The Heck of Awesome

Adjective or Noun.

1. An expression recently used by the B-hive that interjectionally expresses glee about something very cool.
2. Akin to "right on," an 1970's expression Daddy reprised years ago when he's digging cool stuff.
3. An exclamation of encouragement, support, or enthusiastic agreement.

When Bryce spoke the magical words, we laughed. Later, the Mama and I asked each other, "Where did she get that?"

And then I thought, That's catch-phrase gold. I even did a Google search on it -- nothing came up that matched it.

We'd been reading bedtime stories with the girls and they both got really excited about putting play glasses on a dog named Arlo (from the book Arlo Needs Glasses by Barney Salzburg). 

First, Beatrice pointed to the dog visiting the eye doctor and said, "What the heck?"

Then, Bryce pointed to the page full of play glasses to try on and said, "It's the heck of awesome!"

The heck of awesome. Right on. That's exactly how I felt after she said it; exactly how I try to feel nearly everyday with #BhivePower. No matter the stresses of the day, no matter how Daddy Goat Gruff grumpy I may get, no matter what's happened in my life, or what may happen -- there's always the heck of awesome. 

Always.

The Mama and I are all about becoming the awesomer part of ourselves -- two scrappy halves that make up two wholes -- now proud parents proudly displaying all the figurative scars of earned failures and wins it took to get here (and still takes as a work in progress).

We've been together 18 wonderful years, but now that I've hit the half-century mark, that proverbial ceiling of time encroaches on me quickly as if I'm an aged Alice filling a house after drinking the wrong potion. Except I won't get small again no matter what I do, so I either learn to live in every nook and cranny as responsibly and comfortably as possible with my arms and legs hanging out the windows and the doors for as long as I can, or I don't. Of course we prefer the former and work hard on instilling that in the girls for their eventual house filling long run as well.

I'm blessed and I'm grateful. And while I've always joked about drowning in a sea of estrogen, the real truth is it makes me a better man and father. That's why it's all the sweeter when my girls afford me the occasional catch phrase and a daddy manhood rite of passage.

When the Mama and I were married, one of our wedding gifts was a George Foreman electric grill barbecue. I know, I know. For those of you keeping score at home, it's not really a barbecue when you plug it in to an electric outlet. However, we did use it over the years, and it certainly came in handy when the Mama was pregnant with Bryce and would've ripped my arms from their sockets if I would've cooked bacon or any kind of meat in the house.

My dad was a master barbecuer back in the day, but the golden grill spatula was never bestowed on me, and in recent years the Foreman grill usage has definitely dropped off.

That all changed on my birthday when the girls bought me a whole lotta awesome in a super-duper propane barbecue. It only took 50 years, but now my daddy manhood is complete. Somewhere in heaven my dad just shed a tear.

Amen.

Thank you for always being the heck of awesome, Girls. Right on. 

Why We Say Let's Let the Pearls Play

Her question caused me angst. Not a lot of it, because I already knew my answer three days before I told her. It was the same answer the Mama gave as well. But I still found myself a little torn as to how to respond.

The question was this: "Daddy, the birthday party I was invited to is the same time as our soccer game on Saturday. Can I go to the birthday party instead?"

The very first thing I thought was this: Well, no. You need to go to your soccer game.

I didn't say it, but I thought it. More than twice because of a wrinkle. I mean, my reactive response came from a place of instilling commitment and teamwork in Beatrice, of teaching her that she could be letting the team down by not showing up to play. A place that I was reminded of more than a few times in my own childhood.

I was older, in 4th grade, and was pushed by my crazy step-father to play basketball (not the man I ended up calling Pop), a sport that I wasn't very good at compared to baseball and football. In fact, I wasn't even very good at playing HORSE, the creative shooting challenge game played with a basketball for people who can, well, shoot baskets and actually make them.

However, he used to be good at playing basketball, and so I was pushed everyday after school to practice on the driveway basketball hoop -- free-throws, layups, hooks, jump shots -- you name it, I was pushed to practice it. It didn't really make me any better and I hated every minute of it (for more reasons than just the game itself).

My basketball swan song came at the end of the season when as a "not really a power" forward I scored five points -- two baskets, one of which was an alley-oop blindly from behind, and one free-throw. 

That was it. Baseball, football and even soccer in junior high ended up being so much more fulfilling.

Now, I/we didn't push Beatrice to play anything. We have always been about letting our girls decide if they want to trying something, and of course encouraging them to try things, and then if they want to keep doing any of those things, we'll be there for all of it (Bryce loves swimming and dancing).

Bea actually wanted to play soccer, with the boys at first, just like when she played T-ball, and then conceded to be on an all-girls team in U8 soccer. Beatrice is definitely better than me in soccer than I was in basketball and she really gives everything a go that she tries. Let's just say she's got a lot of heart, loves her teammates and friend, and loves playing hard and having fun. 

And then there's the part where I'm the team's coach. Yes, that part. That's the wrinkle. So when she asked to go to the birthday party instead of our soccer game, I was a little torn to say the least. But like I said, I already knew my answer, and when I talked with the Mama about it and our response was united: instilling commitment and teamwork in both Beatrice and Bryce has already started and will be years in the making, like the pearls all our children will hopefully become.

She may never want to play sports long-term; maybe she'll be an engineer; or maybe she'll do both. Who knows. Both girls'  lives will be difficult and competitive enough as it is as they get older -- especially being females. Plus, I'm dealing with an age group who loves to chase each other, do cart wheels on the field during games, pick clumps of grass and throw them at each other, and give each other hugs. So there's that.

Either way Bea's in first grade and only seven years old and has come a long way, baby. That's why we say let's let the pearls play.

Celebrate the Wham-Bams and All in Between

"Time is passing by
I still want you
Crime is on the rise
I still want you
Climate change and debt
I still want you
Nuclear distress
I still want you
The Earth is heating up
I still want you
Hurricanes and floods
I still want you
Even more than I did before..."

—Brandon Flowers, Still Want You

And just like that, it's 18 years later. This is the part when you measure the magical moments against the realities of your life and a long-term relationship. From that moment of meeting the Mama one day at the beach...

...October 11, 1997. I usually get the words wrong, but our lover lore recounts the fact that the Mama walked up to me and asked:

"So, do you always come here alone?"

And like a fool, I almost didn't answer her; I wanted to be alone actually.

But then, "Yes, I do. And you?"

Within a few weeks we were hopelessly in love...

....to now 18 years later celebrating my 50th birthday party with friends and family on the eve of our 18th anniversary of meeting one another and our 12th anniversary of marriage. In fact, we had the local iconic Surfing Magician perform for the kids and the adults at my party, but dammit, he couldn't make me 40 again. Sigh.

But he did combine two signed playing cards from me and the Mama into one. Right on. My sweet Mama Ace in the hole.

Nearly two decades, two children, a finally refinanced mortgage, a few careers and economic ebbs and flows, and multiple family dramas later -- here we are.

None of this makes our relationship any less romantic, however. Real life may not be as colorfully dramatic and sexy as a novel or a movie, although throughout the years have been peppered with manmade and natural disasters and illness and death and -- good God, tell me to stop.

But there's one thing I know for sure, that real life can be just as super hot for long-time lovers. For example, recently the Mama read to me one of those fun sidebars from one of her Oprah magazines (which I actually had to look through to find again for myself -- ugh):

Overrated Sex: All night long
Underrated Sex: Wham, bam, thank you, man!

Add up those wham bams and you've got one hot lovin' super nova. Through all the years and a few ups and downs that even we have had, intimacy it a critical priority. Early on we made it so and told each other if we ever strayed to never come home. Seriously. Flirtation is one thing, but infidelity is the ultimate killer and actually a symptom of something missing, maybe multiple things, usually passion and intimacy, so our recommendation is don't ever frickin' lose it if you believe in it and long to keep it.

Do whatever you have to do to make that whoopee. Growing up I remember catching my Grandpa grabbing my Grandma's behind and patting it gently as he whispered something in her ear, even after 60 years of marriage. I proudly carry on that tradition today.

Of course real life gets in the way of mutual desire, like a belligerent drunk buddy who steps on your foot and leans over you to hit on your girl sitting at the bar next to you. You sulk away to the bathroom nurse the foot and the ego, and when you recover, you're either too tired or too stressed or too busy or too --

The Mama and I experience all this, but we want make it all work and keep the love simmering to a boil. Later today we'll go down to the place we met on the beach all those years ago and read our wedding vows to each other. It's a way for us to honor our love for one another, a reminder that two halves can and do make two wholes, a loving family, a continuous adventure and being the omniscient narrators of our own Rom-Com movie that goes on and on and on and on.

That's why you should always celebrate the wham-bams and all in between. Always.

Happy Anniversary Hot Stuff.

Happy 50th Birthday to Me

“I’ve gone through life white-knuckled
In the moments that left me behind
Refusing to heed the yield
I penetrate the force fields in the blind
They say I'll adjust
God knows I must
But I'm not sure how
This natural selection picked me out to be
A dark horse running in a fantasy…”

—The Killers, Flesh and Bone

Like a ship on fire in the vacuum of space, I burned helplessly mute. In space, fire is unpredictable and tenacious, burning for longer periods of time, even when it seems to be out. In space, there is literally no sound, at least none heard like we can on planet earth.

So there I was, spiraling out of control and burning blue, when finally earth's gravity wound me back in and down to crash landing after crash landing. I escaped the fiery wreckage each and every time, but not before sustaining a recurring emotional concussion, one that made me feel insignificant and unworthy. One that left me wanting to run sobbing into the unknown horizon, to the point of know return.

I was 17 years old when my anxiety and crippling panic attacks started. Mostly from the inordinate pressure I put on myself to be liked, to succeed, to not be the skinny and shy asthmatic kid I used to be. Yes, I'd survived growing up in domestic violence and sexual abuse, but I never wore those chains like radioactive bling for all to see. In fact, I didn't really connect the past to the present anxiety until therapy in my 20's.

My memories weren't repressed, just more like emotional missives written but never sent to the ones who cared for me the most, the ones who misunderstood me. My interstellar trauma trips continued throughout my life, but thankfully decreased dramatically over the past two decades.

When I was in college I used to imagine what my world would be like in the year 2000, the year I'd turn 35. Envisioning that future-scape included visions of grandeur and popularity, of complete self-awareness and impulse control, of being anxiety free, of being smoke-free and healthy, of saving children from violence and abuse, of being loved by the love of my life, of being a good husband and father, of having the peaceful popularity of being the next Lee and Kerouac and Faulkner and Hemingway and writing my own great American neo-hipster novel. All before running out of time.

Back then I would've said you were as crazy as a loon if you thought I'd someday be comfortable in my own skin, mostly impenetrable from the extreme temperatures of the ever-expanding universe and the very fabric of relative time.

Now, in 2015, you weren't so crazy after all. Although I'm nobody's hero, I am a survivor who finally learned how to cope and manage the rhythm of my own overreactions and who's navigated life's booms and busts fairly well with a sometimes witty, self-deprecating grace. Sometimes...

And although I didn't write that novel yet, I have found a modicum of success and I did find the love of my life -- and two little lovely girls later, the fatherhood I never had as a child. I've learned that you don't ever run out of time, you just learn how to run alongside it and make it a partner for life for whatever duration that ends up being.

In space, no one can hear you burn. Welcome to planet earth, Kevin. And welcome home.

Happy 50th birthday to me.

These Symbiotic Sister Catalysts

One child thrives in the literal, and the other the imaginative. Beatrice has struggled with, and thankfully adapted to, a noisy and overwhelming world where she longs to take a beat atop a clearing on a hill to comprehend clearly what's before her, one thing at a time. Bryce seemingly thrives in storied ambiguity where wild lands of fairies, unicorns, puppy dogs and rabbits rise from the floor and carry her away on one adventure after another.

It's not that both of them can't perceive the way the other does, because they can, but one is much more able to articulate her imagination than the other. Watching Bea the past few years play silently with her toys or her many collections of small things -- jungle animals, dinosaurs, insects, movie collections with the most recent being from Inside Out -- I can see her mind working away and making sense of her world, weaving tales of simple triumph.

Like me when I was her age, she's pretty quiet about it, because expressing it can be more challenging and sometimes out of order. But mercy that mind is brilliant. Watching her quickly solve puzzles with the Cool Circuits game she got for her birthday is inspiring.

That's why Bryce is a catalyst for Bea's verbalized artistic expression. The Mama sees and hears this all the time, that Bryce is an atom split and the resulting fission is infectious. I'll hear them upstairs, the feisty Princess Bryce taking Bea to a faraway world where unicorns fly (pegacorns actually) and talk and participate in stuffed animal pet shows with fabulous prizes. Bea follows the lead well, laughing comfortably in Bryce-world until one of the two is done or makes the other mad (they are sisters, you know).

And when Bryce wants to tell us all something the energy released could power entire cities within 100 miles.

"Guys, guys -- I have to tell you something --"

That's usually how she prefaces her story, a fantastical interpretation of something from her day, or something from somebody else's day, maybe something inspired by the literal Beatrice who just "told us something" matter of fact like, "The wasps tried to get our lunch at school today."

"Guys, guys -- I have to tell you something -- the wasps came and stole our food and then carried us all away to the flower garden where the pegacorns live and helped us make cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles and a frickin' buttload --"

That last part unfortunately is courtesy of the Mama and Daddy saying inappropriate things in front our highly perceptive and bright princess nuclear-reactor with pink-rimmed glasses. Then, like her little bird toy that repeats everything, then Bea starts repeating the same unfortunate expression. However, when we do appropriate things in front of them, like the fun "elephant toothpaste" science experiment the Mama just did with them was such a "gas" to watch.

One child thrives in the literal, and the other the imaginative, but they're both creative, resourceful and smart. It's a joy having these symbiotic sister catalysts to parent.

Whatever We Want It to B

“The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect,
The way you live, the gifts that you give
In the fullness of time,
It's the only return that you expect…”

—Neil Peart, Rush, The Garden

It's ritual. Every single night after we read stories and put them to bed, unless I'm traveling for work. Before we start, I have to consider the physics of each turn: their weight, distribution, arc, launch and landing. Of course I don't want to hurt them, but I also don't want to hurt myself either.

They're still young. I'm not getting any younger.

Oh, and there's the count. Always there's a count. The count is important because, while it's always the same count from me, it's their opportunity for creative variation.

Every night the Mama says, "Girls, you want a swing?"

"Yes!"

Beatrice is usually first. Not because she's oldest or for any other particular reason other than she's the one who falls asleep the fastest of the two. Bryce's fire can take another 30 to 45 minutes to put out, something the Mama is painfully aware of and deals with every night.

Beatrice always has to hold one of her stuffed animals when I swing her. She'll then stand up straight and I pick her up in my arms. Mercy me, she's a big girl now, being in the 95th percentile of height and weight for her age, so I really have to be careful for me.

The swinging commences, more of a simple swaying in my arms as I count.

"One...what's after one?" I ask, in synch with the sway.

"Two," Bea answers. Sway.

"Two...what's after two?" Sway.

"Three." Sway.

"Three...what's after three?" Sway.

"Octopus!"

Sway. Launch. Land on the bed.

The answer is always different on four, whatever's top of mind for either of them, an outlet to get the sillies out. After Bea, Bryce gets her swing, and it's like picking up a feather compared to Bea. Bryce is on the other end of the developmental scale. She's quite healthy, just much more of a light sprite.

After launching them both on their respective beds, Mama takes over and tucks them in and wraps up bedtime. I go downstairs and am left to my own devices, literally and figuratively, sometimes working or reading, sometimes playing on Facebook. But sometimes the physics around me manifest into physical spirals, swirls and sways, and time circles back on itself.

Beatrice's birthday is two days away. Bryce's was last month. I reminisce their birth stories, Beatrice's being much more dramatic than Bryce's, but I remember the first time I held each girl in my arms, the sway and the coo. The feeling that this is the very beginning of time, their time, and in those moments nothing could steal that away. I remember gently handing each girl back to the Mama (no launching yet) and thinking, What a difference a life makes.

They're still young. I'm not getting any younger. I wonder about the sway of the next 30 years...

Time circles back again and it's last month three years ago. My dad is dying of stage 3 melanoma. He decides he no longer wants experimental chemotherapy and we bring in hospice. In less than one week he goes from lucid levity and walking on his own to being unable to talk or walk. His body weight has dropped dramatically and it's now only a matter of time. It always is.

He points weakly to the bathroom. I know he has to go so I put his left arm around my neck and walk-carry him to the bathroom.

One.

Two.

Three.

Sway.

The first few feet are fine and all I can think about is how he's let himself be helped in this way, how he's surrendered to his failed body, to his son, to his God. The peace he's made with it all, it now spirals, swirls and sways around us as we finally reach the bathroom. He looks at me and smiles weakly. We're both exhausted. What a difference 10 feet makes. Two days later he was gone.

Time circles back again. We're still young. I can still swing my girls every night and launch them into slumberland. The Mama still takes over and tucks them in.

Three...what's after three?

Whatever we want it to B.

Put On The Frickin' Socks And Let's Play Ball

Enough about the frickin' socks already.

During the first practice, she didn't have any over her shin guards, because we didn't have any socks big enough to pull over them. And I hadn't even thought about that, yet. I had noticed that she wasn't the only girl on the team without socks, but most of the other 12 players had socks pulled up over their shin guards.

After posting one of her pictures featuring her sockless shin guards for my loving and supportive friends on Facebook -- the chiding comments rolled right off their fingertips.

Where are her socks? She needs socks!

Do you even know how to play soccer?

Where are her hair ribbons? Don't forget the hair ribbons!

Sigh.

Of course they were just giving me a bad time, as my friends of old have always done, but the sock saga was far from over. I told the Mama that Beatrice needed socks, which was met with a simple yet loving denial:

"No she doesn't. She'll be fine. Who else had socks? She doesn't need socks."

Sigh.

Two months earlier, while both Bea and Bryce were in a weekly soccer clinic, Bea decided she wanted to keep playing soccer with her friends. At first she really wanted to play on a boys' team, like the Amanda Whurlizer tomboy she is, but then accepted the fact it would be an all girls' team and was just as excited when she learned of other friends playing U8 soccer.

That's when the Mama reminded me that the Santa Cruz City Youth Soccer Club (SCCYSC) needed coaches and other volunteers for this year's fall season. At first I thought I'd just volunteer and be an assistant coach. Yes, that might be fun. I hadn't played soccer since junior high school, but it should still be fun.

So I signed up, being specifically clear that I wanted to be an assistant coach because I hadn't played for, well, decades.

Coaches' night came quick and it was time to go get the team information and some of the equipment. I opened up our team packet and the hallowed designation shone brightly bringing tears, like looking into the sun no matter how many times you were told not to.

Head Coach: Kevin

Holy moly. My eyes burned. Now what? Orientation flew by that night and all I could hear was the sound of my own voice:

What are you doing?

You know what? I'm gonna be a coach. Yep, that's what. Why not go for it? I mean, even years before having the girls I wanted to coach at some point. And when we decided to have kids, I vowed that boys or girls, I'd be involved in whatever sport they wanted to play, if any.

I have such fond memories of playing sports as a child and throughout junior high and high school with many a great coach in my past. Coaches who wanted me to learn new skills and to safe play and teamwork and leadership and to aspire to greatness, no matter my level of play.

And yes, unfortunately as I got older and the play more competitive, coaches who wanted the team to win, win, win, so there's that, but I'm good with that. But when I played (American) football, my sport of choice back in the day, we had a banner hanging in the coaches' office with a phrase familiar to many a player over the years:

T.E.A.M. Together Everyone Achieves More.

Amen.


During our first T.E.A.M. meeting, our players voted on a team name and the big winner is: The Flying Hamsters. Right on, Sisters. And two other dads stepped up to be assistant coaches and help me make a difference in these players' lives. Appropriately our sponsor is the global organization Kidpower, empowering kids, teens and adults one safety and confidence skill at a time.

We look forward to practicing soccer fundamentals and teamwork and having fun, fun, fun no matter what level their girls are at. That's why everyone will always get a chance to play every game and rotate positions throughout the season. A big plus is that we have really involved parents that feel the same way. Even if we have a few Buttermaker moments, we'll push on positively.

T.E.A.M. Together Everyone Achieves More.

Even though we're not "keeping score," we just played our first game -- and we won! Yes, this is non-competitive play, but we won! Yes, we're teaching the team soccer skills and teamwork and leadership skills, but we won!

By the way, did I tell you that we won? Well done team! What a great first game. Wow, what a powerhouse team we have.

#GirlPower and #BhivePower indeed.


The sock epilogue: When we got our uniforms we were thrilled, but then the purple socks seemed really big, and some of the parents including the Mama pointed that out to me. That maybe they were too big and we should ask the league to exchange them. And so I did that, but that it would be a no-go on exchanging the socks, that we had to make do. 

Because they're supposed to be big to cover the shin guards. Sigh. 

Put on the frickin' socks and let's play ball, girls. Or whatever you say in soccer. 

No hair ribbons needed.