We ate at Billy's today, our favorite breakfast joint. Three teenager guys sat at a table next to us. They were tall. Almost as tall as me :) They wore loose sweats and Under Armor hoodies with "Palatine Pirates" printed on them. High-schoolers. They had that deliberately languid swagger of big, athletic 18-year-olds. They ate a ton. They lounged and laughed. Michael in about 10 years? I hope so.
Megan still can't eat chocolate chip pancakes without making an impressive mess, getting her favorite waxy substance on everything, in her hair, on her face, on her sleeves, under her fingernails. Under every fingernail. I thought about checking her little toes even though she had tennis shoes on.
I wonder how much longer I'll be able to wash Megan's hair. She asks me to help. Her hair was especially glossy and silky today, during her bath, since I used a humongous dollop - and some extra drizzles - of conditioner. I rinse her hair by dipping and pouring a Minnesota Twins souvenir cup from Target Field. I NEVER get shampoo in her eyes. Regarding the Twins cup, Papa Mike took us to a game there last summer. So we'll say this hair washing ritual is a mini-combo of two things I really love, Megan and MLB games with both Michael Byard Cox's.
Michael and Megan came to my softball game. They mostly dug in the dirt and tormented earthworms. That's okay. I didn't launch any homers or make any diving plays; I can see how the worms were more captivating. But do I wish it was a praying mantis, instead, that distracted them - perhaps one devouring its mate - or a toad or wounded bird or a colony of miniature aliens? Sure. My ego is telling me I was upstaged by worms. Although, I did hear Megan's sweet voice cheer for me a few times, and that's enough.
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