Bea in the memory of every moment, even when you're bloodshot Bryce

Helen Reddy's got nothing on Bryce.

Imagine every moment of infantile angst, loneliness, frustration you've ever experienced in the heart of a white hot nucleus in the base of your brain firing all dendrites at once sans the dopamine via the mouth.

It can crack the earth's mantle. Plus, she's a Leo.

It's fascinating to witness the developmental differences between our girls.

Beatrice, the tentatively sweet walker before crawler cuddle bug that now sleeps all night and plays by herself well; and then there's Bryce, the aggressively shriek teething diver who's ready to mop the floor with her onesies and chew everything's head off. Sure, she's a cuddle bug, too.

But mercy. They're exhausting. Just ask the Mama. Remember, I just work here.

We love our girls and are so very thankful they're both healthy and happy. It is sweet how they both interact and play with one another now, how Bryce wants to play so badly with her sister and be more mobile.

We don't necessarily with for that; Bryce is going to be an escape artist ninja where Beatrice was fairly easy to track.

For those of you with grown kids and those of you who haven't started yet, don't ever fast forward. Bea in the memory of every moment, even when you're bloodshot Bryce.

I am strong.

I am invincible.

I am baby.

Sharing the cathartic zero gravity of family love

That's why we have our very own space station in orbit upstairs.

Every night after dinner, when it's time to decouple from the reality of the earthbound realm, we take the imaginary shuttle up the staircase and bathe ourselves in the cathartic zero gravity of family love.

In other words, family play time. Beatrice chasing me and me chasing Bea while Mama plays with an excited Bryce eager to join the chase. Bea loves for me to hide and then pounce out from the shadows and scare the Be-Jesus out of her, which makes Mama giggle because she thinks it's crazy funny that Bea likes to be scared like that. It won't be like this forever I know, but then again, I'm not worried about forever right now, only right now.

I've just started a new career that I'm very excited about, but that will take me away from home on travel from time to time. Considering I've been home a lot more in the past six months, it'll certainly be a transition for us all.

Then there's global instability -- both manmade and natural -- that seems to be on the rise, which has put Mama in super-protection mode, elevating our emergency preparedness that includes buying way too much dried seaweed and capsules of unidentifiable green stuff. At least I've convinced her not to buy radiation suits or a Geiger counter since as of today the West coast is in pretty good shape.

Closer to home, we've got Beatrice in potty training school with teacher Mama (I'm helping, but Mama's still put the plan together). The good news is, Bea tinkled in her potty chair for the first time this week! Yes, I'm comfortable using the word tinkled. Pee-peed works as well.

The bad news? Bryce still ain't sleeping well, which means we're not sleeping well, which means I may have to hit the couch again soon, which means me playing Angry Birds and continuing my sea-faring adventure through Moby Dick at 2:00 a.m. while Mama takes over the bed in an Ambienic haze.

*sigh*

Good times.

I wouldn't change it for the world.

Although, I wish I could send some of our zero gravity to Japan, Libya and a gazillion other places and circumstances around the world and in our own backyard (in one hour per week).

Maybe I'll poke a hole in our space station and share some AM Gold.

Yeah, maybe that's what I'll do.

"Oh, ho, ho -- it's magic, you know. Never believe it's not so..."

You really can change the world in only one hour per week

He gave me a high five and his mother smiled.

"I'm so glad you're here. He doesn't have a lot of good male role models in his life."

None of them do. At least the six little boys that I, along with the other child advocate, took care of while their mothers sought domestic violence counseling in group.

The boys ages range from nine months old to five years old. And there are others as well who I don't see because they come on different days.

I don't know anything about their home life because we don't talk about it; I'm not a counselor and don't pretend to be one. Some of the mothers who come to the women's center were initially hesitant about my volunteering, even scared (I'm only the second of two men who have volunteered to date).

But they've warmed up to me. Again, I have no idea what their lives are like. I can only imagine based on my childhood and what my mother went through.

What's amazing to me is that, for all things considered, all of them seem pretty well adjusted. The two youngest ones sat on my lap while we watched the older boys bust a gut shouting and playing with plastic dinosaurs and superheroes.

And the fact that someday "they'll" grow up and befriend, even date my daughters, motivates me to be a positive influence.

I plan to continue the child advocacy and eventually get into the center's mentor program (like a Big Brothers program).

But this post isn't self-congratulatory; it's a call to action for other fathers and men to get involved. There are women's centers in almost every city, Big Brothers Big Sisters programs and many other programs where guys (and gals) can get involved for the betterment of children's lives.

You really can change the world in only one hour per week.

Celebrate the Miracle of Choices. Always.

I still have the journal cover packed away somewhere. It had ripped away from the journal body after years of use and I wanted to ensure I kept it since it was one of the first presents Mama gave me.

The cover reads: Celebrate the Miracle of Your Choices!

They're a work in progress. Always have been. They may have not always been the best choices or the most productive and mindfully present after so much life lived, but you can and should celebrate them nonetheless. I can, did and do.

Because all the choices woven together make up the tapestries each of us carry, high atop a flagpole in our individual pride parades.

Sure, some of us drag the damn things behind us through the mud sometimes, heads and hearts down and out, but then we wash away the dirt in redemption and hang them in the sun to dry.

If you're paying attention at all, and learning along the way, you know they're not prefabricated; you painstakingly on accidental purpose process each bale of life lived into the golden spun thread of yours truly tapestries.

Segue to finally reading through the Whole Living articles on overcoming fear and living fearlessly Mama had saved for me about a week ago.

Guys, I'm telling you, don't write off girl-power inspirational writing. Trust me. It resonates more that we'd care to admit.

Like this excerpt from the article:

My doctor gently told me, "Year by year all is unclear, but day by day we find our way." I hear those words at least once a day and find my way back to the present. Fear is about what might happen, not what is happening right now. It takes us to a place of panic, not power. The only thing you have to master is the thing right in front of you, this very second.

That's the way Mama and I have always lived our lives -- her more than me, but I keep up pretty well.

The past six months have been amazing path of love and bonding for me, Mama and the B-hive, punctuated by moments of excruciating doubt and fear, and we still hold our tapestry high in the air -- dried mud, baby food, leaky bank accounts, sleepless nights and all.

The only thing you have to master is the thing right in front of you, this very second.

The following is from our marriage vows (sewn right into our high-flying tapestry):

You are my sun,
and I am your Moon.
I rise in the night
to settle the darkness
that reflects my past,
but the second you rise
and call out my name
making my day aglow
with a moment of grace,
it’s then I relive our love:
our present eclipse embrace.

We are two wholes, together.

We are Heartmeld.

We believe in a lifetime with happy.

We celebrate the miracle of a million interwoven threads; we celebrate the miracle of our choices.

Always.

Oh, and Happy Birthday Mama! We love you!

Here's to family love. Cheers. *clink*

I understand the Middle East keeps melting down, but Bryce just isn't sleeping well.

I've been on the couch, which is by no means any consolation to the Mama who has been miserable with lack of sleep.

It's not that Bryce is all that colicky; we've heard other intense horror stories that we're not experiencing.

She did have a cold recently and she's teething; there are now two bottom fronts poking their tops from sweet pink gums.

She's six months old and nursing, but Beatrice nursed until she was 13 months old, and from what we remember, she slept better at some point between 6-12 months.

It's upwards of four times per night -- and although Bryce usually goes back to sleep, Mama does not.

Nope, she can't take valerian root; can't take much of anything while she's nursing. Nope, I can't nurse, and even if she pumped more and I fed Bryce bottles at night, it still wouldn't help Mama sleep. Not while the baby keeps waking up multiple times.

We also read about developmental changes that occur between 6-12 months that can also affect sleep patterns. And now that we think of it, Bea slept poorly at 6+ months old, which meant we all did.

For Mama to sleep better, baby has to start sleeping better -- doesn't matter where the Daddy sleeps. So while we try to figure it all out, I can't help but reflect on the family love we share.

Take daddy daycare yesterday afternoon. Bryce woke up before Bea from the afternoon napping, and so we played, giggled, laughed and snuggled.

I fed her some baby cereal and then gave her a bottle. Bea never took bottles well from me (or anyone), but Bryce is a good eater when it comes to the Daddy.

I'm not the Mama, but while I fed her the bottle, our eyes locked and we cooed at each other and she'd smile and reach up with her tiny hand to touch my face and beard.

Sweet as a ladybug. Sweeter if she slept better, but sweet as a ladybug nonetheless.

Then there's our new after-dinner family play. We go upstairs and Beatrice cries out:

"Hide!"

Which is my queue to go hide, wait for her to inch as close as she dare come to finding me, and then I jump out and scare the Be-Jesus our of her.

And she loves it. Every single time.

"Hide! Hide! Hide! Hide!"

"Gotcha!"

Bea jumps -- giggles -- dives into my arms and all the while Mama holds Bryce who whelps it up longing to join in on the play.

The B-hive troubles are nothing compared to what the folks in Tripoli and elsewhere are dealing with, but you know there are families here, there and everywhere not sleeping, crying, playing, living and loving regardless of circumstance.

Here's to family love. Cheers. *clink*

(Too bad that doesn't help us sleep either...)

What makes the mall experience rock? Orange Julius, baby.

Never thought I'd be pushing two sick baby B's in a Lil' Limo stroller through a cold rainy mall parking lot into a mall in February with a hot Mama by my side.

What a difference a destiny makes...

And a food court with kids play area and Justin Bieber and Katy Perry video pop poppin' on the surround-sound HD-TV screens...

Hey, it was time to get out of the house, because after days of hot snot and cold rain the B-hive was buzzing in the red -- as red as Bea's raw cheeks.

For those of you who don't frequent your local mall (or have kids), think of it as the modern day village square surrounded by merchants and food booths hawking their wares. Daddy and Mama needed a new pair of Mary Janes anyway, baby.

Oh, how I remember the mall days when I was a child -- being forced from store to store by Mom's firm grip and little sister in tow, monotone AM gold poppin' from nondescript mall speakers.

But there was one thing that made the mall experience rock then as a child, and now as a parent with children.

A freshly blended Orange Julius.

Ah, not a care in the world...until there's more hot snot to clean up.

Don't do it for me, or even you. Do it for them.

I remember sitting riveted watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. It was the early 1970s, close to the height of domestic violence in our house.

I sat riveted while animal after animal killed one another. Not for sport or murderous intention, but because of hard-wired survival instincts to eat or to fend off being eaten.

I had a hard time reconciling then why a father would beat up a mother, just because.

Just because -- of a bad day, a good day, too much booze, not enough booze, a rainy day, a sunny day...

As far as modern biology and neuroscience can show us, the greater animal kingdom has no conscious design to kill for killing's sake or to rape for raping's sake.

But the great human race does.

It's equal-opportunity killing and raping. Granted, the news this week has highlighted this stories:

• US veterans say military fails in rape claim inquiries
• Lara Logan of CBS attacked by Egyptian mob in Cairo
• 5 Browns dad pleads guilty to sexually abusing daughters

Which primarily focus on women, but the forcing of oneself on another isn't relegated to women. However, statistically speaking, most of the time it is.

Random acts of violence and sexual assault aside, let's talk about intimate partner violence (courtesy of the Corporate Alliance to End Partner Violence):

In February of 2008, the CDC released the most comprehensive US survey regarding intimate partner violence.

The results:

• 23.6% of women and 11.5% of men reported at least one lifetime episode of intimate-partner violence.
• In households with incomes under $15,000 per year, 35.5% of women and 20.7% of men suffered violence from an intimate partner.
• 43% of women and 26% of men in multiracial non-Hispanic households suffered partner violence.
• 39% of women and 18.6% of men in American Indian/Alaska Native households suffered partner violence.
• 26.8% of women and 15.5% of men in white non-Hispanic households suffered partner violence.
• 29.2% of women and 23.3% of men in black non-Hispanic households suffered partner violence.
• 20.5% of women and 15.5% of men in Hispanic households suffered partner violence.

And this is just what's reported and tabulated.

Consider this:

"A study published in the November 2003 issue of Child Abuse & Neglect found that children exposed to abuse on their mothers -- but not mistreated themselves -- also display increased behavior problems. The research was compiled by the University of Washington-Seattle and the Harborview Injury Prevention and Research Center. The study surveyed 167 Seattle women, all of whom had children between 2- and 17 years old.

The results were stronger among the children who had been abused -- but those only exposed to their mothers' abuse were also affected -- they were 60 percent more likely to show externalizing behaviors. They were 40 percent more likely to test in the borderline to clinical range for total behavioral problems."

Because it's the last story -- 5 Browns dad pleads guilty to sexually abusing daughters -- that bothers me the most.

Because I have two daughters and would and could never harm a hair on their heads. My sister and I had to deal with enough harm of our own growing up.

You can't manage others' impulse control or the whipped fervor of destructive intention, but you can manage your own and teach your children to do the same.

Do me a favor and look at your children today. Take a long look at them and then hold them close and tell them how much you love them.

Don't do it for me, or even you.

Do it for them.