Dad Entry #151

Christmas! We survived. Although, things aren't over yet; we have one more Christmas to celebrate, this weekend, with the kids' paternal grandpa's branching family, if that makes sense. They'll be young kids and old ones (like me) and just enough adult supervision to make sure everyone is richly fed, given gifts, and uninjured. It's really wonderful, all of our Christmas's are; we're fortunate.

Megan was stubbornly ungrateful for a certain present last year, and I was nervous for a repeat offense. Why the anxiety, you ask? Aren't you in control as a parent? Control is a complex, and often ambiguous, concept to me, and to employ and enforce it in a healthy, non-stunting way is perhaps the challenge of challenges when it comes to parenting. Did I answer the question :) Back to my story, I was nervous because we 'prepared' last year, also, but my daughter can be as obstinate as she is beautiful. Opening presents... it's one of those iconic moments for parents, your children before an audience in a scenario with tremendous potential for awkwardness and judgment (judgment dispensed by all, and rightfully so, but most liberally by people without children of their own, which I understand; as a person, I have no patience for rudeness either, and fear for children who routinely display it, but as a parent I've walked the tightrope, and therefore, right or wrong, I have a dash of sympathy to soften or sweeten an otherwise big pot of collective condemnation directed at erring children and their parents). So this year there were no supremely egregious violations of gift etiquette, although Megan - at Uncle Bill's, of course, with the same group of witnesses as last year - was too quick and deliberate in announcing that a shirt she received had an identical twin already in her dresser. It's always nice to have things to work on, I guess.

Megan still has a distaste for perspiration. She does, however, like physical competition, especially in gym class; she says it's just very exciting, beating the boys and knocking them out of games, and so on. These seem mutually exclusive to me: "I want to kick ass but stay cool, clean, sweet-smelling, and dry." I'm anxious for these competing preferences to clash, to see if a winner emerges. I know who I'm rooting for.

At moments, I'm purely certain Megan is the cutest human being on the planet. This poses issues, of course, or rather it imposes or attempts to sway, pull, move, like gravity or a strong magnet, but then the forces I perceive collide and cancel, and things seem to correct themselves or come back into balance, when Megan acts like a little shit. Therefore, somehow, I'm not afraid of any relinquishment of reality, or authority. But it's a daily struggle.

Dad Entry #150

I wonder who Michael's first crush will be? Or, more specifically, I wonder what familiar or striking qualities will draw him in? Quiet and cute? Strong and loud? Makes the best paper airplanes? Loves dissecting owl pellets? Capable of naming, both alphabetically and chronologically by appearance in Clone Wars episodes, every single Star Wars bounty hunter? (Holy shit, he'd be a goner.) One would think a sweet face could play a part. I'm sure the truth lies in a magical mix of things obvious and not so obvious, things apparent and other things odd, diverse, and difficult to specify. Is there someone, already, who quickens his pulse and flushes his cheeks? Do you remember your first crush? Around Michael's age, I was enchanted by a neighbor and classmate named Desiree. Oh Desiree, I tried so very hard to impress her. She didn't notice. It's about that time for Michael.

Megan loves to decorate Christmas trees. It's reason number seven million and something that I love her. Megan's brother, however, doesn't help much. I think it's time for coal in his stocking.

Following my last post I searched for "Zubaz" on eBay. I couldn't resist. I watch horror movies on occasion too. I detest but completely understand, and often add to, gapers delay on Chicago highways. As expected, eBay had several items like "Dallas Cowboy Zubuz RARE Extra Large" up for auction. Rare? I hope so.

I played pickup basketball with a herd of nine-year-olds last night. It was an optional practice for Michael's team. Comparatively, of course, I was a giant (always nice when playing bball) but I never blocked any shots or did anything obnoxious. Michael's a good shooter. He sank around ten baskets; he just needs the ball delivered to him, somewhat softly and accurately, when he's wide open. Lucky for him he had an assist-focused teammate. I ran the show like Steve Nash. The kids quickly realized I wouldn't shoot though - I only passed (beautifully, I must say) - so they adjusted; they jumped in passing lanes and blanketed open players. They were smart and scrappy and smothered each other on defense. There were pile-ups and scrums. At least once, I pivoted or turned too quickly and flattened a poor kid nearby. Multiple times, little players were hit in the face by flailing limbs or errant shots, rebounds, or passes (but never by me). They shook off tears, and got right back in the mix. Kids are resilient. They constantly show things like energy, effort, eagerness, excitement, earnestness. And that's just the E's.

Holly Jolly

Had a fun night with friends a few nights ago!

Dad Entry #149

It's interesting, and nostalgic, to list the things my children may never lay eyes on, or take seriously, or witness being used proudly for their original purpose or effect. And all because they were born in the new millennium. Examples? Cassette tapes, dial telephones, short-sleeves with neckties, Zubaz. Actually, outrageous bodybuilding getups are alive and well. But these are cringe-worthy things I never cringed at (except for Zubaz). My children however, would shudder with awkwardness, pity, or confusion at one and all. Think of the clever but clumsy technology we endured, or the interior design concepts that flamed-out spectacularly. There are things vivid in my memory that will be incomprehensible to my kids. NFL running backs without tattoos. Tight NBA shorts. Pros like Spud Web. Mr. Rogers. Alarm clocks with bells. Big, fat, 700 pound tube televisions. Big, fat technology of any kind. The Atari 2600. Phallic joysticks, simple joysticks, the word joystick (not as innuendo). Wood-paneled walls. Telephone cords. TVs with zero remotes but several humongous, uncooperative, telescopic antennas augmented by coat-hangers. Rap without obscenity. Pants above the waist. Perms. Sky-high bangs. Hairspray as a cornerstone of heavy metal (think of the ozone we're saving now). Ashtrays in vehicles. Smoking in an airplane, smoking in the dugout, smoking in a restaurant. Megan is 7 and Michael is 9 and neither have seen a record spin. Sound, of course, is part of this miracle, but visually it's also remarkable and open; you can see the needle - with intricate suspension - surfing the grooves, and there are enormous dials, buttons, and switches involved too, and amber-tinted plastic. I know some things will circle back. Fashion is fickle and startling. Lately I've seen decorative stitching on pants worn by men. At one point, I might've taken for granted the extinction of corduroy, bell-bottoms, boots with zippers, parachute pants, break-dancing, acid-washed denim jackets, and tight-rolled jeans. Wrong-o!

The kids are expert-builders with Legos. Their stuff is like Frank Lloyd Wright meets the Swiss Family Robinson (mixed with a child's imagination, enthusiasm, and disregard for proportion and building codes). Not surprisingly, Megan uses more color; she loves pastels and pinks. Michael uses gunmetal gray. Meg builds homes with fabulous bedrooms, kitchens, and windows. She makes salons and stables. Her interiors have artwork, potted flowers, and bowls of fruit. Michael's structures lack amenities that Megan would never overlook, but his aircraft hangars and weapons rooms are impressive. They are elaborate and precisely functional. If his kingdom were to advance across the Lego table and attack Megan's, his stockpiles of guns, swords, spears, halberds, axes, and lightsabers would wreak bloody havoc during the siege. But warfare requires rations, and Michael has none; Megan hoards all the food. (Lego makes carrot sticks, fish, turkeys, apples, bananas, grapes, pizzas, dishes and utensils now, small but obvious pieces.) I'm starting to think the Lego table, with boy on one side and girl on the other, goes a long way in divulging key differences between the male and female of our great species.

Dad Entry #148

Megan spiked a 105 degree fever yesterday. I imagined her brain cells simmering, as if in a sauce pan. I was concerned. Someone - who loves Megan dearly, believe it or not - suggested that, with luck, her 'crazy brain cells' would be accordingly affected (meaning, I assume, boiled away and destroyed), and the rest of her lovely grey matter spared. (At least this alleged loving relative added that part, the bit about some of her brain surviving). Megan is okay, and therefore we can jest. But we'll know soon enough if her crazy brain cells.... kidding. Megan isn't any crazier than the rest of us. She is, however, very energetic and excitable, and beautiful, and occasionally, if not often, moody. In a word, she's a woman.

I saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a hypocrite." Maybe. But another quote comes to mind: "Hindsight is 20/20." We have the benefit of retrospect and replay. Even college football uses replay now, despite a foolish tournament-less system to crown a national champ. So does hindsight excuse hypocrisy? Absolutely! We parents have been there! Intoxicants, lies, laziness, love triangles, betrayals as both perpetrator and victim, broken laws, brain-killing substances and behaviors and television shows on networks like the CW and the WB... the more we've experienced, the better! Okay, that's not exactly right, but as parents we wear a different hat now, and hypocrisy is the least of our worries.

Dad Entry #147

Megan is a crumb factory. The most prolific and industrious of its kind. EVER! At meals, crumbs fall and drift like snowflakes under her chair. Other crumbs are captured in the folds of her clothes, to be incubated and generously sprinkled about. Still others take up residence on her face, only to be rudely dusted off and sent to the tile, the carpet, the couch, her bed, in between cushions, swept this way and that, under appliances, beneath pillows, and stuck to socks. Awesome.

Megan got her 'magical old men with white beards' mixed up yesterday. During a prayer, Meg said, "And God, I hope you eat all the cookies when you come down the chimney." She hesitated, about halfway through the statement; I think she knew she was off. Michael sought immediately to correct her, a favorite pastime of his. I was more gentle and playful in straightening out the two celebrities who, I pointed out, "Probably know each other!" It occurred to me that my fundamentalist friends - who perpetuate, more perfectly than anyone, the woefully inadequate and unbecoming image of God as an old, white-bearded human male who makes lists - might be concerned by this mix-up. Not me. Little bits of happiness, gratitude, and love just tumble out sometimes, when Megan prays. I think that's a good start for a seven-year-old. She never gets scornful and never asks for cash (things many professionals do). Thinking of Megan, and the unconditional love I feel for her, excites my belief that God loves us the same way, and is a very creative and generous maker of things besides. Toys included? Sure. Definitely children included; I'm so very happy He made my children. And their mother helped an awful lot too; thank you, Sara.

I feel pleasure, and a pang of something else - dignity? - when I put a decent meal in front of the kids. It has nothing to do with 'bringing home the bacon' or 'putting food on the table,' because one phrase uses the word 'bacon' and the other is boring - and I'm not chest-pounding (which sounds funny to me in the context of cooking even if some chefs are ass-kickers) as in, I made a very nice white wine reduction with shallots that I drizzled over Megan's chicken nuggets. No, it's just that baking chicken, boiling noodles, concocting sauces, setting a table, chopping and steaming vegetables - AND making sure each thing is ready within a TV show of the others - is just not easy enough to be inappreciable to my sensibilities. I'm aware it hints at the possibility that "putting a decent meal in front of my kids" is the exception, and not the rule. I wouldn't go that far. No need for snickering, Mothers. But do the kids and I still hit the drive-thru a lot? Hell yeah.

One Day

As I lay with Megan tonight, and she rattled off her prayer, I starting getting a little nostalgic. Our daily routine, at least some parts, are so predictable. I know I will forget the little every day things that fade away as they grow. Here is an attempt to capture the mundane.

My day often starts with Megan waking me to do her work. She is my first alarm. My actual alarm usually goes off about 30 minutes later. After getting myself mostly ready, I almost always have to go wake Michael, who almost always holds up a hand from beneath his burrow, indicating he'd like "five more minutes." I then get Megan out of her bed, which has morphed into a library by now and hustle her through her morning routine, which typically ends with her rejecting the shoo-in-for-a-fashion-magazine outfit I have chosen and pulling on something really just pretty ridiculous instead. I then go re-wake Michael, lay out his clothes (because he would maybe be a little confused if I laid out a paper bag for him to wear, but would shrug and put it on anyway) and pull off his covers to make him actually move.

I then head down to start the school prep. I fill four water bottles, one for the classroom and one for the lunch bag for each kid and grab a snack for them to have mid-morning. I lay out lunch bags and try to figure out what the heck to put in them, at which point one of the two has come either stumbling or bouncing, depending on which one, into the kitchen. Megan wants one of two breakfasts: a bagel or a breakfast sundae. Michael nearly always wants a crumpet with jelly. I get them eating and then get back to the worst part of my day: lunches. I pack 'em up, get them into backpacks and make sure all the right books, binders and required signatures are where they should be. At some point, I start the shoe warnings, "12 minutes to shoes!" so they know what they are looking at in terms of hustle. I get a glass of water and a comb to tame Michael's insane bedhead.

At 8:25, it is shoe time. I have typically given about three warnings by now, and most days, Megan finds something wrong with her outfit or hair at this moment. If there is nothing wrong, then she has a meltdown about not having the perfect shoes for her slipshod get-up. Michael and I step over her and head out to the car and she ends up following after a few minutes – sometimes super mad, sometimes already oblivious to the issue she just had. We rock out on the way to school and pray that we turn out of the neighborhood ahead of the bus so we don't get stuck behind it loading children with it's little stop sign sticking out.

Drop off is one of my favorite things. I drive to the far parking lot near Michael's classroom, where he hops out and has to walk about 50 yards to the door. He turns to wave at us an average of 6 times during this walk, so I wait and wave back until he rounds the corner to the door. I leave this parking lot and go to the opposite end of school, where Megan's classroom is (very convenient). I pull into a parking spot here, because it takes Megan about 5 full minutes to get herself out of the car and to situate the backpack that she will remove in 2 minutes. I open the passenger window as she walks past and tell her something I love about her (ie you are so cool/beautiful/funny/bright) to which she always responds, "I know." She heads to the door and never looks back at me, where I wait, just in case.

After school pickup is almost always the same, I wait by the first grade door where Megan comes out, more often zombie-like than not. She runs off to the playground to play with friends while I wait for Michael to make the long trek from the fourth grade door. Michael immediately wants to go home, almost without exception, and I have to put him off for as many minutes as I can to allow Megan some girl time. When I absolutely can no longer stop his whine, I tell him to go gather Meg up and tell her it's time to go. We have to extract her from the group of girls like a deep splinter, painful all the way to the car.

At home: a snack, homework, cleaning out lunch bags, whatever sport practice there is that night, then dinner and finally time to wind down. The routine is the same...up to the shower, pee, wash hands, brush teeth and get on jammies, aka undies. I start with Megan while Michael does his own reading. Meg and I read two books and these days, she reads them to me as often as I read to her, which is both adorable and awesome and patience-testing. She applies Aquafor to her desert lips and I turn off her light. She then nearly chants: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. Then some form of this comes out: God, please help me think of good things. Please, when I ask, come into my heart. I will open the door to my heart as wide as I can so you can come in. Please keep anything bad or scary away from me, and if it gets close, please come take it away, even if I have to see your powers. Thank you, God. Mom, do you want to say anything? [insert moms plea for a peaceful night] God, please do what my mom said. Amen.

90% of the time these days she wants me to sing Guten Naben, a German lullaby made popular by Grammie. I do that and then we snuggle for a few minutes. When I get up to go to Michael, I have to help her move to the middle of her bed, which involves moving pets (Foofoo [mommy's childhood bunny], IKEA bunny and a dog named Scrufty) and pillow and blanket rearranging. I kiss her and promise to come "check on her." I flip on her nightlight as I leave.

I come into Michael's room with a "It's time, buddy." He wraps up the page he's reading and leans over to record his reading time for his school reading log on a small post-it on the desk next to his bed. He hands me the book to put on his bedstand (on my side) and I turn on his "noise." We get all of the pets arranged (snakesy, makesy, pakesy, crabsie, scorpion, Hedwig the owl and Wyatt the horse) and I turn out the light. He immediately prays: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. For mommy, daddy and Megsie. For Grandma and Papa Mike, Grammie and Papa John, Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake, Alissa and Ellie, Aunt Jenny and Uncle Scott; Annabelle, Miles, Zeke and Audra, and Aunt Gretchen's baby Andrew and Leah. Amen.

We usually have a pretty good chat after that, and snuggle up together for quite awhile since that's the only time he really still acts like my little boy. He is a closet snuggler these days, being all grown up and in fourth grade. And I looooove it. Eventually, I give him kisses, tell him he is a prince among men and take my leave. I always go back in to check on Meg at this point, and 9 nights out of ten, she is passed out. I love the nights that she isn't asleep yet, or almost asleep, because then I get credit for the check and she can rest assured I am not lying when I say I will.

Sometimes, when I am busy with work, the amount of time this bedtime routine takes irritates me, but most of the time, I relish it, knowing I won't get these moments forever.

Then I go down and pour a glass of wine. Ahhhh.

Dad Entry #146

I'm helping coach Michael's basketball team. I'm not the head coach, just a bumbling assistant. But it's a start, and I love it. I want badly for all the boys to succeed. It's like parenting, in that respect, elation, frustration, suggestion, correction, observation, exasperation, reflection; all circling, colorfully, in a big carousel. Coaching, like parenting, exposes nerves that at any moment can be struck - stomped on, in fact - and sent ringing, producing exquisite sensations not unlike those encountered in Soviet dentist chairs only 30 years ago (I'm told by my Russian and Ukrainian coworkers), in gray, spartan medical offices, made suddenly and spastically very brilliant with color, when the drill was applied without novocaine. Well, coaching isn't that bad, or good (consider the relief when one escaped that Soviet dentist chair), but it really gets me fired up! Since I have spent many months of my life, in aggregate over the entire span, on a basketball court, I fancy myself somewhat knowledgeable. Of course, there's a lot of know-it-all parents out there too, many of whom aren't even parents at all!, or whom, someday, inevitably - it happens to us all - will be humbled by events that occur when they're on the job (a job that lasts forever).

It's funny to notice the insecurities that surface while I'm coaching. As a player, I'm pretty sure I could handle with ease - all the kids in the league, of course, none being especially agile or tall or over 100lbs - but 99% of the dads and coaches too, face-to-face in the flow of a game, or one-on-one if they insisted. No sweat. (None look like former college players or in that dreaded early- to mid-twenties age-range that I can no longer own off the dribble and freely create against... I have lost a step). So despite a stubborn, soothing confidence as a player, I'm bombarded by uncertainty when trying to verbally instruct the kids, describe a fundamental, deliver a pointer, run through a play, organize a drill, obtain and maintain attention. I will get better. I'm tempted to impress the boys as a player, to get them to listen. The desire to impress is, of course, the surest sign of insecurity. I could spin the ball on my finger or dribble through both legs and around my back in a blur, show a wicked crossover to freeze my nine-year-old defender, thread a no-look pass (that would only hit a kid in the nose causing bewilderment, shooting pain, snot, and insistent tears - I hate getting hit in the schnoz) or I could drain a smooth pull-up three, but they wouldn't notice. They would only notice a dunk, and I can't do that. Shame on me. That would impress. Then they would hang on my commands and advice, and the very rim itself sometime in the future; they would be focused, hungry, eager to "set a pick," "maintain spacing," "use your left," "box out," "BE QUICK!" and so on. Go get the basketball, it's yours!!