of defensive anger woke me up to the fact that their journeys have only just begun. Kindergarten starts next year for Beatrice, and Byrce will start in a couple of years. To be back here with them again, to experience grade school to high school to college again — with them and through them — is quite the surreal sensation.

And while much of the teasing they’ll experience and even dish out will hopefully be harmless and roll of them and others, teasing unfortunately is a gateway drug to bullying and beyond. The beyond being things unthinkable, which is why coming back from my latest business trip and bought two bracelets by artist Julie Marie Chavez at the Life Is Good store. Julie's mission is to help some of today's most important charities: 25% of the gross bracelet proceeds going to support V-Day, a global activist movement to end violence against women and girls. This of course prompted me to get back to daddy writing and evangelizing for the better again.

Because I love you, girls. Simple as that.

The Symbiotic Back-to-School Flavor Swirl

Two B's in a pod indeed.

One tastes of vanilla ice cream, while the other, cayenne pepper.

Together they're quite the tasty kick, a symbiotic flavor swirl.

And so continues the divergence of Bea and Bryce, loving sisters just under two years apart.

Both will be in school starting this year; it doesn't go as fast as you think when you control the film speed, like watching two flowers bloom real-time.

Conversely, however, you blink, and boom -- they've bloomed -- their vanilla and cayenne pepper pollen filling every room (as well as they shrieks of joy turned rough-housing turned into yelps of crying jags that drive us all nutso; parents are allergic to this kind of behavior, you know).

We sneeze a lot here, even the stalwart Nonna, and celebrating back-to-back birthdays makes this a very special time of the year, replete with laughter and crying jags galore. It's also the heart of our summer here in Santa Cruz, and they days feel longer even when they're actually getting shorter.

And these days extend into preschool and pre-K time for the B-hive. I attended their school orientation as I've done for the past two years (giving the Mama a break since she's much more involved throughout the school year, working in the class and volunteering). This is where they'll go to grade school, so the "preschool" program has been quite invaluable.

The school cafeteria was a-buzz with teachers and aids explaining all the in and outs for the school year, and with parents participating excitedly (mostly moms, but there were three other dads). While the teachers expressed their joy to having both our girls this year (and thankfully Bryce's eyes seem to be correcting and Bea has come a long way), I did warn them that while Beatrice remains a sweetie:

"Bryce will break stuff."

We all laughed and I added:

"No, really. She will."

Plus, she flies a mean dragon. (The flavor swirls leave a long-tail of memory.)

Happy Labor Day and Back to School, Kids!

Being What Happens Next

"Mommy, Daddy -- let's watch the superheroes!"

Those words, paying homage to The Incredibles, echoing in my head as I run at a decent clip, one step after another, one breath after another...imagining my girls running around house, outside, down the street, jumping in the air, standing on their tippy-toes to pick sour apples...me running a little faster to keep up with them...

I am able-bodied. I can walk and run. So are the Mama and the girls. That shouldn't make us superheroes, and it doesn't really, but to those who can't, it's different. Much different.

Different for those who live an alternative afterlife post injury or illness or birth defect, paralyzed from the waist down, the sternum down, or even the neck down.

Like my best friend, Robby. We've been friends since we were 12 years old. A long, long time ago...

And then there was a fateful spring day at a swim meet our senior year in high school. Him wanting to go with a group of us to the coast instead of his swim meet, knowing perfectly well he wouldn't miss his meet for anything. Us returning early that evening to discover shockingly that he broke his neck and crushed his spinal cord on a third false start, then us rushing to the hospital to see him, his mother claiming we were family so we could see him in the ICU the next morning when he was conscious.

Three months later he's brought by ambulance from the hospital rehabilitation center to graduate with our senior class, the class of 1984, me having the honor of pushing him into the football stadium and standing by his side throughout the commencement.

Thirty-five years I've known him, and even after the accident, no matter how many times he's relived his life pre-paralysis, and wished to have it all back post, he keeps saying to me:

"I want to be around to see what happens next."

No matter how hard it's been or it gets, I want to be around...

The superhero mythos is about having extraordinary powers and using them to do good and help others (unless you're a villain, which I hope you're not). Unfortunately we take for granted the extraordinary powers that move us forward every single day, physically, mentally and spiritually, to see what happens next. But not just seeing what happens next -- being what happens next.

Prior to my run this morning, I was up looking around Robby's house, the house that we've been coming to see him in since he moved here five years after his accident. He's an artist now, and a comic book collector, an aficionado actually, and his collection is quite extensive. He's also has shelves and boxes full of comic book figures and figurines -- both heroes and villains -- in nearly every room. It's a fascination with amplified characteristics from hyper-reality fiction, an alternative afterlife of how imaginative minds tell our human story, the one we live everyday, to see and hopefully aspire to be everyday.

The irony isn't lost on either of us that he dressed like Superman for Halloween our senior year, six months prior to his accident. No matter how much we joke about the past, or long for it, the irony is never lost.

The Mama and I want our girls to "B" what happens next, regardless. To be an everyday superhero like my best friend, Robby, no matter the kryptonite we keep.