Megan is skinny. I’m afraid she’ll need jeans with elastic tighteners
forever. I’ve done battle with several pairs of them, on her behalf,
getting the buttons through the elastic bands and then un-bunching the
stubborn waist in sections. It’s like a little built-in belt. If you
have no idea what I’m talking about, good for you. Of course, jeans that
are un-tight are the favorite of fathers everywhere, for their precious
daughters, but I don’t want Megan’s pants to sag in an entirely
unattractive way, only in a sort of unattractive way. There is a
precisely achievable difference. I want her pants snug at the waist and
baggy through the butt and thighs. Golf knickers, for example, are
perfect.
Megan said to me yesterday, at the dinner
table, in a kind of scholarly tone, “I think I just have gas pain, or I
have to go poop right now.” I said, “Okay Baby, sure thing, go take care
of business.” She scampered off, seemingly surprised or pleased or
enlightened by her self-diagnosis. It’s always oxymoronic for
expressions of this kind to come from such a sweet little girl.
Although, let’s be honest; Megan’s not always sweet or prone to
propriety when dealing with bodily functions. Megan, for example, is a
very skilled gas-passer and not at all one without pride. She will
almost always giggle and sometimes even pump her fist. Okay, I’m
exaggerating now…. As for Megan’s stomach issue detailed above, it was
in response to the visible shock, on my face and Michael’s, when Megan
declined dessert. This NEVER happens. So Megan felt the need to explain
unequivocally. In the future, however, in the long, long distant future –
like if she’s on a date – I hope she just excuses herself from the
table, flashes one of her beautiful smiles, and maybe retrieves her lip
gloss from her purse before departing. There’s nothing wrong with
misdirection, or harmless deception, at moments like this. Got it, Meg?
I
want my kids to be polite and positive. If I had to distill it all into two main points or focuses, if I had to do some kind of catch-phrase-y
sloganeering to summarize it, I would go with “The Two P’s of
Parenting.” Regarding politeness, I mean the obvious, but also the
possession of a sense of decorum and professionalism (when they get
older), and a sense of respect. The world has been around a long time,
and so have certain people, and certain types of people. I want
them to respect it all, because it will all reward them and fulfill them
and then, often without warning, knock them on their ass. And both
cycles have great purpose. Uh-oh, can I make it “The Three P’s of
Parenting?” And the second P – shoot, I think I’ve gone overboard, this
is like a cleaning-product infomercial now; no, I’m not yelling – is
really very simple. People who are optimistic and grateful are happier,
healthier, and more successful. We can argue about definitions and
semantics and science, but I simply want my kids to get in the habit of
leaning in one direction and not the other. And I think when you’re
positive, you work harder; you’re passionate. Four P’s?
Monday, September 16, 2013
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Dad Entry #166
My sweet, little daughter doesn’t flush the toilet. I don’t get it; I
view this activity as necessary and courteous, of course, but also
relatively urgent. I am big and male – not insignificant factors here –
but even when perpetrated by the cute and tiny, an unflushed toilet is
an unpleasant surprise. Megan has her own bathroom, and I would stay out
of it in between cleanings but she doesn’t turn off the lights either,
or pick up her wet, wadded towels, so I am frequently reminded to check
for things undone or out of place.
Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.
I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.
Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.
Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.
I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.
Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.
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