Dad Entry #90

Megan’s such a tall, thin, Nelson-bottomed little thing I’m surprised they make jeans that fit her. But they do. Her ‘skinny jeans’ fit perfectly. It’s a fad that struck at the right time for Megan. FYI, 'skinny jeans' are a newish designer cut that makes aspiring punk rockers look silly and my sweetheart look adorable. Also FYI, a ‘Nelson bottom’ is flat. Imagine a great white shark biting off both of your butt cheeks. You would be left with a Nelson bottom.

Michael had some impressive gas today. Withering. Potent. Fear Factor worthy. Would’ve made Bear Grylls dry heave. Michael was so proud he suggested we have a ‘fart tournament’. I knocked him down a peg when I acted unimpressed that he'd made his mother and sister gag. I told him he wasn't ready for a title shot. I told him he'd be seeded much lower than both of his papas in any kind of fart march madness. And even they couldn’t take the belt from Uncle Scott. "Keep practicing, young Jedi," I advised. But I asked him to practice when I’m not around; I conceded that much.

When I hold Megan now and she puts her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulders, her legs hang almost to my knees. That, friends, is sad. Very sad. She’ll start school in the fall! Public school. Kindergarten. She's growing up too fast.

Megan says she's good at the board game Candyland. She's okay with the notion you can be good at a game that's entirely chance; she has exactly the same chance of winning as her opponents. And yet she wins more than I do, so, technically, her superiority claim holds water. One of us is easily discouraged by, say, that little bastard the Gingerbread Man who sends you backwards. He drives me crazy!!! And one of us is more sensitive to repeated losses. So I steer the game, if needed, much like dealing from the bottom of the deck in Euchre, which I did unashamedly in high school when in need of a victory against drunk rivals. Megan doesn't suspect anything, although she offers subtle suggestions like, "Daddy, you want me to win, right?" Yes, Sweetie, I do. I really do. She doesn't win every time though. It can be a tough, competitive world out there depending on the games we join; we can't forget that lesson now can we :)

It occurred to me when I was in China and I couldn't read anything around me (everything’s in Chinese characters), that it's a taste of how Megan sees the world. I see people and objects but I can't read the signs. And there are signs and words everywhere in public places; on storefronts, menus, billboards, buildings, funny T-shirts, products for sale. But I suppose – since she hasn’t learned to read in any language yet – Meggie doesn’t exactly know what she’s missing.

Michael has scored in two consecutive basketball games. I'm excited, but not about the scoring as much as the fact he enjoys doing something I enjoy also… playing basketball. Ok, that’s BS, I’m excited about the scoring too. But I think it’s fair to say many competitors and performers gravitate to activities they’re good at. They’re more likely to stick with efforts or groups they make positive contributions to. So yes, I hope Michael keeps scoring and getting rebounds and playing tough D. I hope he's the next Dirk Nowitski.

To say Megan is only a little dramatic is like saying Muammar Gaddafi is only a little crazy. Tears are a heartbeat away. Fake tears. Or sweet-voiced suggestions that are somehow transparent, or come across as shtick, an act she hasn't perfected, like this weekend when she saw a Barbie she wanted at Target and said, "Daddy, I've always wanted this for weeks." Something about that statement sounded contrived to me. And confusing. Even though I've worked in Corporate America for 15 years, where I’ve certainly been desensitized to insincerity. And confusion. You can’t fool me, Megan.

Ballin'

He Shoots...

often, but this time, he SCORED!!!! Michaels very first scoring shot of his life!

Kansas Blood

Michael has discovered the joys of bbq ribs. He clearly relishes the experience, not slowing down for facial cleansing or even a quick finger wipe.

Dad Entry #89

Michael's playing hoops! There's a referee, numbered jerseys, a scorer's table, a scoreboard, coaches yelling... it's for real, man! Michael's first step to becoming a Jayhawk. If he insists. I'll still root for the Cyclones against him. Ahh, that's not true; I almost cried watching him play for the first time (I'm pretty sure I said that during his first baseball game too). Oh well, no big deal, I want him to have fun. (And maybe shoot a thousand shots a day). Nope, I know without the fun, you can forget about a player becoming a player. Michael's team is undefeated, thanks to 3 or 4 little dudes that dribble circles around everyone. I missed the first 2 games while in China, but last weekend I watched 'em smoke a team about 40 - 10. Some of the kids played last year and clearly have an edge. Michael gets better, and more engaged, every game. He has the body for it; he's one of the tallest players in the league. He is, however - poor guy - a chip off the old block I'm afraid; suffice it to say he does not have a 'win at all costs' mentality. If the two of us can't fight our way out of a paper bag, at least we'll be in there together. Of course, plenty of cool cats do well in sports; there are mellow players, mostly unflappable, with mad skills. Am I getting ahead of myself? Watching the kids play on a smaller floor with 8-foot rims reminded me of my first games at Neil Armstrong elementary in Parkview, Iowa. Almost 30 years ago. Gramma Barb and Papa Mike were my coaches. Good times.

The other day when I told Michael I was gonna start the shower, he said, "I don't wanna take a shower."
I said, "Five minutes ago when I asked if you'd take a shower instead of a bath, you said, yes, you would take a shower."
Michael said, "Well, do you ever answer a question without thinking?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well I do too," he said.
It didn't feel like I was debating a seven-year-old. Felt more like a rebuttal from another adult, or a teenager, or a lawyer, or a psychologist. Michael ain't no dim bulb.

The kids experienced something terrible recently. Both of them. "When I pee, it's burning hot," is how my sweet Megan described it. I remember it happening when I was young. I haven't experienced it much in recent years. It involves washing. And soap. We started using real soap, bars of Dove and even real shampoo occasionally, mixed in with the 'no tears' stuff. We've had one or two episodes with the eyes, but this was the first time both kids got stung... there. I was afraid we'd never get 'em to wash again. At best only a cursory lathering of nearby regions. Stuff like, "Okay, I rubbed some soap on my thigh, so my privates are clean." That sorta thing. But I think we're over it. That's not to say things are done without caution. There's a kind of seriousness to that part of the bath now; we suspend the playing and splashing and laughing. Concentration and dexterity are suddenly paramount. And I sense a palpable relief once certain areas are cleaned without any four-alarm fires in private places.

Snow-maggedon 2011

While before the storm, weathermen were predicting that this storm could actually leave us all communists, we DID have supposedly the third most snow in Chicago's history. I am not sure it warranted the unavailability of bottled water at the stores, but still. It is a lot of snow. The craziest part was the thunder and lightening during the snowfall (or snowdump)...perhaps even God himself doesn't want Rahm on the ballot.

The kids made a fort, which I thought was maybe a little underachieving, since we have enough snow for a condominium. But I of course told them it was the best fort ever (slackers) and made hot chocolate and cookies.