'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star...'

Our family has a new bed time ritual. After the jammies are on, the teeth are brushed, the nightlight is plugged in, and the white noise is turned on, Nora and I each scoop up a child, sit down and sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star', 'You Are My Sunshine', and 'Rock A By Baby', usually in that order. The glowing stars that Emma and I hung on the walls glow with satisfaction while B & E let go of the day's activities, their funnel of energy dissipating into the simple serenity of their favorite lullabies.

It has become my favorite part of the day, but not in an obvious way. I seem to forget how amazing the moment is until it's upon me. In the 20 minutes leading up to bedtime I'm usually looking forward to the moments after the kids are asleep that Nora and I will have to eat, watch TV, read, and any other assortment of 'parent' activities a person might think of. It's not until Bemma's room is filled with the twinkle of the stars, and either Emma or Ben is snuggled into me, that I remember, "Oh yeah, this moment of the day is great!" About four nights ago 'great' got a major promotion to 'phenomenal', because Ben started singing along.

Since we started the ritual, Nora has encouraged the kids to sing along, but the other night Ben took her up on the offer...and I couldn't stop smiling. My sometimes reserved--and always car crazy--little boy joined in our rendition of  'Twinkle, Twinkle' with a confidence that made me wonder if he'd been signed as the 'fourth tenor'.  He didn't sing every word, but the sporadic 'Twinkle', 'Star', 'High', and 'Sky' that he did manage to sing were delivered with enthusiasm. When he first sang with us I was so caught up in how stinkin' cute he sounded, and how into it he was, that I couldn't take my eyes off of him, even though it was too dark to even see his face.

Emma hasn't joined in yet. I think she's still in shock that the brother who throws himself on the ground in tears when she steals his 'red car' has the courage to belt out his own remake of the timeless lullabies. In the darkness, I can't see her face either, but I'm pretty sure her eyes are fixed on him while he sings; she's studying him, trying to figure out how he can, at certain moments, throw caution to the wind and jump into a situation that makes her nervous. She'll spend her whole life studying him in that way, and in the process will probably learn how to overcome many of her own fears. Such is the gift of a twin, I suppose.

Once the songs are done and they're each tucked in with their multiple bed companions (at this point I think they each have 4 blankets, 4 blanket animals, 3 stuffed animals, 2 books,  1 pillow, and at least one other personal item) I float out of their room, weightless on the simple joy of listening to my 2.4 year old son sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star'. At the end of a long day--when I've run the gauntlet of parenting emotion--my time singing with my kids, and especially Ben's precious voice, are the perfect nightcap. It leaves things on a high note, which helps me feel motivated to do it all again in less than 12 hours.

It sure beats the way we use to end the day when they were newborns/infants: a 45 minute bottle-feeding session in darkened silence, followed by 45 minutes of earnest hoping and praying that they would go to sleep, and stay asleep. But those memories are for a blog that's yet to be written. (In case you haven't noticed, I seem to be avoiding the 'Newborn' portion of my Timeline Series. I think those wounds are still healing...I'm joking of course...but not really.)

It's the little moments in time--like Ben's singing--that keep a parent going. My unending love for them keeps me invested and dedicated, but it is the songs of 'Twinkle, Twinkle', Emma's pleas to be tickled, Ben's infectious laugh, and a handful of other random child-parent connections that make being a parent something I look forward to. Such moments in time are like gas stations on life's road; they fill you up, give you a moment of relief, and remind you that the best moments of your trip are happening while you journey.

Heroes Wanted

Charles Barkley--the enigmatic basketball player who has become a walking fountain of alternating humorous, controversial, and wise sound bites--once said, "I'm not paid to be a role model...I'm paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court...parents should be role models."

He uttered this infamous statement in the mid 1990s at the height of his basketball fame, when he and Michael Jordan were battling not only for the NBA championship, but also the hero-worship of America's youth; turns out Sir Charles was not comfortable with being the hero of millions of children who weren't his own.

I was a member of America's youth when Barkley made the comment, and it really didn't phase me. I happily thrust all my hero-worship onto Air Jordan and Ken Griffey Jr. It is only now, as Bemma's eagle eyes and sponge brain observe and absorb every word, sight, action, emotion and nuance around them, that I have a real opinion on Barkley's comment. And I have to say, "I agree with you 100%, Chuck."

Lately Ben and Emma are looking at me in a different way. I don't mean in an emotional or nostalgic way. I mean that they are literally looking at me differently; the expressions on their face, the concentration on their brow, the width and tracking of their eye balls--you know, the physical cues of the face--are different when they look at me. It started happening a few weeks ago, and at first I wasn't sure what to make of it, so I didn't make anything of it. I figured it was a physical development thing along the lines of their soft spots closing, their bones calcifying, or their vocabulary expanding. And then the other day I realized that the facial cues, and the emotional wave they rode on, were oddly familiar. It hit me. My kids are looking at me the way I used to look at Michael Jordan!! Within seconds my realization gave way to joy; but as I replayed the video in my brain titled 'Childhood Hero Worship', panic knocked my joy right out of the ballpark; Griffey Jr. would have been proud.

I was panicked because of the pedestal on which I'd placed my childhood heroes. For all I knew as a kid, Michael Jordan was the right hand of God, placed on this earth to show kids like me how to shoot basketballs, wear shoes, and defeat animated space aliens with the help of his Looney Tune friends. My childhood naivete was blind to the gambling, ego centrism, adultery, and general lack of moral character that was Jordan's life off of the court. It frightened my adult daddy mind that my childhood psyche had placed such significance in the words and actions of a man whose life reeked of emptiness.

In my moment of panic I could no longer deny the feeling that'd been ruminating deep in my consciousness since the twins were born: I am Bemma's Hero; this is the greatest responsibility and honor that I've ever been given.

My insecurities, shame, self-loathing, and unresolved childhood insecurities had, up to that moment, stopped me from embracing the fact that my children revere me. From that place in time, however, my role as 'daddy hero' has been circulating in my mind like a lone piece of clothing in a dryer. And as the idea has made it's rotations my panic has softened, my fear has melted, and I am excited, happy to put on my daddy cape (I refuse to wear tights) and teach my kids what it means to be a human on this planet we call home.

The fact of the matter is that Bemma are going to idolize someone. It's what kids do; it's how they learn. When they study me, scrutinizing the way I speak, spread the peanut butter on their toast, respond to Nora, or interact with strangers, they are learning how to behave. And if I don't deal with my issues and fully embrace the task that has been given me, they will choose to idolize the current generation of athletes/pop stars/social icons. Such a thought is horrifying, not because those people are bad people, but because they are not Bemma's parents; they will never care a mili-fraction as much as Nora or I care. If I let my fear of being a hero to my children stand in the way, my kids will turn to someone else. I'm not okay with that.

So, fully aware of my humanity, I proclaim to anyone who cares to listen, "I'm Bemma's hero."

There will be people in the world who will capture Bemma's admiration, and I'd be a fool if I believed otherwise. But for the rest of my life I will wake up each morning and remind myself that I choose to be the one that Ben and Emma emulate. This reminder will keep me humble, and it will keep me motivated.

Sir Charles, if I ever meet you I will shake your hand and thank you for placing the burden of responsibility right back on us parents. Thank you for not letting us off the hook.

So what do you think, are you ready to be a hero? I'm done trying to figure out what being 'ready' means. All I know is that today I will love my kids with selfless, reckless abandon. And when I mess up and say a harsh word, or ignore a desperate plea, I will not be derailed or hang up my cape. Instead, I will choose again--in that raw moment--to keep loving.

'Picture in Picture'

I learned a powerful truth this weekend: my kids are always with me, even if they're 3,000 miles away.

I'm amused that as soon as I write down this revelation it sounds like an obvious statement. All parents must know this, right? The reality is that I've known this truth, but I've never been apart from Bemma long enough to feel it. This weekend I felt it.

This past Friday I embarked on a two night jaunt to visit my grandma in Ohio. Gram and I share a special bond that was forged in the furnace of my early childhood. Her love has always been true and pure, a fortress of acceptance in a world full of people trying to discourage. I don't see her often, but I felt it was time to reunite, even if only for a crayon box of hours. As always, our time was rich. I learned a long time ago with Gram what I'm now learning about Bemma: she is always with me, even when we're 3,000 miles apart.

For weeks leading up to this trip--particularly when Ben and Emma were being especially 2ish-- I've fantasized about how I'd pass my time in the airports and airplanes; I'd drift away in the excitement of how I'd soon be able to sip a beverage and read a book without having to worry if Emma had broken into the bathroom and was brushing her teeth with the toilet bowl cleaner or if Ben had hopped the toddler gate and reprogrammed our computer so that it plays an endless loop of 'Thomas and Friends' videos. I reveled in the simplicity of being able to breeze through security and stroll through the airport, responsible only for myself and my belongings, which on that day wouldn't include a pink and blue diaper bag or two tiny people in tow. I was confident that I'd observe other parents traveling with their kids, take a moment of silence to honor their bravery, and then retreat to a quiet corner, snickering all the way.

And when the trip arrived, I sipped my beverages, read my book, and breezed through with my simple belongings, all with deep satisfaction. But when I observed the brave parents and their children I didn't snicker or run away. Instead, I was frozen, mesmerized by other people's children who in no way looked like Ben or Emma, and yet somehow looked exactly like Ben and Emma.

A dad walked the terminal, toddler daughter in hand, and all I saw was Emma's tiny palm and saucer eyes reaching for me. A little boy bounded from window to window and all I could hear was Ben's jumbled exclamations as he marveled at the giant airplanes. A family of three sleeps two rows behind me, woven together like a pretzel, and all I can feel is the warmth and gentle presence of my wife as our children settle into us and our four heartbeats meld into one living family.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. I loved my freedom, savored the uninterrupted adult conversations, and drank in my book ('Running with the Buffaloes'), but, in light of my pre-trip expectations, I'm a little surprised by the vice grip my toddlers have on my consciousness. I guess I wasn't being over the top in my previous blog ('Falling in Love') when I said that Ben and Emma have wrapped their vines around my heart.

The weirdest thing is that it wasn't even like I desperately missed Bemma. I wasn't calling them every moment to hear their voice or aching inside because they weren't with me. More than anything, I realized that they are at the center of my universe. Every conversation I had, picture I saw, song I heard, or place I went invariably connected back to them. I wasn't that guy that constantly talked about his kids, but it turns out that I am that guy whose family is the sun around which his world orbits. As I explained to dozens of strangers that I was wearing Vibram Five Fingers, not socks, a deep and still part of me was wondering which part of the playground Ben was playing on, and which food item Emma would be smearing on her face and hair when she ate her next meal.



From a scientific perspective, it's kind of fascinating. It's as if my mind has created a new feature that is devoted to Bemma, kind of like using the 'picture in picture' feature on your television. Whatever is happening around me is visible on the main screen, but I've always got on eye on the little box in the corner, attune to what my kids are up to. I may have been in the Eastern Time Zone, but my heart remained faithfully on Bemma Standard Time; I'd check my watch and instead of reading 1:34 pm, I'd know it was almost nap time.

It's been an enlightening experience, and now, as I soar 30,000 feet above America's heartland, I can readily admit that I miss my kids and can't wait to kiss my wife.

Before I sign off and dive back into my book I've got to add one more thing. As a dad, I sometimes hear a social whisper telling me that I should want to get away from my family, as if my manhood might wither away under the scorching presence of my wife and kids if I don't get the relief of time spent away. And while there is wisdom in having time to recharge my batteries, I reject the idea that to fully embrace my family, and all the minutiae that entails, is to sacrifice my manhood.

I have a wife and two kids, and they are my life. The revelations from this trip have crystallized my conviction that I am a family man. And in rebuttal to the social whisper, I can honestly say that I've never felt more 'manly' than in the moments when I love my wife and children with patience, selflessness, and gentleness. Being 3,000 miles away gave me the clarity to fully embrace my role as husband and father.

And now I'll sign off because I really want to finish my book, and all of us parents know that I have a better chance of making that happen in the pressurized confines of this airplane than in the toy jungle that is my house.

Yes, I'm excited to get home, turn off 'picture in picture', and put my family back on the main screen...