Dad Entry #26

Sorry, this is longish, I threw a lot of notes in here….

The other day, Michael was playing with a ‘scupa’ diver in the bathtub. He told me the diver was “diving deep for crustaceans.” I said, “If he goes really deep he’ll need lots of air. How big is that tank on his back?” Michael thought hard and said, “It’s 150 gallops.”

And that’s a perfect segue into mentioning Wyatt. Wyatt is Aunt Diane’s beautiful, big thoroughbred horse. He’s really an impressive animal. He has a dark, solid coat with just the right amount of sheen to give him that sleek, powerful look. He’s, well, a thoroughbred. But Wyatt has a timidity about him too, a humility, perhaps, although some of that is due to the horse hierarchy at the stable. He was very nice to Megan and Michael, as were all the horses there. They sniffed and licked at both kids and let them touch their long faces. We’re anxious to go back. Maybe this summer we can ride Wyatt.

At the shark aquarium in Minneapolis, Alissa – my niece – asked me to read a sign to her. So I read aloud, “There are less than 100 shark attacks worldwide each year, and only 10 of those are fatal.” I should’ve ad-libbed or substituted something more cheery or at least left off the second part. But I didn’t so Alissa asked, “What does ‘fatal’ mean?” I said, “Oh, um, that just means they got hurt a little worse than the others.”

I was talking with Michael and used the word ‘intense’. I’m sure I was demonstratively reacting to some super dinosaur story of his. He asked, “What does ‘intense’ mean.” I told him, ‘serious’. He said, “Well, what does that mean?” I couldn’t grab another synonym quickly so I changed the subject.

Michael told me yesterday, “Daddy, do you know why this is called a battleship?” The way he phrased the question told me he wanted to give an answer, not get one. So I said, “No.” “Because they battle,” Michael told me. Battleships battle. Yes, sir. But the point of this story, or rather what I realized when this happened: Michael won’t share toys but he will share knowledge. And it’s quite useful knowledge, stuff like ‘battleships battle’ and ‘Triceratops was not a meat-eater.’ So that’s something, anyway, something he willingly shares. Man I feel better now, as a parent I mean. I’m not totally failing. But I really wish Michael didn’t, like, become physically ill every time we made him share toys with Megan.

Today Megan wiped at her nose several times then declared. “I got da booga, Daddy, I got da booga!” She was pretty excited. After all, clear nasal passages are paramount to refreshing, deep breaths. I share her pride – and urgency – when pursuing this kind of accomplishment. I don’t remember where she put the booger, though. Did she even have a Kleenex? Maybe one of you will find it on our couch.

I love watching Megan with ice cream. Especially when served in a bowl with a spoon. When in a cone, it just melts and gets everywhere as she licks and takes bites of it. In a bowl, however, we get utensils, and how fun is that! In a bowl, she takes her spoon and kind of chips away at the glacier that is her scoop of ice cream. She stabs at it, eventually scrapes a piece loose, struggles forever to get it onto her spoon, then lifts it to her lips. Yes, of course it does. It slides off the spoon just shy of her mouth and falls to the table (or worse, in her lap). She doesn’t get angry, though; she’s still just excited to have ice cream. And she’s focused, determined. And maybe she knows at two years old she’s a bit short on dexterity. So she looks at it momentarily as a puddle forms around her ice cream bite now melting and flattened on the table. She tries to pick it up, a very slippery thing now, with the fingers of her left hand. The spoon is still in her right hand. Eventually she gets some of it into her mouth. Then the process repeats itself. Forever. Even after there’s only liquid in her bowl, she keeps scooping and spilling.

I could describe Megan all day long; sorry to bore you.

I asked Megan to do something the other day, I don’t even remember what it was. But her answer was pretty cute. She said, “Daddy, no, I’m too little.”