I send them privately reluctant and knowing their independence is important. It is a daily ritual and the hardest thing for me to do. Because I send them… alone. I know about helicopter parents. I am not that but I would (admittedly) put them both in a productively protective bubble if there was a guarantee that they would then be safe. I stand at my kitchen sink — I am doing the dishes (wink, wink) I clean the countertops and my head continually flashes to the driveway — one-two-three-check clock-four- repeat, breath and remind self: relax (it is around-the-block!)

They travel for less than 10 minutes. 9 year old is pumping her scooter, full grin and wild eyes on the view ahead. 13 year old is doing the responsible thing: juggling a senior dog (a.k.a queen of the family) with our pup. One is sniffing, the other yearning to chase the scooter. She proudly accepts the honor and looks forward to walking her pups and looking after her sister. She doesn’t care that her arms are pulled in two directions.

9.5 minutes pass and they return. I take a deep breath — thank them and direct to the next activity: piano practice, swim team, homework… I see them. I kiss both, all four cheeks and their foreheads — sometimes I over-indulge and kiss-attack as they giggle in protest. My 13 year old folds into my arms back first and my 9 year old is as enthusiastic as a balloon losing helium. We hold still in a blink of time embracing in our own way. Only I know how precious this is.

Above all, I look forward to this miniscule moment every day… the sandwich, smoosh-face, albeit awkward (for some) embrace. As my Grandma always said, “These are the best days.” I watch them, Grandma is right and I wish I had the magic potion to slow this down.

I don’t follow news. It is too depressing and awful and raw. I want to be in denial and not believe what I read and then feel. My heart bleeds when I read anything relevant or parallel or within reach.

I break this rule when it is particularly relevant. Portland. My heart. My people. My bike ride. My MAX. My girls.

Had we still been living there, I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t have encouraged independence and fostered a safe journey… the girls who were attacked and belittled: they were my girls. I see you. I see the possibility and have played the ‘what-if’s’ with my kiddos. I say: look for the good. Look for the mamas. Look for women with babies. Look in their eyes and you will know who to trust. There is good. Trust your instinct. Good always wins. Stand up for what you believe in. Fight when you see any injustice. Listen to your heart. You know what to do. The men who naturally did this very thing — you are who I am talking about. You are the protectors and the good and the heroes who I see. The heroes I teach my girls to see.

I’m beginning to waffle now. Should the advice be to sit still? To take the words that are nonsense as an equivalent to pitiful ignorance? How do we teach when to react and when to protect ourselves? How do we take deep breaths when we hear disgrace and feel threatened? As I write this, my answer is: we don’t take deep breaths — we don’t wait — we react and we do what anyone with a loving heart would do. We react. We speak. We protect. We see our children in your children and we stare hatred down with every ounce of our being. I depend on you good people. I depend on community near and far and I thank all of you for being beyond decent. For being a papa, a brother, an uncle, a dear friend to someone who was simply taking a ride. To someone who was targeted and needed a shield. For our children who we send off alone and trust that good will be the best blanket in the worst of storms.