Sink and Roll

The Gorilla Tape didn’t hold. Everyone swore that it would, and for the first couple of hours it felt like it did. But then it didn’t, and by early morning we were side by side sunk in the middle, my lower back actually hitting the floor around 5:30 am.

I laid there and read the newspaper, my phone’s wi-fi hot-spot just strong enough to get my iPad online. I got up shortly thereafter to go to the bathroom, already being up nearly every hour, and tried not to jostle my daughter. The church community center was still dark and mostly quiet. An adult snored lightly and another child coughed.

When I returned, I knew I wasn’t getting back in the bed. My poor daughter looked up at me, propped herself precariously up by her elbow, now sunken on her side of the air mattress.

“Dad, what time is it?” she whispered.

“It’s 6, Beatrice. You don’t’ have to get up yet.”

“Okay, but I’m awake now.”

“We can’t do much until more people wake up,” I said.

She grabbed a book from her backpack and stood up. “I’m going to go read in the bathroom then.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

I went to the tables in the center of the room and brought a chair back to where we were camped out. As I sat and answered work emails, I was struck on how much our oldest daughter had grown up. How already independent and resilient she’d become. Still pre-tween and only 10, my wife and I both had witnessed how her mind, body and spirit were changing nearly every day. We used to worry about how she’d adapt socially in grade school, especially having learning and processing delays years earlier, but that wasn’t a problem, at least not now. Sleep, however, is a current problem with her developing mind whirling with more angst than we'd like, so we worried about this trip. So much like her dad back then. Mercy me.

My wife Amy wanted one of us to go if Beatrice was going to go on this school trip – and that would be me. Just like the Girl Scout overnight at the Boardwalk, I volunteered to sacrifice my sleep while having some fun. Amy’s all about fun, but not sacrificing sleep when she doesn't have to.

So here I was again, now with Beatrice’s 4th grade class, her teacher and a great group of parent-volunteer chaperones. We traveled via chartered bus to Columbia State Historic Park just outside of Sonora California in the Sierra foothills. It’s an annual trip for her school's fourth graders, which we pay extra for, but it's definitely worth it. This was gold rush country in the 1850’s, the early days of statehood for California. We went to school in 1850 (completely intimidated by the docent immersing us in that time), learned some local gold rush history from a park ranger, panned for some gold and gems, and then each child had $6 burning a hole in their pocket to spend on candy and souvenirs.

But earlier when I inflated my air mattress for the night ahead, I had pushed it too close to a decorative tree full of barren branches and strung with white Christmas lights. One particular low branch was broken off to a sharp point and as I pushed the mattress right into it puncturing it.

I couldn’t believe it. What the hell was I thinking? Ugh. I had no other bedding other than a pillow and some sheets and the hard floor below. Beatrice had planned to sleep on the floor anyway in her sleeping bag to be near her best friend.

No one had any tape, but one of the parents had band-aids, and so I plugged the hole temporarily with that. Of course, that wasn’t going to hold. The class teacher told me there was a CVS near the pizza place we were going to eat at that night, so I could get some duct tape. Another parent recommended Gorilla Tape, which I had never heard of. I bought some at the CVS store and used it to patch up the hole when we got back to the church where we stayed.

The air mattress seemed to be holding. Phew. That was good. Soon after it was lights out and all the kinds and parents were going to bed, Beatrice told me the floor was too hard and so I told her to share the bed with me.

Two hours later, the bed began to sag under us. It was too quiet to pump it up again; I'd wake everyone up. The more it deflated the more I stressed out I got and the more Bea and I sagged together in the middle. Every time I'd get up to go to the bathroom, the weight displacement caused her to sink and roll over to her side even more.

"Dad!" she whispered frantically, reaching out for me to grab her as if she was sliding into a bottomless pool. God, I felt so bad.

We were up every single hour no matter what. And each hour that slipped away found us sinking deeper into the air mattress. It was painfully comical, but we survived. The next day we visited nearby Mercer Caverns, which was just as fun as day one.

And through it all Beatrice was pretty well-adjusted, especially with Dad there, and even with a sinking bed. These things can be a big deal when you're 10 and all your friends and classmates are there. I was so proud of her and yet kept my distance and observed, letting her do her thing, unless she needed something, and then I was right there.

What I noticed was that she had a blast. She volunteered to show how to pan for gold. She played and spent her $6. She learned to play chess with her best friend. She also liked to spend alone time -- either reading, drawing, running around and kicking around the soccer ball -- and I respected that about her. Again, so much like her dad at that age. Except that, she's more confident and vocal at 10 than I ever was at 20.

But growing up isn't always kicks and giggles or First World problems, and there will be annoying leaks throughout our lives, that in the end, no amount of Gorilla Tape will hold. That's why we have to learn how to roll with it all. Or in this case, sink and roll off it.

The Last Release

Absence may make the heart grow fonder, and according to science it does. But for me, it's in the last release where the bond strengthens even more.

That's all I could think about as I traveled back from my latest work trip, a conference in Austin. It had been a great trip, full of seeing industry friends, meeting new people and talking recruiting and candidate experience shop, but in between the work moments there was an influx of goodbye nostalgia.

When the conference was over and many attendees were at the after party, I took a break from talking to people to listen to the live karaoke band that played. They were good, too, playing a variety of hits with some of the attendees singing their hearts out (it was Austin, and music is everywhere, especially this time of the year at SXSW). Then they played a cover of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," one of many songs special to my wife and me. I recorded a bit of it and texted it to her.

ME: For you baby. Love you!

MY WIFE: Love it! Love you!

I miss your magic the most, I thought.

Shortly after that I headed back to my room for a video call with her and our girls, hearing all about their day, and reveling in a moment of focused family love.

The morning I left for home started like most return trips: I got up early enough to workout, then cleaned up, packed up and checked out. I then requested my Lyft ride and waited. And waited. And waited.

Now, that was only a few minutes, but watching the little animated car in the Lyft application on my phone turn around and head in the opposite direction.

WTH?

I wasn't pressed for time, and the airport wasn't very far away, but it still made me mad. Then the driver disappeared from the screen and the app went on to locate another driver.

WTH?

Ugh. So frustrating, but first-world problems and all that. The next driver headed my way.

I got in the car and the driver was a nice, older man, wearing thick glasses and a baseball cap. But within minutes, something was wrong. His driving app didn't update and it was still telling him to loop back to the hotel where I had stayed.

"You know, I don't know this area at all. I'm from San Antonio and just came up here for an earlier ride this morning and thought I'd take a few more rides," he said with a friendly Texan drawl. "It's telling me to turn around."

I opened up my map application and entered the airport. "Nope, just keep going straight. You're good."

"Are you sure? It says I need to turn around."

Good God. "No, we're going the right way."

Now time was ticking away and I hate cutting it close at the airport because you never know what other obstacles are ahead.

My hands on her waist, then we pull apart...

I waited in line to check my bag. And I waited. And I waited. A group of female friends traveling together didn't get their bag tags when they self-checked, so the attendant had to reprint them all. Another attendant chatted it up with someone who had also forgotten to print their bag tag, and then the attendant manually wrote it out. Manually, slowly and painfully wrote it out. Then another passenger waiting had to have their passport checked. The line behind me got longer and longer.

WTH?

Strands of our hair intertwine...

Time was still on my side, and ironically there was no line in the TSA PreCheck line. When I had checked my bag the attendant told me gate 4 and my airline application said gate 4. So, to gate 4 I went.

What was odd, along the way, was that none of the gate monitors had any information on them. Just the airport logo. I kept walking because I always like getting a little extra airport workout when I have the time. I got to gate 4 and there was no one waiting at the gate. Only a couple of people wandering around. I checked my phone app and it still said gate 4.

I walked back to find the nearest departures and arrivals screen. There was my flight, on time, but at gate 22 instead.

WTH?

We share one more kiss so warm...

So to gate 22 I went. And at gate 22, there was nothing on the gate monitor and no one at the desk to ask a question. I still had about 20 minutes before my flight would board, so I headed back to gate 4. Along the way I called the airline, but I must've called the wrong customer service line, because when I explained my situation, the customer service person said I had to call another number.

"I can't write anything down right now because I'm walking to the gate my flight is supposed to be at," I said.

"Sorry, sir, you have to call this other number."

WTH?

It lingers over time and distance...

After another hike back to gate 22, I heard a distant voice over the PA system:

"...the San Francisco flight is now at gate 22, and the San Jose flight is gate 34. We're sorry for any inconvenience..."

Gate 34 was the other end of the terminal. That was fine, because it wasn't that big of an airport, but time was ticking. I could also sense a greater confusion in the airport; what I didn't know was that the airport systems were down, which was why the monitors weren't working and the flight boards weren't updating.

I stopped at gate 30 to ask the attendant standing there where the San Jose flight was going out of.

"I don't know," she said.

"You don't know? Can't you check your terminal there?" I said and pointed.

"No, we're a different airline and the systems are down anyway."

"Wow," was all I could say.

Plus, it didn't help that I was hungry, but every line was way too long to wait with less than 10 minutes before my flight was supposed to board. Again, first-world problems, but still.

Ugh, I'm so hungry.

The breath of your being...

I overhead other passengers saying "but it says gate 4" and knew they were on our flight, but they were moving too fast to warn them. I kept moving to gate 34, and when I got there, I asked the gate attendants and they confirmed that, yes, this was the San Jose flight. That they were waiting for the Seattle flight to leave and then they'd tow in the San Jose plane for the gate change.

Thank goodness. Towing in the plane and all. Boarding had been delayed because of the situation, but not by much, and yet it wasn't enough time to wait for food, so I quickly bought a banana and a blueberry muffin where there was no line (thankfully).

The flight ended up not being too delayed after all and soon we were in the air. And all the passengers on our flight found our gate, many of whom like me had walked back and forth between gates multiple times. But we were now in the air, and after giving up on catching up on work because the airplane wi-fi only worked for 10 minutes, I thought about how much I missed home and my family.

However, none of my longing for home matched the moment of last release, when I had said goodbye to both girls, and especially my wife. We're mindful of each other during day-to-day family operations, but it's in that moment of separation where the details distill like a photo burst on a camera -- one fully focused rapid frame after another -- seconds apart that feel like millennia.

It's always in the last release 
when I miss your magic the most
My hands slip from your waist
As air fills in our last embrace
And strands of our hair intertwine
Then unravel us as we pull apart
We share one more kiss so warm
It lingers over time and distance
As does the breath of your being 
And not even my longing for home
Can match the moment of last release

When Actions Have Purpose

She wanted to stop the deplorable conditions at puppy mills. Simple as that. So she and a friend formed a "save the puppies" group, made a plan and approached those in authority to ask for a platform to promote their newfound activism and start a school-wide fundraising campaign to help the local SPCA.

And she's only eight years old.

When I was eight years old, activism just wasn't in my vocabulary. I had friends and cared about things bigger than me, but I was also shy, and really only worried about my sister, myself and my mom being safe around an abusive father. My rich imagination created an insulation of safety that carried me through those early years; when I saw Herbie Rides Again, I desperately wanted to figure out how to create my own lovable bug that could do anything and take me anywhere, especially away from the family stress.

When our youngest, Bryce, wanted to save the puppies, she checked out books about puppies, wrote up a plan with her friend, and then wanted to ask her school principal to run an assembly to raise awareness and money to stop puppy mills and improve conditions. Puppy mills are high-volume dog-breeding facilities with usually horrible conditions for dogs.

One morning my wife Amy took the girls to school and walked Bryce to the office. They stood there waiting for help from the office staff, and when they got it, Amy asked Bryce to speak.

Bryce was shy and uttered quietly something like, "I want to schedule a meeting with the principal."

But the office staff person didn't hear her, and instead looked at Amy and asked her what she needed.

And Amy, wanting Bryce to take the lead, and for the staff person to acknowledge Bryce, said, "She'll tell you."

Eventually it was worked out and determined that the principal would come and find Bryce during recess or at lunch in the next day or two. Which is exactly what happened -- Bryce and some of her puppy club members asked the principal for what they wanted, and while she didn't get the assembly, it was agreed that she could put fundraising cans in the second grade classrooms with signs about what they were raising money for. (Bryce already hit us up at home with her fundraising can.) Both our girls had already saved some of their giving allowance money for the SPCA at the end of 2018 (besides giving some of their money to the Camp Fire victims). And our oldest Beatrice, and some of her friends, are currently doing something similar around donating to help abused puppies and dogs.

One of the many daily meditations Amy and I revel in is Dharma Hum -- I am -- with the centering thought of "my actions have purpose." It is our mantra and prayer. We long to impart these kinds of life lessons to our girls, such as our actions have purpose, and we can choose both positive and negative actions with matching results and lasting purpose. Of course we'd prefer the positive, focused on a life of empathic action helping others who don't have the same abilities or means to help themselves as we do -- whether they be humans or puppies.

Or now, ocean animals.

"Bryce, how's the puppy club going?"

"We're not doing that anymore, Daddy."

"You're not? What do you mean?"

"We want to help ocean animals now because of all the plastic that's killing them."

"Well, okay then. Good job, Bryce."

When actions have purpose. Amen. #BhivePower

Assuming Otherwise

The smell was horrible. I knew immediately it was the two men shopping near us, one in a wheelchair, the other with a small dog on a leash. No matter where we stood, anywhere within a few feet radius of them and their pungent body odor smell hit us. By the looks of them, I assumed they were homeless, maybe part of the nearby encampment.

I had been grocery shopping at Trader Joe's with the girls in tow. My wife Amy was away doing a Kidpower training for the day. The girls and I were finishing up the shopping when our oldest, Beatrice, frowned and wrinkled her nose.

"What's that smell?" she said, a little loudly. Our youngest, Bryce, seemed oblivious and ready to be done with shopping.

"Shhh," I said. "I know it smells. Let's just finish up and get going."

"I know what it is. It's those poor people," she said, looking at the two men.

I didn't think they heard her, and I knew Beatrice was just saying what popped into her head without adult bias and judgement. We'd been talking about our local homeless situation with our girls since last fall, so she was equating homelessness with being poor, which wasn't wrong, but not all people who struggle to make ends meet are homeless. And we'd been there during the great recession, struggling and almost becoming homeless ourselves.

Later, when we were home and Amy was back from her Kidpower training, I brought up what happened to discuss as a family.

"What you said wasn't wrong, Beatrice. But the words weren't exactly right; not all poor people are homeless," I said.

Beatrice listened, but I could tell she thought she'd done something wrong.

Amy spoke up. "It's not about right, Beatrice. It's just about being respectful of how we address people we don't know and what's going on with them. You were just saying what you thought without trying to be mean, and that's okay."

"Okay," she said and nodded slightly.

"Right," I said. "And we don't want to say those things too loud so they can hear and make them feel bad. You were just making an observation to me."

"Yes, there are too many people without a home or shelter or running water, so they do smell because they can't take baths or showers like we can everyday," said Amy.

"This is why there are really important organizations in town that are doing there best to help homeless people," I said.

We went on with the rest of our day, but we didn't lose sight of the greater lesson. We talked about it again during our weekly family meeting to ensure that we respond appropriately and with respect in situations like the one at the grocery store and the homeless men, when we don't know them or assume to know their story based on what we see or smell.

And because the girls are getting older and more aware, we then expanded the conversation to include if they were with a friend who was talking badly about another person they knew, and trying to sway them into talking badly about the person. Amy role played with the girls on how they should respond and not to participate in the belittling of others just because we don't like them (when we may not even know them), or because someone else doesn't like them (when he or she may not even know them), or because we assume something about them when we really know nothing about them, only basing it on something we heard.

It's about time we start assuming otherwise.

The Safety Mantra Mumble

"I see the world
And I'm looking from a high place
Way above it all
Standing on higher ground..."

-The Alan Parsons Project, Standing on Higher Ground

I cried at K-mart. I had found the front counter and the blue-light special desk (I remember that vividly), and cried to one of the cashiers that I had lost my mother and sister. I was either seven or eight years old, I don't remember exactly. The fear and the crying I do remember vividly. No matter how many times she told us to stay with her, to not wander, I didn't stay with her and did wander. At what point exactly I got lost I don't remember, although I have a vague recollection of being by the televisions when my mother and sister had vanished.

I was filled with fear and panic. It practically bled from my pores, it was that palatable. One minute her and my sister were right there, and then the next they were nowhere to be seen. Just lots of strangers milling around me oblivious to my frantic searching for them.

Besides her telling my sister and I to stay with her, the other safety rule was, if we did get lost, to find someone who worked there and ask for help.

But I panicked and wandered quickly from aisle to aisle looking for my mother and sister, afraid to ask for help, and then I stopped in my tracks at the front counter. That's when I burst into tears.

I don't remember if they called for her over the PA system, I just remember an eternity had passed until she held me tightly in her arms, telling me everything would be okay.

Decades later, our safety rule is a little different with our girls. If they get separated from us, wherever we are, they need to stay where they're at, to stand tall and be aware, even if they're scared and even if they cry. To stay exactly where they're at once they realize they're lost, because when we go looking for them, if they're moving around too, we may never find each other. It's like the getting lost in the woods survival scenario. Even if it's a police officer who tries to help them, because the police officer can call us, as noted below.

"Then what?" we ask them when we're reviewing safety plans.

"We look for an adult who's walking by and tell them we're lost and we need help," they answer, reluctantly mumbling our safety mantra.

"And if they say, 'Please come with me and I'll get you help,' what do you say?"

Sigh. "We tell them we cannot go with them; please find someone who works here to help us."

"Or, what else can you have them do?"

Sigh. "We can ask the them to call you."

"Correct! And what's our number?"

Sigh.

Recently my wife Amy had taken our girls to Costco, a place we frequent at least monthly throughout the year. I was traveling for work this time and wasn't with them. The girls both know Costco pretty well, but no matter what, the safety plan is the same if they get separated from either of us.

Well, our oldest Beatrice got separated, but instead of staying in one place, she went looking for her mother. She felt she knew Costco well enough and that she'd find her quickly. Luckily, when Amy realized Beatrice wasn't with her, she turned around and backtracked with Bryce and found Beatrice within moments.

Of course, the safety lesson was repeated during our next family meeting during the safety plan part of our regular agenda (yes, there's a regular agenda).

Sigh. Yes, I get it; I will stay in one place.

Never going anywhere with strangers is so important if they're lost, which is why staying in one place is safer for our family, where we can backtrack and find them. Or get a call telling us where they're at. And even if they had their own phones, which they're years from having, they still need to stay in one place for us to find them. Staying safe is the higher ground we walk on, even if the safety mantras are mumbled reluctantly.

We'll take the mumbles for safety any day of the week. These kids today...

The Underbelly of Us

"Arrows in her eyes
Fear where her heart should be
War in her mind
Shame in her cries..."

-Foo Fighters, Arrows

I saw her in my periphery. She must've come from the 7-11 on the corner of Mission St. and Swift. At first, she stayed a few steps behind me on the sidewalk. I had been walking from home to my business mailbox to check for mail, just enjoying the walk with my AirPods pumping the Foo Fighters into my ears.

Then I sensed her coming up on my left. She reached me, step for step, and looked at me as we walked. At first I wouldn't look at her, not exactly sure if she was just passing me. When she didn't, I turned to see her, a white women in her late 50's or early 60's, blonde-gray hair, some makeup, fairly clean clothes. She smoked a cigarette and through the smoke was saying something to me.

With my Kidpower tingling, and not sure if this was a safety problem or not, I paused my music, but kept walking.

"Hey," she said. "Can you call me a taxi or an Uber?"

Without hesitation, I said, "No."

She mumbled something under her smoky breath and trekked on ahead. I watched her go, but waited to play my music again. She could've been homeless, I wasn't sure, and/or she could've been mentally ill or an addict. Or, she could've been none of those things, just someone who need a ride somewhere and didn't have the means to get there. She didn't seem agitated, just mad that I didn't help her with a ride.

I empathized, and yet I didn't do anything. The war inside me of "staying safe" and "it's not my problem" and "I'm just going to check my mail" and "she seems fine" and "someone else will help her" swirled inside my head, so I started up my music again and kept walking.

On the way back home, I struggled with the guilt of not helping the woman. Only a little guilt, but guilt nonetheless. I thought about the work I do with the Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women, and the fact that, if this woman was homeless, the chances of her being harassed or sexually assaulted or worse climb exponentially.

California's homeless population is about 25 percent of the nation's in total -- 130,000+ people on any given night. Because of the high cost of living and lack of affordable housing in California, nearly 70 percent of the state's homeless are unsheltered. Meaning, living on the streets, or in parks, or in motorhomes and campers in and around town, like in Santa Cruz where we live. At any given time, low-income families are one paycheck away from being homeless; any of us could be them. In fact, California comprises 12 percent of the nation’s population of homeless families with children. From 2016 to 2017, the state experienced one of the largest increases of homeless families in the nation, leaving 1,000 more families on the streets.

Some communities do a better job of cobbling together resources that result in more shelters, mental health services and addiction medical services. The City of Santa Cruz right now is doing its best to provide services to well over 150 homeless tent campers behind a shopping center right as you come into Santa Cruz. You can't miss it because it's a major intersection in and out of downtown Santa Cruz, when Highways 1 and 17 meet.

This unsanctioned homeless encampment had been tucked away from major traffic and out of view, near one of the main family homeless shelters in town. But just like it always goes, the homeless campers were told to vacate to other shelters, shelters that get full quickly, especially during a winter with record cold and rain in our area. Plus, some of the shelters don't allow anyone using drugs or alcohol. Then the unsheltered homeless are shuffled to another location, like the one behind the shopping center. And now, the over 150 homeless are to vacate and find shelter elsewhere by the middle of March. Forty-two percent of homeless families with children in Santa Cruz are unsheltered (as of 2017).

Which brings me back to safety. I can't imagine being homeless with children, whether a woman or a man, but especially a woman -- according to multiple studies examining the causes of homelessness, among mothers with children experiencing homelessness, more than 80% had previously experienced domestic violence. And 38 percent of all domestic violence victims become homeless at some point in their lives.

And yet, we have a family like many other families in Santa Cruz that we want to keep safe as well, and with 39 percent of Santa Cruz homeless having psychiatric and emotional health issues, 38 percent suffering from drug and alcohol abuse, and nearly 30 percent being incarcerated for a night in the past year (again, as of 2017 local stats). Many of us struggle with "not in my backyard" syndrome. Because they are literally in our neighborhood backyards.

Besides the local shelter and homeless service programs doing their best, there are other programs like Downtown Streets Team in Santa Cruz and other California communities helping homeless people get back to work and eventually into more stable housing (one of my good friends who's also on the commission with me helps run the Downtown Streets Team in Santa Cruz).

We can't just look the other way and hope it goes away, because it's only getting worse. And again, some of us might struggle with mental health issues, addiction issues and could become homeless at any given time after being laid off, with no means of mobility and having limited housing options. I can't imagine being a family on the street today, but too many don't have to imagine.

This eyesore is the underbelly of us, and it's all our responsibility as empathic local communities to help each other, whether that's volunteering or donating money. Whatever it takes to help augment the already strained resources of local nonprofits, churches and government.

I should've called her a taxi, because nobody else was going to do it.

Well-Adjusted Humans

"Yet.
I get upset or happy I go to sleep.
Nothing hurts when I go to sleep.
But I'm not tired, I'm not tired."

-Ben Folds Five, Narcolepsy

"I have to go up again in 15 minutes to check on her."

I sighed and said, "No, just tell her to go to sleep."

"You know that's not how it works. She's got herself all stressed out again."

"I know," I said. "Love you."

And I did know. The fact that the mind of our oldest daughter sometimes races with a myriad of worries, at least those of a well-adjusted 10-year-old girl. Worries that swirl into a frothy mess of wide-awakeness.

Usually when we put both girls to bed, Beatrice falls asleep first. Most of the time she's out like a light by 8:00 pm. But our youngest Bryce can take a little longer to fall asleep, usually by 8:30 pm. While Bryce can still sometimes wake up and need some comfort to go back to sleep, Bea has been having more periodic stress sessions preventing her from going to sleep, sometimes for hours.

My wife, or the Mama as I lovingly call her, is usually the one to go comfort Bea, sometimes having to lay upstairs until Bea goes to sleep. The Mama will watch a show on her iPad with headphones, while I watch the same show downstairs, cutting into the Mama-Dad snuggle time.

The good news is that we've had a regular bedtime routine for a few years now. No more iPad after 6:00 pm, then TV goes off downstairs around 7:30 pm, then we go upstairs to brush teeth and change into pajamas, then we read with the girls, and/or sometimes they read to us, and then the fan in their room goes on, as it does in our room when we sleep. White noise is a special family sleep friend!

Then they go to sleep. Usually. Unless they're not feeling well, or Bea starts worrying about something -- school and homework, a song stuck in her head, friends she had played with earlier in the day, and probably many other pre-tween angst-ridden thoughts she can't or won't articulate. We've also had Bea listen to meditations and even take a little melatonin if she needs it. And we tell her to turn her bed lamp on and read a little if that helps.

Sleep science recommends adults get at least 7-8 hours of sleep each night, and for children 7-12 years old it should be upwards of 10-11 hours of sleep each night. And when our girls go to sleep on time, they're usually getting 9-10 hours each night. The Mama and I get at least 7 hours each night, and we're thankful for that, unless we're having a rough night, or one of the girls are.

We've had our own sleep deprived wake-mares in the past, especially with Bryce. Up every hour, all night, until we went nearly went friggin' crazy. But that was years ago, and today it's just if one of the girls don't feel week, or the occasional stressed out wakefulness of Bea.

Usually it's the Mama who gets up and tries to get her back to sleep, but sometimes it's me. That's because the Mama has already fallen into deep sleep, and I'm restless. And when I'm restless I'm skittish and hear every creak and groan of the house, even with the fan on and the ear plugs in (yes, we've worn ear plugs for years at night).

And if one of the girls comes in our room because they're scared and/or don't feel well and/or can't sleep for whatever reason, it can scare the crap out of me. Sometimes I'll be laying on my side, eyes closed, and then someone touches my leg and I jump. Then I hear:

"Dad." If it's Beatrice.

Or, "Daddy." If it's Bryce.

Every single time I jump. Sometimes Bea tells us that she gets up and comes in our room and watches us, but doesn't wake us up. Super creepy, but we love her!

One night recently Bea came in our room, and then left, and then came in again. The Mama was sleeping away (if was after 10 and we go to bed between 9-9:30), but this time I wasn't scared, already not sleeping well and more than half awake. I got up with her and got her back into bed. I tried to get her to relax and rubbed her back.

"Dad, if I don't sleep, will I die?"

"No, sweetie. You won't die. Just try to relax."

"But I can't sleep; I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, try to relax, and read again if you need to."

"Okay."

"Love you."

"Love you."

As parents, we sometimes have to sacrifice the sanctity of our own sweet sleep for the sake of our children. We're their guardian angels, no matter how strung out and tired we get. And strung out and tired we definitely get. God bless those who have children with much more going on than just occasional sleep issues. Whatever the issues are, it comes with the job and our reward (and the world's) is raising mentally healthy, well-adjusted humans. Amen.