About M 'n' m

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Dad Entry #190

Megan can play basketball. She scores with ease, and surprises herself with her agility and athleticism. She can shake defenders, get to the basket, and create shots. She's a slasher (like her old man, before he got old). Megan's no Usain Bolt in a sprint, but she's got lateral quickness and good hands. Let's hope she has a killer instinct, too. If so, she didn't get it from me. She has a nice irrepressibility, that's for sure. If I can get her to be as crabby about losing as she is about lots of other things... well then, I think she'll spurn mediocrity and be very good.

Megan’s team lost another game on Saturday, though. My girls have a losing record now. If you want something to agonize over, just coach some kids. Works for me, at least. If the kids are great – and thankfully, every kid I’ve coached has been terrifically unrotten – the process is a marvelous inducer of a kind of brutal, whiplashing bipolarity. It’s a rollercoaster for me, anyway. VICTORY! Defeat. MANIA! Depression. Clarity! Confusion. High-flyin’ confidence! Soul-crushing doubt. The girls are smiling, frowning, laughing, crying. I’m a skilled second-guesser, but I suspect many of us are. How much potential have I left uncoaxed? Should I coach the girls to defend harder? Should I urge them to be more aggressive, even if they bump and collide and hurt each other? Blah, blah, blah. Thoughts like this are a broken record in my head. The kids are bright, energetic, eager, earnest, impressionable, and aware of their performance. I allow this to ratchet up my hopes for them, and for me as a coach, and for us as a team. Maybe I’m too wishful, too empathic, too sensitive. This, of course, is bullshit, and a poor and maybe-not-even-true excuse I overuse. No matter, because I am still coaching and plan to continue. I just want very badly for my players to improve, be comfortable, express themselves, enjoy, and WIN, GODDAMMIT!

Dad Entry #189

Michael's fashion sense is minimal. This is normal, of course, for a ten-year-old guy. I would argue Michael’s style is ‘comfort,’ but even that’s false; he wears old jeans that are so tight at the waist I’m afraid the button will pop off and ping around the room and take out the fish tank or an eyeball. Michael’s a fast grower and some of his shirts and pants get overstuffed; not as bad as Bruce Banner’s, but the comparison comes to mind. Anyway, regarding Michael’s fashion leanings, I wonder if a preppy or grunge or goth or sporty phase is on the horizon. Skater, surfer, rock star, Ivy-leaguer, GQ-wannabee, hipster, hippie, rastafarian, chic nerd, nerdy nerd, jock, gearhead, country boy, warm-up-suit-wearer, chameleon, smooth-operator, skinny-tie guy, skinny-jean endurer, whatever. What’s it gonna be, Michael? I made half of those up, I don’t know what they are either. I hope he's all of 'em. Michael’s in fifth grade. My own renaissance came in seventh grade, since I was – and always will be, it seems – a late bloomer. It was junior high that saw me seized by a rabid case of turtleneck mania. I became a sweater enthusiast. I rolled my jeans. I wore cologne (and caused widespread eye-burning and suffocation, I'm sure). I had a pair of Guess jeans, a Benetton rugby, and a jade-hued Polo sprayer. Expensive birthday gifts. I was very lucky. I took it a step further at Christmas. I procured Monet’s palette in Kmart turtlenecks and cheap sweaters (via the puzzled generosity of my amazing loved ones). I had a unique, preppy ensemble for every day of the week! I started getting notes from girls! I had arrived! So, if I can get over myself for a second, I will say this: I’m curious how Michael will navigate and express himself during the appoaching years and phases and somewhat unavoidable superficialities and labeling. I will also say, very seriously, I want him to look and feel confident. Whatever that means, whatever that takes. And I hope he always helps me in that very same way. We’re in this together now, Michael.

Dad Entry #188

I just scanned my last five entries here and now I feel shame. Things have been too Megan-centric lately. This is unacceptable. It’s unjust, uncool. Why? Because Michael’s a helluva lot less hassle, for one thing. I just came right out with that, didn’t I? Ahh, the truth does set you free. I feel light.

I know, of course, things can change overnight. We have moments and phases when Michael’s the hassle. And I’m always a hassle for myself, if no one else is a hassle. Hassle. My new favorite word.

Michael plays the cello. Sometimes I greet him cheerily with, “Cello, Michael!” … Get it?! … Yeah, good stuff, anyway, I said to Michael, “Hey Bud, have you ever heard of Yo-Yo Ma?” Michael said, “No.” This surprised me, but I knew what to do: I fired up YouTube. Then I stared at a rotating circle for about ten minutes. (My internet at home is expensive but not fast.) Eventually, we watched Yo-Yo Ma. He is the Jimmy Hendrix of cello players. I told Michael, “This guy is kind of average, I know you’ll work harder and be way better than he ever dreamed of being.” I was joking, of course. Regardless, Michael tuned me out; he was listening to a master. Yo-Yo Ma is a former child prodigy who performed at age five, a Juilliard and Harvard grad, a 15-time Grammy winner, and probably a swell guy. Even so, I would never go see Mr. Ma – even in a free, nearby theater – if Michael had performances on the same nights. Yes, even over successive evenings, in theaters right next to each other, I would choose Michael every time. I would enjoy him more. It’s simple. I’d even throw on a black tie (if I could somehow purchase one and avoid tux rental hell). This very genuine preference – for our children over the best in the world – is one of the great things about parenthood. Besides, you gotta be rich or famous or the President to meet Yo-Yo Ma. I’m oh-for-three again.

Dad Entry #187

We watched the Winter Olympics yesterday, and Megan and I sat on the couch. She leaned on me in a rare snuggle. I was very happy. I kissed the top of her head and looked down at her face. Her eyelashes are stunning. They’re long, of course, and perfectly curved. They also possess a remarkable color and sheen, and are splayed and spaced in a manner I imagine one finds only in brushes used to paint unforgettable skies in rare, classic art. They are exquisite. They are also, I noticed, the only feature not contorted when crabbiness sets in, unlike her twisted lips and brow, her wrinkled nose, her sagging neck, and her miserably slumped shoulders. Oh Megan, lighten up.

If there is a world record for the number of drawers, cabinets, and cupboards a person can leave open simultaneously, Megan has it. She’s a world champion! She starts with the drawers in her dresser, digging for the perfect outfit. Next, after her bathroom to-dos, she flightily leaves open the drawers and doors under her sink. We’re off to a good start. Then, with teeth and hair brushed, and maybe moisturized and spritzed with perfume, Megan heads to the kitchen. The cupboards here are easy pickin's; a finicky snack-maker can rummage through all kinds of things. There’s food, utensils, you name it! So much to leave unclosed! Back in her bedroom, the drawers in Megan's desk and two bedside tables are permanently ajar; they store books, lip gloss, Kleenex, stickers, and other necessities like useless scraps of paper. Finally, there’s the art supply cabinet, the dryer door (shame on me for being a slow laundry-folder), and the two pantry-closets with towels and band-aids, respectively. (Megan is less of a band-aid addict than before, but still prone to abuse.) Repositories of every size, shape, and function are left wide open, their contents and clutter flapping in the breeze. It’s a scene of glorious dishevelment! If we can add in the dishwasher door (shame on me again), it’s official, a NEW WORLD RECORD! I’m so proud. And then, as a kind of encore, Megan leaves all the lights on.... I still love her though. Quite a bit, actually. Like indescribably. Despite a few things. And – despite a few things – I hope she always loves me.

Diana Taurasi? Part 2: Nice Scarf

Dad Entry #186

Sometimes I lament the fact my kids have always lived in the same suburb, the same town, the same area. By Michael’s age, I had lived near Milwaukee and Chicago and in a terrific Mississippi-River-straddling locale called the Quad Cities. I’d lived in three states, in big towns and small ones, in new houses and old ones (and in crummy apartments). A seasoned 10-year-old I was – not in the least, probably, but humor me – who was bullied as a kindergartener when a big, scary grade-schooler swatted my baseball cap off my head, then grabbed it and waved it around and wouldn’t give it back as I reached and chased. I was embarrassed. This was in Milwaukee. Rough town, Milwaukee. But here’s the good part: when I told my dad about it, he wanted to put a posse together! I love my dad. He could’ve said, “Toughen up,” and maybe he did, but he also wanted into the fight; it was suddenly his problem too, and I was happy to share it. Some memories are fuzzy, but I was in real scrapes and conflicts, eventually, and I know my dad was practically eager every time. Burdens are heavy; people should feel bolstered when their fathers are around. I’m afraid I’m not as good at this as my dad. Thankfully, he’s still lurking, disguised as ‘Grandpa.’ About 35 years ago, a tiny kid pushed my even-tinier sister into the bushes. Impossibly cute mini-Jenny came home crying. Well… when my dad caught wind, as the story goes, he went nuts; he tore out of the house in furious pursuit of the offending party, whatever their age, number, or weaponry. This was in Davenport. Rough town, Davenport. Thankfully, these relatively innocuous episodes often went down when my dad was at work, and the trail was pretty cold by dinnertime. My dad is a great man. He’s also a dad. These things don’t conflict; in fact, they compound each other, fatherhood and greatness, but maybe my point is this: powerful, stark emotions present themselves. It's part of the gig. These are amusing reminiscences, but I know my father wasn’t laughing when the events were live; fatherhood gets messy and unfunny sometimes. I deserve a “Thank you, Captain Obvious” for sure, now (“burdens are heavy” … “fatherhood gets messy”). Give me some credit though; I keep the melodrama to a minimum. Unlike Megan.

Dad Entry #185

You’ll be surprised to hear this, but my kitchen is not a culinary stage or wonderland. You won’t hear a voice on TV say about me, “Joining us this morning is a skilled dad, coach, and ingenious cooker from Chicago.” (Most days I feel oh-for-three, actually.) I know Hamburger Helper isn’t haute cuisine, but Michael likes it. I know it’s no great shakes to say I’ve mastered tacos and spaghetti, but, umm, I have. I use the crockpot (once or twice a year), bake (very dry) chicken and potatoes, and I made meatballs a few weeks ago, which Anna loved, sure, but so did a couple humans. (Entry #180 says more about Anna.) I’m being a little dippy here, but very seriously I’m grateful there are no experts – no persons over ten years old, in fact – looking over my shoulder when I’m chopping and stirring. No critics around except Megan, and she loves my cooking! Bread and pasta, bread and pasta, bread and pasta. If we are what we eat, Megan’s a carb. That’s it. A carb. A noodle with eyeballs. And a pat of butter on her head. I serve the kids a fruit or vegetable every meal, also. Honest. And I serve them multivitamin gummies and calcium chews. I do this when it’s obvious the nutrient content of my dishes is suboptimal, which is always. And God bless my son, who is by all accounts an unfussy eater. Notable during my trips to Scotland, many years ago, were Haggis and Blood Pudding. Michael will dig right in when he hangs out someday in Edinburgh or Glasgow.

All this talk about diet reminds me what a popular comedian, Dave Chappelle, said about a difficult time in his life, "Love is like a nutrient, and I was deficient in vitamin love." I try to give my kids a lot of vitamin love.

Diana Taurasi?

Dad Entry #184

Megan’s room should be featured on Hoarders. I’ve never seen an episode, but neither have I seen, at the mention of a show, people cringe, frown, groan, gag, and double-over with such reflex and revulsion. It must be an intriguing television program. Megan’s appeal, however, would be sheer volume over oddity or grotesquery of content. It isn’t trash or animals – or Zombie apocalypse supplies – that have taken over her room. It’s just a pile of poorly shelved and organized art projects, silk scarves, LEGO Friends pieces and partial assemblies, party favors, paint chips, hand-me-down clothes (which we are grateful for!), books of every size and shape, dolls and accessories, stuffed animals, hair-thingies, un-hung posters, an inflatable palm tree, a real ficus tree, lamps, plants, an empty fish tank, shoes that are too small, crap from my work travels, and enough pens and pencils and erasers and markers and crayons and stickers to fill a C130. Oh, and throw in the stuff she picks up for free in building doorways and waiting rooms: real estate guides, car catalogs, pamphlets (like “Understanding Your Medicare” and “How To Quit Smoking”), and free health and fitness magazines (like “Competitor” and “YOGAChicago” – great publications, by the way; I hope Megan reads them). We culled and tossed and donated some things recently; it was a ‘purge party’ and I, for one, found it very satisfying. The pile is down. But it will rise again.

Megan still has bath toys. Right now they’re a mash-up of G.I. Joe, Star Wars, and superhero action figures, with a few Angry Birds and a Barbie mixed in. Some of the toys are Michael’s – the Obi Wan and Iron Man, for example – but Megan has her own Lady Jaye, Anakin, Ahsoka, and a female Jedi named Aayla Secura. Aayla is blue-skinned and a little too provocatively clad, if I may say so, although maybe I shouldn’t mention this since just noticing feels indictable. Anyway, the Santa who visits our house likes G.I. Joe and Star Wars figures, because the kids both have some, and even I received Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow one year, which are also in Megan’s bundle of tub toys. I’m not sure what watery games and scenes she composes, but if I stop outside the door, I overhear her dramatically inflected voice carrying out creative scripts. These are the fun things that will disappear soon; Megan already takes more showers than baths. I'll miss these moments and rituals.

Dad Entry #183

Last night, Megan and I were talking about coaching. Megan told me I was pretty good but then added, "If I could pick any coach, I would pick God." I said, "Oh, yeah, He might even be better than Phil Jackson."

While driving them to school this morning, I said to the kids, “I love you guys. I think before I was born God asked me who I wanted for kids when I got older and I pointed at you two and said, ‘I really want that one and that one. Uh, please.’” Michael said, “I don’t think that’s how it works.” I said, “Well how does it work then?” Michael said, “I think they let the kid choose the dad.” Despite his characteristic matter-of-factness (in all likelihood, Michael intended to logically describe a process more than compliment his old man), it was a cool thing to hear from my son. Thank you, Michael. 

Megan has scored multiple baskets in every game except her first. It took one game for her to learn she could shine. She’s tall and athletic; that’s an auspicious combo in hoops. She’s also whiny. At some point, she's blamed, criticized, or groused about everything you would expect, including:

(1) The referees

(2) The other team

(3) The other coach (if the other team is mean, and it goes unnoticed, (1), (2), and (3) are simultaneously complained about)

(4) Her coach (yeah, that’s me)

(5) Her shoes (I know from my own playing days, you need light, comfy, floor-gripping shoes, but Meg's episode was more Carrie Bradshaw than anything; she bellyached about not having her other pair of tennies, probably for fashion reasons)

(6) The girl she matches up with

Regarding (6), each girl is assigned an opposing player to guard on defense and directly battle on offense. And battles do ensue. These seven- and eight-year-olds get ornery! Most are nasty-stingy defenders, with less regard for personal space than Beijing subway riders. On a weekly basis, I see first-grade girls, cuter than baby giraffes, gouge each other in the face. My players are delightful and adorable and tough. It's perfect. Of course, we emphasize sportsmanship, and maybe a kind of un-ruthlessness, but only if we're winning :)