Last week Megan told me, "Daddy, I can smell the throw-up in the back of my throat." This was not a surprise as our princess had been up sick all night. I asked her, "Do you wanna brush your teeth, Sweetheart?" Megan: "No, it's fine." Huh?! Megan added, "Daddy, I threw up like 10 times last night in the bucket. Like when the doctor was going to cut me out of Mommy's tummy, and Mommy threw up in the bucket." It’s cute she remembers that… ha. It’s cute she mentions it, though. She likes to hear about the day she was born. Even though it's common, there's still a bit of fuss in the operating room during a c-section. And I embellish. And I'm pretty sure she likes the part at the end when we tell her it was one of greatest days of our lives. Days of our Lives… I wonder if crazy Sami is still on the show. Oh yeah, years ago I tapped the vein. Not really. But I saw bits of a few episodes.
Michael and I won a pumpkin pie at the annual Sanborn Elementary Turkey Shoot. I think that was 2nd prize. 1st prize is the bird. I told Michael that 2nd place is the first loser. No mercy! Cobra Kai! Hardly. We were thrilled with a pie (until we had to eat it). We were so proud of ourselves; we touched fists, blew ‘em up, and puffed out our chests. After all, lots of dad / kid combos compete; everyone in the school is eligible. Michael did great. But, yes, basking in the pleasure of our award – the pie – didn’t go so well. Michael didn’t like the taste. (Neither did Megan.) Michael lobbied for something else instead, "Ice cream? Or anything chocolate?" Sorry, we told him, but pumpkin pie is the prize. It’s Thanksgiving. You don’t win the heavyweight belt and ask for a necklace. You don’t get a Super Bowl bracelet. There’s no Stanley fork. You don’t invade France and get Spain. I know, I begged myself to stop, also. Terrible analogies, every one, but there was a point to make. And clearly I didn't make it because Michael blurted, “All of my hard work for nothing!” I was irked at this; gracious winner he was not, and – even more irksome – only winner he was not. “First of all,” I said, “Did you even break a sweat? We didn't get to warm up and we only shot for two minutes.” He gets sweaty practicing in the basement though, maybe that’s what he meant. But I added, “And, umm, didn’t you have a partner?” I hit everything but one shot in fact - I would dominate the grade school ranks! - and I drained two long ones for extra points. But then I pumped Michael up so much it’s no wonder he went all NBA prima donna on me. The knowledge of our victory was all I needed, but somebody had to eat the pie. With a whole can of Reddi-wip. I even put some on the pie. In case you live on Mars, a while back someone invented the pressurizing and propelling of cream out of an aerosol can. Amazing. I put it somewhere between the filament light bulb and velcro. Although adding the fluted top for decorative application was just showing off. With Reddi-wip you can dispense dollops – or massive amounts for that matter – of whipped cream directly into your mouth. The kids and I did this repeatedly like marvelous gluttons.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Dad Entry #82
Michael was being tough on Meg the other day. He went so far as to criticize her handwriting. She had written her name and maybe ‘MOMMY’ and ‘DADDY’ or her alphabet – that’s about the extent of her repertoire right now – on a scrap of paper and Michael looked at it and frowned and said, “Megan’s handwriting (insert especially unflattering grimace here) is so messy.” His expression and tone made it worse than an impolite observation; it was a sharpened put-down. I think the first thing I did was stick a finger in my ear to make sure my hearing wasn’t impaired. I was like, “Seriously Dude, on top of everything else you just called her out for her barely-five-year-old penmanship? You’re kidding, right?” Michael looked a little sheepish; he understood he’d gone too far with a jab about her writing skills of all things. For perspective, I should note here that Megan isn't even in kindergarten yet. We’ve tried hard to reduce Michael's instinct to be critical and competitive with Megan about everything. But I know some of it’s natural. Sibling rivalry. I tell him over and over again we have to encourage her, that she’s younger (“than us” I add here, perhaps that is silly, but I’m attempting to lump Michael in with me and Mommy in this case) so we need to help her learn and grow, lift her up instead of chip away at her, take pride in looking out for her. I assure Michael it’s the way we – Mom, Dad, and older people in general – treat him too; we try to be positive and encouraging. His response to that is, “Then why am I always the one in trouble?” This isn’t true, of course, as just about every bedtime finds Megan all wound up and flipping out - and therefore in trouble - while Michael is reading peacefully in his bed like an angel. A few days ago when I told him to leave Megan alone, he said, “Why are you mad at me, again? My life is always wrecked because you destroy it.” That’s an exact quote. Michael has a way with words. I tell Michael that cutting Megan some slack is just the way we should treat everyone who’s younger or less experienced or weaker than ourselves. I read a great quote recently from a contemporary of Wild Bill Hickok’s in Deadwood. He said, “Wild Bill was gentle as a child unless aroused to anger by intended insults, he was loyal and generous to a fault, and he invariably espoused the cause of the weaker against the stronger one in a quarrel.” So that was a weird interjection, perhaps, but even if I bolstered my case to Michael with quotes from old gunslingers – “Billy the Kid says eat your vegetables and be nice to your sister, Son!” – I fear it still wouldn’t inspire Michael to go any easier on Megan. And I understand why I can't more pleasantly persuade him; it’s a little too quixotic, ‘taking pride in taking care of Megan’, and so on. It’s hard to have a younger sibling who wants always to be included, and - it must appear sometimes - takes half of the affection and attention. But Megan is developing thick skin. She can defend herself and return fire. This is a very good thing! (Sort of; I hope she never learns to mudsling like a politician. I’m so happy the election commercials will stop now; bring back the non-stop Cialis and Geico ads.) And I think some competition is good between siblings; I hope they observe each other studying and getting good grades, for example, in hopes of not being outdone by the other. Plus, let’s be honest, Michael’s only a seven-year-old himself. But, this is also true: Michael is a very sensitive and bright seven-year-old.
I like watching little kids draw. They don’t seem to judge the accuracy of their renderings. They just scribble with excitement. Megan will draw something and say, “Look Daddy, a tiger!” I guess she feels the need to identify her picture, but I think it’s because she’s proud, not because she’s decided that otherwise I couldn’t tell what it is. Of course, what she’s drawn falls a little short in terms of capturing the grace and power, even the stripes or four legs, of a tiger. It really looks like nothing at all, in fact. But to her it’s a tiger! And to me it’s a tiger! “Awesome, Honey,” I’ll say, and I mean it, because she’s attempted to draw one of the coolest animals on the planet. And it’s awesome that she likes her drawing. And that’s a true story; last Sunday she drew a tiger. (At least she said it was a tiger!) Creativity is so important. Encouraging it is important. Sara is terrific about stocking supplies and keeping the kids engaged in art. And they enjoy it. Maybe with very young people, that critical voice hasn’t pushed it’s way to the front; the inner-judge has yet to convince them that they “can only draw stick-figures,” that their artistic talent is minimal. I say kill the inner-judge. Unless it’s the same voice that keeps them out of trouble; the same voice that reminds Megan not to write on the furniture. I think that’s a different voice though. Speaking of voices, I hear one now. It’s saying, “You’re rambling….”
I like watching little kids draw. They don’t seem to judge the accuracy of their renderings. They just scribble with excitement. Megan will draw something and say, “Look Daddy, a tiger!” I guess she feels the need to identify her picture, but I think it’s because she’s proud, not because she’s decided that otherwise I couldn’t tell what it is. Of course, what she’s drawn falls a little short in terms of capturing the grace and power, even the stripes or four legs, of a tiger. It really looks like nothing at all, in fact. But to her it’s a tiger! And to me it’s a tiger! “Awesome, Honey,” I’ll say, and I mean it, because she’s attempted to draw one of the coolest animals on the planet. And it’s awesome that she likes her drawing. And that’s a true story; last Sunday she drew a tiger. (At least she said it was a tiger!) Creativity is so important. Encouraging it is important. Sara is terrific about stocking supplies and keeping the kids engaged in art. And they enjoy it. Maybe with very young people, that critical voice hasn’t pushed it’s way to the front; the inner-judge has yet to convince them that they “can only draw stick-figures,” that their artistic talent is minimal. I say kill the inner-judge. Unless it’s the same voice that keeps them out of trouble; the same voice that reminds Megan not to write on the furniture. I think that’s a different voice though. Speaking of voices, I hear one now. It’s saying, “You’re rambling….”
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Dad Entry #81
The other day I escorted Megan into a restaurant bathroom. It was obvious they were using a good deodorizer. Suddenly, Megan was happy. She smiled and bounced and cheerfully said, “It smells good in here! It’s really supposed to smell like potty in here, right Daddy?” It seems to me that happiness has a little to do with expectations.
I was a bit too hydrated and went to the bathroom twice during a short period while playing Star Wars with Michael. When I excused myself to pee the second time Michael said, “Again? You must have a bladder infection.” I didn’t ask him where he learned about the symptoms of urinary tract disorders. Maybe from Megan, our girl with all the 'body books'.
We went on a walk around the neighborhood. I realized there are interesting things outdoors to see and think about, natural things, if you're still young and sensitive and open. There are leaves, pine cones, acorns and flowers. There are bunnies and squirrels. There are trees to climb. There are bugs! We feed bits of bread to the ducks and pond fish. Bluegills, big carp, and a catfish the size of my arm surface to eat the bread. We pick and feed crab apples to the geese. I'm not sure we should do that, but they congregate under the tree and eat them when they fall anyway. It’s inevitable; they’re going to shit all over the neighborhood regardless. And when we have food they seem less irritable, less violent, less likely to have a honking fit and charge at us attempting to slap us with flapping wings. Geese are mean.
That reminds me... an Android (cell phone) video game called ‘Angry Birds’ has a firm grip on Megan and Michael. I'm addicted too. We need help. Although Michael prefers a game called ‘Ninja Kaka’ lately, where, rather than knocking over structures with flying birds, he uses touch screen gestures to slice flying fruit into vivid, juicy ribbons with a samurai sword. All on a high-definition cell phone display with terrific sound effects. When I was his age we had ‘Pong’. That was it. Until ‘Space Invaders’ appeared on Atari, and Pac-Man too; we played them on our crappy, little, blurry tube televisions, and we were so amazed we said to ourselves, “Technology is SO advanced now, surely by the year 2000 we’ll be able vacation on the moon, or time travel!” That was 1985.
I was a bit too hydrated and went to the bathroom twice during a short period while playing Star Wars with Michael. When I excused myself to pee the second time Michael said, “Again? You must have a bladder infection.” I didn’t ask him where he learned about the symptoms of urinary tract disorders. Maybe from Megan, our girl with all the 'body books'.
We went on a walk around the neighborhood. I realized there are interesting things outdoors to see and think about, natural things, if you're still young and sensitive and open. There are leaves, pine cones, acorns and flowers. There are bunnies and squirrels. There are trees to climb. There are bugs! We feed bits of bread to the ducks and pond fish. Bluegills, big carp, and a catfish the size of my arm surface to eat the bread. We pick and feed crab apples to the geese. I'm not sure we should do that, but they congregate under the tree and eat them when they fall anyway. It’s inevitable; they’re going to shit all over the neighborhood regardless. And when we have food they seem less irritable, less violent, less likely to have a honking fit and charge at us attempting to slap us with flapping wings. Geese are mean.
That reminds me... an Android (cell phone) video game called ‘Angry Birds’ has a firm grip on Megan and Michael. I'm addicted too. We need help. Although Michael prefers a game called ‘Ninja Kaka’ lately, where, rather than knocking over structures with flying birds, he uses touch screen gestures to slice flying fruit into vivid, juicy ribbons with a samurai sword. All on a high-definition cell phone display with terrific sound effects. When I was his age we had ‘Pong’. That was it. Until ‘Space Invaders’ appeared on Atari, and Pac-Man too; we played them on our crappy, little, blurry tube televisions, and we were so amazed we said to ourselves, “Technology is SO advanced now, surely by the year 2000 we’ll be able vacation on the moon, or time travel!” That was 1985.
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