Dad Entry #100

Sometimes I think I write too much here, but then I realize 50% of my intended audience can't even read yet. Maybe they'll be interested in about 20 years. Until then, the jury's out.

At Starbucks this morning I saw a little girl with her shoes on the wrong feet. I miss Megan. She's in Kansas City for two weeks.

Megan rode on the scariest roller coaster at "Worlds of Fun" yesterday. She insisted on going. She's only 5; Sara said it was a real ride, like the kind people scream and puke on. She said Megan was terrified. And then exhilarated. And then proud. That is kind of a cool Pavlovian progression of emotions. Or a risk / reward lesson. A thrill, a rush. But do we want her conditioned this way, to 'be brave and try it', to think 'if I don't go, I'll never know'? Yes. Of course not. Maybe. Here we go again. I want her to be confident, adventurous (but cautious), I want her to think, "I can do this..." unless she should think, "This could be trouble..." Yeah, it's why I pray.

I want badly to pitch more BP to Michael. He's playing ball with Papa John in Kansas, and they went to a Royals game. Michael loved it. It's called indoctrination. Next up: watching the MLB Home Run Derby and All-Star Game, followed by a Twins game at Target Field with Papa Mike, followed by the Brewers game at Miller Park, then the White Sox at The Cell, punctuated with the best experience in baseball... watching the Cubs lose at Wrigley! This is an especially ugly year for the Northsiders, our lovable losers; only one other team - out of 30! - has lost more games at the break. Even the Royals have lost one fewer, and beat the Cubs head-to-head. The Twins are always better; they have a great organization up there. We don't care as much about the Brewers or Sox.

I had something special planned for entry #100, based on the "Family Project" survey I did last summer. But I can't do it until the kids return from KC. So maybe #101 will be 'special', or #102.

Megan's tee-ball and Michael's baseball seasons are over. Meg's was mostly a cute-fest. But Michael's got pretty serious during the playoffs. I wasn't ready for that. I haven't wanted a baseball team to win so badly since game 7 of the 2003 NLCS. Greg and I were at the game, ready to celebrate all night in Wrigleyville. Until the Cubs lost.

I played a little trick on Megan. She likes to unlock the condo door now, and she's good at it; her hands are strong and dextrous for as small as they are. But this time the door wasn't locked; I remembered I left it unlocked when I ran out to pick them up. Since I'm ornery, I told Megan as we approached the door, "Wait, I wanna try and unlock it with my mind." Megan stepped aside. I closed my eyes and wiggled my fingers over the lock. Then I turned the knob and it opened. My audience was impressed! (At least the 50% I referenced above.) Megan said, "How did you do that?!" Since a magician never tells, I looked at Michael who was already saying, "It wasn't locked, Megan."

Megan must've been thinking about the lock trick later when she blurted, "Yeah, no person on Earth is magic, right Dad, except for the Tooth Fairy?" Exactly right, Baby.

Is it just me, or do school gyms and cafeterias have the same bouquet of aromas they did when I was a kid? There's a mustiness to them, plus hints of disinfectant, sour milk, frozen pizza, sweaty mats, stinky socks... what else?

Megan is still pretty little. I was folding her laundry and smiling at her skinny jeans, and the fact her shorts are like smaller than an envelope. And then I snapped out of my reverie and thought, wait a minute, short shorts aren't allowed on my daughter. What the hell's goin' on around HERE?!?! Just kidding. Sort of.

Dad Entry #99

Michael asked if he was Italian (more on that later) so we chatted about ancestry, what it is, what it means. I told him, "I am American, and grateful for it, and you are too, but the term 'American' doesn't really describe ancestry or lineage to me unless you're Native American." Then Michael remembered and said, "Alissa has a friend who is related to Sacajawea!" He was suddenly excited by the possibilities; he said, "Maybe we're related to Lebron James! Or Aramis Ramirez!" Hmmm, okay, so the concept is only loosely understood for now, or it's being loosely applied, the concept of ancestry, but it is exciting, Michael's got that right, and if you go back far enough, I believe, yes, the Cox's are indeed related to Lebron and Aramis.

Megan is on the Diamondbacks since every team is named after an MLB franchise. By coincidence, Michael is on the Diamondbacks in his league, too. We were watching the Cubs play the Rockies on TV. Megan recognized the jerseys and said, "Oh, the Rockies, I know those guys, we played them." I smiled. Did she think they were the same players she faced? (Tulo and CarGo are two of the best on the planet.) Or was she was just matching names? It sure sounded like the former...

Megan overheard some women speaking Spanish. She thought it was cool. I told her, "I can teach you Spanish." Michael told her, "No, me teach you Caveman. It fun. It easy. It annoy grown-ups." It sure does!

I bought a book called "The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman". Bash me for buying the book later. (It was a #1 New York Times Bestseller though.) Honestly, I was interested in the prescribed 'Slow Carb Diet', the benefits of insulin / blood sugar maintenance... the healthy eating part. Really. Now scientists say fat and salt aren't so bad, what's killing us are sugar, HFCS, and refined flour, blah, blah. Anyway, the funny moment: I left the book out and Michael started reading the title before I could whisk it away. So I decided not to bring more attention to it than deserved; I let him read the cover. I cringed and waited. Thankfully, he said, "Dad, what is rapid fat-loss?"

Megan is still a messy eater. I love it when I step in the kitchen and there's a crunch underfoot and it's a cheerio. Or what's left of one. I still try to pick up the particles, you know, get them in a single pinch between thumb and fore-, even though it's only flour now and impossible to clean without a vacuum. I don't like vacuums very much. I'm pretty sure Sara will corroborate. Side note: Aunt Jenny was more afraid of the 'Sweeper' - what we called the vacuum - when we were kids. Or, more precisely, Jenny called it the 'seeper'. (That does sound scary!) Cute-as-pie little Jenny was vigilant; whenever a vacuum came to life, she warned everyone, "Seeper get you!"

We saw a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk. Michael said, "Oh, Dad, in Indiana Jones I saw this, I could use that for a weapon!" Let's hope it never comes to that.

Dad Entry #98

Megan might become a lacto-ovo vegetarian. I bought some buffalo jerky at the farmers market and she said, "You eat part of a buffalo body? That's not nice."

Michael is currently fascinated with Braille. I don't blame him; I agree it's remarkable how blind people read. There are signs with Braille in the condo building, e.g. near stairwells and elevators. He has stopped multiple times now to feel and marvel at them.

Megan told me, "When I grow up, I'm gonna live in California." Ok, I guess I won't mind living there... :)

We stop and inspect the carcasses of dead insects a lot.

I wanna see "Kung Fu Panda 2" with the kids this weekend. "There is no charge for awesomeness!" - Po

"Kung Fu Panda" and "Megamind" are my favorites. Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Einstein. Yes, same boat. Humor: The highest form of intelligence. But doing Physics well ain't easy either; my lowest grades in college I think. I loved "How To Train Your Dragon" and "Despicable Me". And "Cars" and "Madagascar" are worth every penny. Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller. Is "Rio" any good? I haven't seen that one yet. Is it as good as "Nemo"?

Megan had her last tee-ball game today. She's a little tentative at the plate. She likes to roll it gently to the left side. I've given her a few tips, not least of all: "Swing harder Sweetheart, let 'er rip!" She's not open to suggestion from me though; she told me, "Daddy, you are not my tee-ball teacher. But maybe someday you can become a professional about hitting." Huh? A pro hitter or pro coach? Professionals? Who's already telling you about the pros? Your brother? (If so, that's awesome, I'm happy he's excited about baseball!) And why don't I possess the unquestioned authority you observe in your tee-ball coaches?! Your old man is the guy you wanna talk to about hitting, Honey-Bunny. And it's 'coach', in sports we call 'em coaches, Coach Walt and Coach Mike, not so much 'teachers'. I should note here that Walt and Mike are terrific coaches, awesome guys, great with the kids. I'm grateful for that. The kids have had wonderful coaches for all their teams so far. I suspect that won't be the case every time, but we'll see. So far so good.

Megan is such a perfect little creature, I ache a bit when I miss her, when traveling for work, even traveling for fun, hunting, whatever. She can be naughty, but she is without a doubt the cutest thing that ever lived.

Dad Entry #97

I went through Megan's purse. Was I practicing? For her teenager years? The sneaky rituals and parenting tricks I'll employ. No. Maybe. It depends. No. Whatever, I have ten years before that stage. Or nine. Eight. Six? Actually, I'm more fearful I'll be too passive; I'll trust Megan's moral compass when I should punch her boyfriend instead. I followed the rules when I was a teenager. I said goodnight to my mom every night when I was in high school. I mean when I went out and came home late; I had to walk up to the edge of her bed and tell her I was home (safely). Some nights I tried to keep my distance, and kind of whisper-yell from her bedroom doorway (because I smelled like cheap, skunky beer). My mom would groggily respond, "Ok, goodnight," to my, "I'm home," like she was still halfway under, and I would relax, relieved, and then the next morning she'd ask with a piercing, direct certainty, "So how come you barely stepped into the bedroom last night to say goodnight?" That magical mother sense. But Megan will be fine; I can trust her inner strength. She'll make her own decisions. Put another way: she's stubborn, not easily coerced or convinced to do something like be nice when she's crabby. Does this 'strength' as I've called it - because I'm too nice, naive, or dumb - anyway, does this mean she'll ignore peer pressure? Who knows. Okay, back to Megan's purse. Contents: a notebook, glitter pen, water bottle and rubber band. Pretty benign. Does anyone else remember Geraldo opening Al Capone's secret vault in Chicago during a live, heavily-hyped, special broadcast? Megan's notebook was small; it had stickers in it, mostly hearts and snowflakes. Nothing to worry about. No "I love Justin Beiber" scribbles, over and over, page after page. In Megan's handwriting!! She could easily manage that now if someone helped her spell. Who was her accomplice?!?! Seriously, I just thought it was cute she had a real purse - like a hand-me-down from Mommy custom made at 1154 Lill - and when I moved it from the middle of the hallway (?) I noticed it was very light. Gosh, I hate to say it, but when I think of purses I think of oversized, bulging bags, with straps awkwardly looped over arms, as sunglasses, checkbooks, make-up, and keys spill out, with photo buttons pinned on (of the kids in sports), all attached to a harried woman on some mission like shopping during a big sale or corraling misbehaving kids. I know that's distorted and wrong. But I'm being honest; I'd prefer I thought instantly of a 'red carpet handbag' instead, a designer dress accessory, which is more like a wallet, or a snack-sized-ziploc (one that's a bit more sturdy, pimped-out and colorful, and likely has diet pills or other drugs in it - stimulants, muscle relaxers, hunger cessation supplements, typical hollywood stuff, probably not apple slices or baby carrot sticks like I put in the snack-sized-ziplocs in Michael's school lunches).

Michael's first baseball season is winding down. He's improved; he has a nice swing. He does, however, like almost every second-grader, strike out a lot. It's his first year of 'kid-pitch'. Seven-year-old pitchers are erratic. That's an understatement. After four balls from a player, a coach takes over. But even that makes for a difficult, mid-AB change. A few of the kids cry when they K. Michael's not about to cry, but I can tell it grates on him. So I said, "Name a good player." He said, "Aramis Ramirez." I agreed with him when he said, "It's almost like for some guys I can tell they're good by the sound of their names." I responded with a bad Tim McCarver impression, enunciating "Michael Cox" in a very baseball-friendly, announcer-kinda way. He wasn't convinced. Anyway, Aramiz Ramirez does have a nice ring to it, and yes, he's a good hitter. So I told Michael, "Pay attention, we're gonna google his career stats." In 14 seasons, Ramirez has hit 294 homers. Not too shabby. And he's struck out 922 times, and that's not bad either; it's less often than many - Soriano! - who swing for the fences. Michael was quiet; that means it sunk in. But he still asked me the next day, "Did you strike out when you played baseball?" I said, "Sure, I played a lot of baseball and struck out plenty of times, but I don't think about that, I think about the times I hit homeruns, launched it over the fence, outta the park, and then I got to trot around the bases, now that's a good feeling, and one you'll love too, you can crush it, I've seen you, and that's what we, as hitters, remember. Just go up there and get your hacks. Got it?" He nodded at least. (For the record, what grated on me was if I booted one at shortstop. I hope Michael's just a monster first baseman. That's easier duty over there. You just gotta rake at the plate.)

He's Been First Communicized!

Shut UP Cute Ball Players

I Swear She's A Blessing

Dad Entry #96

Megan snores. Sometimes she ends up in a contorted position with her head tilted back and mouth gaped open. Then I can hear it, a little rattle in her throat. Sleep apnea? A life of fatigue and crabbiness and unrealized potential?! No, the snoring is rare; she’s usually silent as a mouse. A perfect angel. Until she gets crabby.

Michael’s bad sleeping habit – sweating – seems more frequent, and disruptive. He bundles up like an Eskimo, or a Bears fan at Soldier Field, many-layered, wrapped tight and surrounded by his comforter, blanket, sheets, another blanket, crayon pillow, and a jumble of stuffed animals. When I pull the covers back from his chin, a heat wave wafts upward, like I’ve lifted the lid from a pot of boiling water. No kidding. Steam. Then I touch his brow and it’s soaked. So is the hair on his temples. It’s like someone threw water in his face.

We were at a restaurant and a group of young women walked by. I’d say they were late teens or early twenties. Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!” Like everything Megan says - except for, “I hate (fill in the blank)!” and, well, several other things - it was super cute. The comment warmed my heart. Was it the innocence of it? The inaccuracy? The appeal, to a little girl like Megan, of such an esteemed and illustrious group as the Girl Scouts?! The cookies? I’m not sure. I know young men can do Eagle Scouts, but I’m not aware of an equivalent for young women. The comment just sort of pointed to Megan’s ‘understanding horizon’ I guess I’ll call it. Limited by age, of course. It’ll be a decade or so before she understands teenager-hood, and after that, what it’s like to be a woman, to really know what women look and feel like, what scares, inspires, and delights them. It’s a complex subject, and diverse, but there’s a book about it, a manual; it’s a billion pages long and incomplete and never been written and incomprehensible anyway.

Megan likes minty gum. She calls it ‘spicy’ gum, which is one of the fifty million things I love about her.

I already mentioned this when he tried it on, but Michael looked super-GQ in his First Communion suit. With clip-on tie, shiny black shoes, and new haircut. Stud.

Michael and Megan bicker. They joust a lot now; it brings back memories! Jen? Regardless, the other day Megan said, “I wanna marry you, Michael.” Michael responded – and I don’t know where he heard this – “Umm, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

The kids like to tell on each other, too. “Dad, Megan tried to kick me” and “Dad, Michael won’t let me play.” Cries of “It’s not fair” are common. And they threaten each other. Michael says, “Okay, you did it again so I guess I have to expel you from school.” This upsets Megan, as she enjoys playing school. She likes the fake assignments and ‘notes sent home to parents’ and field trip announcements that Michael creates and hands out to her. So Megan acquiesces – or is a tiny bit nicer – unless Michael goes too far. Then, like the other day, she’ll say, “I’m telling Mommy, and I’m gonna tell her to punish you real good!” The ‘real good’ ending made it sound less painful or punitive or something. But it gives Michael pause. The other day Megan insisted on passing Michael on the stairs. We weren’t in a hurry; it was just one of those mornings full of competition, irritation, and sniping between them. When Megan pushed past Michael on the stairs he said, “How come Megan always has to be first, even at someone else's birthday party!” Ooh, I knew immediately this was a severe charge, maybe the supreme accusation of selfishness for persons of single digit age. The Everest of indictments for self-centeredness! Birthdays are sacred. Christmas is the only exception, the only day it’s okay to have more fun and more presents than the birthday boy. Although, hopefully he gets a lot of attention too. He does at our house. Did I mention Megan’s comments about the “Jesus world?” Yeah, pretty cool, fifty million and one.