Dad Entry #157

A few weeks ago, Megan wiped out on a snow hill and sledded on her face for a distance, or so it seemed according to her wounds, which included a big scab over cheekbone and temple, and some black-and-blue around her eye. The damage was impermanent; all signs have vanished already. Kids heal fast. I wasn't there for the accident, but Megan cried out for me, Sara said, which makes me both happy and sad.

Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.

Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?

Dad Entry #156

Michael is pretty tidy when it comes to schoolwork. I'm most aware of things that require my involvement, of course, things like his reading log which I bless with my autograph. Not so valuable, my autograph, but it's nice to give it. Michael puts papers I need to sign (his reading tracker, yes, but also stuff like permission slips and notes about curriculum) in front of me like an attorney at a closing, neatly ordering, stacking, and sliding them across the table. "Oh, and here's a good pen, Dad," he'll say, clicking one to arm it and handing it over with a smile, pleasantly, expectantly, ready to sweep away each paper once signed. He's a pro. Instead of asking him appropriate questions about the upcoming field trip, or school subjects, I pretend I'm Lebron or Verlander with a Sharpee signing posters. (I wonder if my son realizes how juvenile most adults are. Probably not. I didn't realize this until I was about 35.) Well, it seems logical, or chronological, to talk about Megan next, in this context, but I'm unenthusiastic. Oh, Meggie. Unlike her brother, Megan will ask me if I've signed her stuff before she's even taken anything out of her backpack. And sometimes her backpack is still in the car. "Umm, Honey, I'm not going to dig your papers out for you, if I can even find them. Get your binder, and bring it over here, and we'll review things together, please and thank you." We're working on it. But, this part is equally true; Meg practices her spelling words over and over again, and she asks for math problems to do on her whiteboard. She's a good student, also.

Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.