Dad Entry #68

When I read to Megan at night, she leans in and sometimes lays her head on my shoulder. Yes, it’s a slice of heaven. Although last night, while I was reading, I sensed her eyes were no longer on the pages, and I felt her breath on my ear. She was closely inspecting the side of my head. She said, “Daddy, your hairs are turning white.” I cringed. Sure, I’m still youngish, but I’m 30 years to the month older than Megan. Three decades. That’s a bit lengthy in terms of life experiences, movies, music, politics, fashion. We are on opposite slopes of the hill called youth. I recovered and said, “Yes, but with every white hair I get a little wiser.” She didn’t bother to ask me what that meant.

Michael is off to Minneapolis this week. All by himself. Actually, with grandparents; he’s only about halfway in years to hot-roddin’ alone. Halfway?! To 16?! Time flies. Yes, this is Michael’s second year without Mom, Dad, or Meg for an entire week. We miss him – Meggie does especially – but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate. At least one homesick call would be nice; I know he’s kept busy and entertained but one night of troubled sleep? One impulse to ask for an earlier return? Nope. He wants to stay longer. This year I think Michael is a nice distraction for Grandma and Papa, also. Because we have very sad news: Beller Feller has passed. Michael really struggled with this. But in a bedtime prayer he asked God and Aunt Maxine to take care of Beller. Cool. Megan, however, hasn’t grasped the permanency of it. Spoken like a four-year-old, very matter-of-fact, Megan told me, “Belle is dead.” I know, Baby. But only seconds later she asked, “Can we see Beller next time we’re in Minnesota?” Umm, no Sweetheart. How do we explain this to you? This confusion was maybe a blessing, as Sara reported that Megan took the news without tears and consoled Michael, “Don’t cry, Michael.” Michael cried anyway. But Papa clarified that, truthfully, it’s not permanent after all; Belle is only gone until we see her again in heaven.

Megan doesn’t eat much at dinnertime. We don’t allow her a bedtime snack if she only picks at her dinner. Rarely does she even ask for one. But then she’ll wake Sara or me at 6AM begging for breakfast. When we give her something an hour or more later – we aren’t going to commence or reinforce a practice of eating, even a snack, at sunrise – she will eat a ton. If we let her, she might inhale 2 bagels, with some fresh fruit, and a yogurt, and then she'll take interest in what I'm eating and steal half of that. And this all before she asks for waffles. No kidding. Our Skinny-Minnie can fit a lot in her tummy. But then she’s pretty satiated for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and the cycle repeats itself. We’re working on it.

Megan collects leaves. She notices them, admires them, picks them up and hands them to me. Even the lushest, greenest ones will dry and disintegrate in my pocket, or on the counter. So I toss them back in the yard when Meg isn't looking. But let's hear it for nature; there's a lot of wonderful stuff out there. A toad in the grass? To Michael there's nothing more interesting. A turtle by the pond? Megan is astounded. Cicada shells, seashells, Merle the Squirrel, Fat-Bee? A swarm of ants in a sidewalk crack? Dinosaurs, sharks, volcanoes and so on. When do we become desensitized? Even speaking this way comes off as preachy or cheesy to anyone older than Michael. Oh well. My kids have reframed, enlivened, reanimated these things for me. For the moment anyway. But I'd still rather watch ESPN than National Geographic. And I hope M&M agree with me.