First Dad (me):
Sprout and Cub are arguing in the other room; one starts to scream at the other. I’m tired—I want it to stop. Why are they doing this to me? I suck in a sharp breath. My chest puffs out rigidly, my shoulders set as broadly as I can manage—my heart hardens. A loud, cutting voice lashes out:
“Kids!!”
Second Dad (also me):
Cub strikes the singing bowl with the mallet, and our family listens together, seated about the breakfast table. Breathing in, I notice the growing space within me, generous enough to hold the bowl’s resonance and anything that may follow. Breathing out, I notice how my chest softens, my ribcage like a sieve, open to all that might pass through it. As the ringing nears silence, Sprout and Cub share a giggle.
“Thank you,” I say.
Every breath is a chance to choose curiosity instead of armor and reveals the man who will take up further residence in the consciences of my children. One day, that will be all the man that remains.
Which breath will I take, now?