Late Post: Fourth of July

At Clear Lake. The kids had a great time tubing and chillin' with the Nelsons.

Ladies

Megan and Mia had quite an afternoon with buckets and a sprinkler. I wish I could be all witty remembering the crazy games they came up with, but I am tired and usually am, so I don't actually remember them. But they were cute, mark my words.

Kansas Runs in the Blood

Kids in a cornfield. Cuties.

My, What Lovely Teeth You Have

Butterfly Girl

Michael got an invitation from a friend to help her carry the Pet Parade Banner at Palatine Street Fest. He, of course, balked at the idea of doing anything in front of people...or just doing anything at all. Megan was thrilled to pick up his slack and proudly helped Amelia carry the banner in front of a hundred pets through the Fest. Right before the parade began, she had to get her little angel face painted like a hot pink butterfly. She lo-o-o-oved the result. As did I. I mean, please.

Dad Entry #72

The kids are obsessed with dogs right now. We made it clear they're not getting one. But Grandma and Papa bought a little girl from the litter below. Little girls are sweet. Mine is. So dogs are the rage right now, slightly ahead of Pokemon cards on the attention/mention scale. I told the kids, “Grandma and Papa aren’t sure which baby girl they’ll get, they get third pick of the litter, but they’re going to name her Annabelle, kind of after Belle, and they’ll call her Anna.” Megan liked that. She did NOT, however, like it when I said they won’t get Anna for another month or so. She asked, “A month? How many minutes is that, Daddy? How many minutes until Grandma and Papa get a new puppy?” I told her, “That’s a lot of minutes, Honey. Anna is too little to come home with them now, she still needs her mommy.” We're all very eager to meet Annabelle.



This morning, Megan didn’t want any of her 25 breakfast choices. Yogurt, oatmeal, waffle, bagel, granola bar, PB toast, cinnamon toast, 8 cereal choices, fresh berries, apples, bananas, melon, dried fruit, etc. And any combination thereof? "No, I'm tired of those things," Megan said. And I thought, Seriously? Struggling with the monotony of repetition already? You’re four years old! Disappointed by the limited choices provided by the American standard of living? The modern grocery super-store? The Earth? Fruit picked in the other hemisphere that’s still fresh when I cut it open and serve it to you? Time for a chat about abundance and gratitude. Although, at 34 I see her point. I’ve eaten those things thousands of times; I’m tired of them too.

Sara said Megan spiked a 104.9 degree fever a few nights ago. I know kids can go higher than adults. Without frying their brains. But 104.9 made me wonder if her head steamed, if the sweat on her forehead evaporated in visible wisps. I think a temp over 106 or 107 is when you start the ice bath. Whatever, she was totally fine the next day.

Megan has glommed onto 'battery acid' as a cause for all kinds of issues, glitches, malfunctions around the house. I asked her where she first heard about it and she said, "Mommy found some in Michael’s car toy.” Sure, a battery went bad and leaked. It happens. But now if a cell phone acts up or the TV remote responds slowly or a light bulb burns out, Megan says, "Maybe it's battery acid." Michael finally got tired of it and told her, “Just because you're so smart about battery acid, doesn't mean that's what happened to everything.” I agree.

Dad Entry #71

Megan has a front bottom and a back bottom. Yep, it's that simple. It's what Daddy calls them anyway. For now. During her bath, she knows what I mean when I hand her a washcloth and say, "Wash your front bottom now, Honey," and I think, gently, but she knows that already, and then I add, "Daddy will help you wash your back bottom." Her back bottom is kinda hard for her to reach and clean appropriately. No need for any fancy terms she hasn't asked for yet. Ok then, good thing we’ve got that covered.

Second grade starts this week for Michael. I can’t believe it. He likes to learn and create and think. He’s awesome. He doesn’t complain about school; he enjoys it. Although I'll never forget what he said after his first day of kindergarten, “My teacher is kinda bossy.” Funny. Yeah, teachers are kinda bossy. Bosses are kinda bossy too.

Megan still has a huge interest in anatomy. Future doctor? Not if I’m paying. Megan loves her ‘body books’, books with pictures and diagrams of human tissues and organs and systems. The other day before running out, I poked my head into her room to say goodbye. She was sitting on her bed reading. She held up the book, pointed at an image and said, “Look, Daddy, a blood cell.” I laughed, but not until I'd raised my eyebrows, said, "Wow, that is so interesting!" and pulled my head back out of her room.

Megan likes to look for 'treasures'. Treasures are anything of perceived value spotted on the ground, or anywhere in public, and unclaimed, i.e. available to pick up and keep. Super. Typically this means lost hair-bands, pins, clips, nuts / bolts, bottle-tops, ordinary paper litter… who knows. Nothing too poisonous. But the one that makes even Daddy cringe goes like this…. I hear my sweetheart say, "Hey, it's Dora!" I look and yep, it's Dora the Explorer alright, but her cute animated face is on a spent, dirty Band-Aid. Megan has proudly mined it from the pool filter nearest us.

Michael has about a million Pokémon cards now. And he knows everything about every one of them. He even bought one on eBay yesterday. Woo-hoo. Now if we can get him to sell some cards on eBay. And put the money in his 529.

Megan is a total kiss wiper-offer. I give her a nice, clean, dry, good-breath, goodnight peck and she immediately throws the back of her hand to her face and wipes it off. Yeah, I'm kind of annoyed. When Jenny and I were Megan's age and gave Papa Mike a goodnight kiss, it was like a sip of Miller Lite and a drag of a Marlboro. Right, Aunt Jenny? And Papa Mike had a mustache then. Enough said about that. No offense, Dad. Megan gives the best hugs though. Nice long ones, head-on-shoulder. They're amazing.

Dad Entry #70

Megan likes a little storytelling now at bedtime. For years I've done my best with stories for Michael. Sometimes they're awfully boring or repetitive; creativity doesn't always spill out. Storytelling's a little different with Meg. Here's an example of how it goes down:

Meg: "Daddy, will you tell me a story tonight?"
Dad: "I'd love to, Baby."
Meg: "No, three stories."
Dad: "Umm, let's just do one and we'll make it a nice long one!"
M: "Two stories?"
D: "Once upon a time, there was a princess named Tina Fey, she was a beautiful-"
M: (interrupts) "How old is she, Daddy?"
D: "Oh, let's say she's almost five like you, Sweetheart!"
M: "No Daddy, she has to be grown-up age to get married."
D: "Oh. Okay, we'll say she's 25 then. Or 55. Anyway, Princess Tina Fey loved the forest. She loved-"
M: "Let's just say she's mommy-size, okay? She's mommy-size, right?"
D: "Yes, Baby, perfect, she's mommy-size, and she loved the forest, and she loved trees, big tall ones, and leaves. She loved to-"
M: "And then she met a prince, right?"
D: "Uh, sure, you bet, Princess Tina Fey met a prince one day in the forest, Prince Jimmy Fallon was his name and he-"
M: "And then they got married, right Dad?"

Megan really cuts to the chase when given editorial liberties. And apparently we can't tell stories about little princesses. Or ones without boys.

I love how often the kids tell me stuff I already know. It's cute. The subject is always brand new for them I guess. And they don't fully understand age and the accumulation of only marginally useful knowledge over decades of scholastic and media brainwashing. So it's not crazy for Meggie to assume, for example, that she's teaching me something when she says, "Daddy, these are called Pixy Stix! But they're just sugar." Yes, Baby, it's called marketing. Ice cubes to Eskimos. But the most important thing to remember about marketing? How to market yourself. Things like scholarships come to mind, Honey. ... Only kidding. Sort of.

Michael writes a lot. Right now he's listing all the Star Wars characters he can think of and find in books. Let me tell you: there are hundreds of Star Wars characters, Jedi's, Sith's, monsters, creatures, bounty hunters, droids, troopers, aliens, Hutts, Ewoks, Wookies, Mandalorians, Gungans, and so on (Michael would be so proud of me for that list right there). The movies only scrape the surface. So Michael's literally filling a notebook, page after page. I saw it. Impressive. But I hate to admit I actually flashed on the scene in 'The Shining' when they show you the manuscript Jack Nicholson's character has been laboring over for weeks, and it's like a hundred pages of the same phrase. Something else to admit: I remember doing lots of things like Michael's doing now, drawing characters, listing them, page after page, etc. I'm a little worried, of course; I don't want him to have any of the OCD issues suffered by the rest of his family.

Dad Entry #69

We had a skirmish at home recently, maybe classified as a territorial dispute or border conflict by the appropriate agencies, like in Kashmir, or Gaza, or the Korean DMZ. I mean no disrespect to the real issues in those places; but this was serious too. Michael threw the first stone. A modest volley to kick things off, he posted a 'No Girls Allowed!' sign on his bedroom door. But then he appended it with 'Crimes, seen crimes here!' or something to that effect, as, I can only assume, a threat of militancy if posted warnings were ignored. Or maybe it was an accusation of trespassing already perpetrated. Upon seeing the part about crime 'seen' / scene, I was mostly making a mental note to ensure Michael isn't sneaking glimpses of the nearly ubiquitous CSI flavors and episodes running 24/7 on cable. Michael also appended his sign with "Except for Mommy, Sam, Grammy and Grandma". (Samantha - aka Sam - is Michael's best female friend.) In need of a rapid response, Megan assembled her advisers (Daddy is Chairman of her Joint Chiefs). I convinced Megan it wasn't an act of war, but, indeed, a quick and decisive reaction was warranted. So Megan returned fire. Per her instructions, I told her how to spell out "No Boys Allowed!", and since getting that part down was kind of a slow process, I penciled in myself, "Only Daddy". Megan's 'L's' were upside-down but we left it; it seemed to add a sort menacing insanity to her message. Megan's sign was posted on her bedroom door under cover of darkness at around 19:30 hours that same day. She did not encounter the enemy, although she used way too much tape. Megan was pleased. And Michael felt good about flexing his muscles a bit too. I don't blame him. He needs his space.

Megan was telling me how Michael doesn't let her play his DS. He let Alissa play it, and Sam, and that irked her a little. She mentioned the girls specifically, maybe for that reason, because Michael lets Michael Sylvestri play his DS and he wasn't similarly implicated. Megan said, "We need to send Michael to sharing school. He needs to go to a class to learn how to share. He only shares with Alissa. He shares none stuff with me. Michael needs to go to class to learn how to be nice to me, right Dad?" We talked about it for awhile. Among other things, I assured her Michael loves her dearly, and, "A lot of people could do better at sharing." And yes, we need to work on Megan's use of the word 'none'.

Michael grows an inch a month. He's going to be a physical force. And he claims to be 11-0 on Papa's Nintendo Wii boxing. I told him, "Don't even talk to me until you've knocked down Mike Tyson in Punch-Out." No, that's not like Pong or Atari; it's Nintendo also, just an older version. And maybe it takes more skill to fire a musket than an AR-15. When Michael's around 20, and I'm a spry 40-something, I'm gonna so take him to school. Batting cages. Golf course. Shooting range. The bar. The bball court. I'll be like, "Are you even trying? Are you gonna guard me at all? And your jock strap is still over there." At that point I might have to pray he doesn't just tackle me and work a little UFC-style ground and pound. I missed him last week.

Dad Entry #68

When I read to Megan at night, she leans in and sometimes lays her head on my shoulder. Yes, it’s a slice of heaven. Although last night, while I was reading, I sensed her eyes were no longer on the pages, and I felt her breath on my ear. She was closely inspecting the side of my head. She said, “Daddy, your hairs are turning white.” I cringed. Sure, I’m still youngish, but I’m 30 years to the month older than Megan. Three decades. That’s a bit lengthy in terms of life experiences, movies, music, politics, fashion. We are on opposite slopes of the hill called youth. I recovered and said, “Yes, but with every white hair I get a little wiser.” She didn’t bother to ask me what that meant.

Michael is off to Minneapolis this week. All by himself. Actually, with grandparents; he’s only about halfway in years to hot-roddin’ alone. Halfway?! To 16?! Time flies. Yes, this is Michael’s second year without Mom, Dad, or Meg for an entire week. We miss him – Meggie does especially – but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate. At least one homesick call would be nice; I know he’s kept busy and entertained but one night of troubled sleep? One impulse to ask for an earlier return? Nope. He wants to stay longer. This year I think Michael is a nice distraction for Grandma and Papa, also. Because we have very sad news: Beller Feller has passed. Michael really struggled with this. But in a bedtime prayer he asked God and Aunt Maxine to take care of Beller. Cool. Megan, however, hasn’t grasped the permanency of it. Spoken like a four-year-old, very matter-of-fact, Megan told me, “Belle is dead.” I know, Baby. But only seconds later she asked, “Can we see Beller next time we’re in Minnesota?” Umm, no Sweetheart. How do we explain this to you? This confusion was maybe a blessing, as Sara reported that Megan took the news without tears and consoled Michael, “Don’t cry, Michael.” Michael cried anyway. But Papa clarified that, truthfully, it’s not permanent after all; Belle is only gone until we see her again in heaven.

Megan doesn’t eat much at dinnertime. We don’t allow her a bedtime snack if she only picks at her dinner. Rarely does she even ask for one. But then she’ll wake Sara or me at 6AM begging for breakfast. When we give her something an hour or more later – we aren’t going to commence or reinforce a practice of eating, even a snack, at sunrise – she will eat a ton. If we let her, she might inhale 2 bagels, with some fresh fruit, and a yogurt, and then she'll take interest in what I'm eating and steal half of that. And this all before she asks for waffles. No kidding. Our Skinny-Minnie can fit a lot in her tummy. But then she’s pretty satiated for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and the cycle repeats itself. We’re working on it.

Megan collects leaves. She notices them, admires them, picks them up and hands them to me. Even the lushest, greenest ones will dry and disintegrate in my pocket, or on the counter. So I toss them back in the yard when Meg isn't looking. But let's hear it for nature; there's a lot of wonderful stuff out there. A toad in the grass? To Michael there's nothing more interesting. A turtle by the pond? Megan is astounded. Cicada shells, seashells, Merle the Squirrel, Fat-Bee? A swarm of ants in a sidewalk crack? Dinosaurs, sharks, volcanoes and so on. When do we become desensitized? Even speaking this way comes off as preachy or cheesy to anyone older than Michael. Oh well. My kids have reframed, enlivened, reanimated these things for me. For the moment anyway. But I'd still rather watch ESPN than National Geographic. And I hope M&M agree with me.

Ploehn Pool Party and Reunion 2010!

The Land of Oz

What is better than having a pool at your disposal? We are all brownberries after spending every day in the water at Grammie and Papa's house.

Dad Entry #67

Meggie told me she wants to go on another ‘Daddy Date’. Just the two of us. Aw shucks, what a sweetheart. Although, seriously, when she mentioned it, my heart leapt. I love her. And, naturally, she will not date anyone else until she's 30. After which I will surrender to established family wisdom. Actually, law. It’s family law. Legislated, sans gavel or vote but spoken with incontestable authority by my grandfather, the Honorable Byard Cox, to his daughters Denise and Diane. He told them, “You can date when you’re 30, but only if your husband says it’s ok.”

Honestly, I might loosen up and let Megan date before she's 30 years old. But her Godfather, Josiah - formerly a bouncer and undefeated professional MMA cage fighter - will chaperone.

And Greg will be sitting in the next booth. And Jim outside with 500 horsepower idling. And Dave flying air support. Yeah, I know. It's a bad cliche. A dead horse. "Answer the door with your shotgun," and, "Make sure you're oiling your guns when he stops by." Silly. Should I tell Dave we won't need air support?

There is really nothing cuter in the world than Meggie asleep in the car. But it’s a bit scary too. Her head tilts at extreme angles, occasionally rolling from shoulder to shoulder, chin on chest. I drive carefully to prevent what I’m sure will be upper spinal cord or disc injuries if I even change lanes. Of course, driving carefully on the interstate outside of Chicago is difficult. The cars and trucks around me accelerate, then slow down, then toss the finger at me and everybody else, then angrily race and chase each other while otherwise weaving all over the place.

So watching Meggie sleep in her bed is cute too. I know Sara and I are both fond of this ritual. We just check on her, maybe straighten a blanket or contorted limb, or remove whatever is directly obstructing her open-mouthed breathing. I swear sometimes she’s inhaling a corner of a blanket with every breath. For at least a tiny instant I think, Good God, she’s suffocating! Then I think, Relax, she’s fine, zillions of people sleep every night with pillows or blankets near their mouths. And then I move the pillow or blanket anyway.

Megan and Michael are both terrific swimmers. Especially Michael. Scholarship? Navy SEALs? He’s very comfortable in the water. No surprise, given his pedigree. Both kids are fine in the deep end. Michael prefers it. More room to dive. Megan is ok with it, although maybe I’m not (see the paragraph above). But Megan stays close to the edge of the pool. Or to me. She can jump in and paddle right back to the edge by herself. No assistance. Then she climbs out and does it again. And again. Same with Michael. They will do this forever. And sleep very good that night. I remember never refusing an offer to swim. And never wanting to stop, even as our lips turned blue, as the temperature and sun both dropped. Michael will dive down and swim around the bottom, and grab at my legs. I don’t mind, even when he scrapes me with a nail or pulls out leg hairs on accident. What I mind is when he surfaces nearby and starts swimming away and kicks me square in the trunks.

I learned something at Alissa’s First Communion. It was a longer service than Megan is used to, and she got crabby and restless. She wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t listen to whispered admonitions. She pushed my hand away when I placed it on her – gently but firmly (I’m destined for politics) – to counter some squirming and let her know I meant business. In summary: a storm was brewing. I wouldn’t say Megan has public outbursts, but on rare occasions her antics have escalated to removal from the premises for a more focused talking-to. Well… I noticed that nothing quells a threatening naughty spell from your own four-year-old like a tantrum by somebody else’s. The little girl in front of us melted down and was carried out kicking and screaming and taking swings at her mother. It was an impressive display. Most of us around the girl, including Megan, watched in awe, alarmed, or relieved we weren’t involved, or something. Megan was pretty subdued for the remainder of the ceremony.

The Hellfires of Texas Part I

The Hellfires of Texas Part II

Dad Entry #66

I took Megan to school and must’ve deviated from the usual route. She said, “Daddy, you’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Oh, okay, can you show me how to get to your school?” She said, “Yes, I will show you when I see it.” And she did. I kept driving and she was quiet until she could see her school about a block away. Then she said, “Turn here,” at the corner in front of her school, and then, “Turn here,” at the entrance to her school. Gee, thanks. She’s cuter than a GPS screen, I’ll give her that.

Michael is a thinker. Quite often when I ask him something… crickets. Nothing. I don’t think he’s ignoring me; he’s deep in thought. When I finally get his attention, he cheerfully answers me.

Shoes-on-the-wrong-feet sightings are way down. I think Megan finally has it. Even with her pair of slip-on-tennies that are pretty close to indistinguishable. Identical twins we might call them. Although not really. The left shoe is noticeably left. And right, right. It was mildly concerned that Mego was still mixing them up only weeks ago. But I know it’s only because she’s in a hurry to get outside and have fun! Even if it’s a pair of sandals she has wrong and her feet are screaming, “Ouch! Whoa!” with every step.

I’ve mentioned this before; I’m feeling the crush of the ‘Megan Countdown’. The time to extinction of common things like a snotty nose and crumb-covered face. Coloring books, cartoon-covered pajamas, little shoes. Poorly painted nails. Princess dresses and costume jewelry. Band-Aids on every nick, every blemish. Not-very-serious tears. Bath toys. Small baseball gloves. Pink baseball gloves. A little person who clings to me – literally, with her arms around my leg – when strangers get too close. A sweet voice that says, “Daddy.” A little body that doesn’t fill the seat at the movie theater. Or on an airplane. Mini-legs dangling from chairs that suddenly look oversized, like thrones.

I am in China again. While I’m here, M&M are going to visit aunt Gretchen in Houston. Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Texas?!” No Sweetheart. I wish!

A Cartwheel (Air Quotes)

Higher

An Old Favorite

Dad Entry #65

One of my fondest memories of being Megan's dad will always be the scene in the truck stop bathroom. No, I'm not after cheap laughs here with bathroom jokes. I simply find it funny - and touching - when I have to bring my itty-bitty, cute-as-a-button little girl into the truck stop men's restroom. It still happens - we drove to Minnesota last weekend - since Megan can't 'hold it' for 7 hours and I can't go into the ladies room. (It'll be a while before I let Megan go anywhere, even the women's restroom, by herself.) The experience is a bit different these days, but early on, over a year ago, it was Megan and I in a stall, me holding her over the toilet, trying to make sure she didn't pee on her little undies or pants that were pulled down, or somehow on her shoes. Megan would gleefully try to look between her legs - in the beginning it was a novelty to go on the 'big potty' like a 'big girl' - which made it hard for me to hold her back far enough over the seat. I learned that too far forward meant she'd need a change of clothes. Now that Megan's a seasoned four-year-old, she goes into the stall alone, but only after I select the cleanest one, inspect it thoroughly, wipe it down, and advise her not to touch ANYTHING... as I've always done. And although it's very cute, it wouldn't be so memorable if not for the sudden clash, the striking incongruity, that registers with me the moment Megan speaks. That sweet little voice in the otherwise quiet truck stop bathroom. "Look Daddy, I did it," she might've said a year and a half ago, loud enough for everyone to hear. Of course I had to respond, also, "Yes you did! Good job, Baby!" And truthfully, early on, I was delighted she was out of diapers. Now I take it for granted. The truck drivers are always a bit grisly; nothing against truck drivers, but they are usually bearded, hatted, tired, and disheveled or shuffling around in a daze after countless hours on the road. And this bright, sweet voice kind of pierces the quiet fog hanging over the men's room, "Daddy, I can't reach the toilet paper." You are bonded forever with the beautiful, dainty creature you escort into this place.

Michael is there too, and that's cute also, we had moments like our first time using the urinal, but it never seemed so funny, or out-of-place, as it does with Megan. Soaping, rinsing and drying hands - and not obstructing the path of a driver who needs to go badly after 10 hours of driving - are also part of it with both kids. But Megan's loud, sweet voice there is quite a memory-maker for me.

It's an old cliche, but Megan is truly a 'good little helper'. She is eager to help cook, water the plants indoors, pot flowers and vetables outdoors, and so on. She wants to be a doctor or a nurse (some of you may recall her ongoing fascination with 'body books' about human anatomy). She told me that doctors wear gloves. I asked her what other things doctors wear (I was maybe looking for white coat, surgical mask, or stethoscope) but Megan said, "Nothing. They just wear gloves."

We play T-ball in the front yard. The kids were alternating, one would hit and the other would help field, then they'd switch. Finally Michael said, "We should let Daddy hit some too." Megan said, "Oh, no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa." I'm not sure why Africa was on her mind, but she's been to some of my softball games; she knows I can hit it pretty far I guess. Like out of the park and into the trees. A lot of guys in my league can do that. But it made me feel good when she said it! Of course, Megan 'giveth, then taketh away', because later that night she was brushing my hair - something she likes to do now - and she started giggling and said, "Daddy, you have a bald spot back here." Thank you, Darling. Did you notice all the grey, too?

Bublé Bath

Guess which one got soap in her mouth?

Conversation

Michael: Happy Almost Mother's Day, Mom!

Me: Well, Happy Almost Mother's Day to you, too, Michael!

Michael: What? I'm not a mother!

Me: Well without you, I wouldn't be a mother.

Megan: Michael can't be a mother. He's going to be a daddy. And I'm going to be a doctor.

Dad Entry #64

Michael was a little irritated that I traveled to China again for over 2 weeks. He wasn’t very talkative on Skype; I could tell he was bummed. And I love him for it. I missed him like crazy. Maybe I’m flattering myself; maybe he didn’t miss me tons and was only preoccupied with Star Wars Legos or his Nintendo DS when I called. But I remember, when I was a little older than Michael, missing my Dad when he traveled for work; Papa Mike was a traveling salesman, still is, albeit at executive levels now. He probably doesn't fly coach anymore like I have to.

I bought Michael a Nintendo DS game from the Silk Market in Beijing. I bartered and got a good price for it. Then I prayed it would work. It is notoriously risky to purchase electronics, movies, and games there. Countless salespeople agressively hawk everything under the sun in aisle upon narrow aisle of shops, stalls, and glass counters. When something works, it's a great deal (if you bartered well, which is a contest I think most sellers respect and enjoy as much as the buyers). And usually it works. But sometimes, no. Michael's game worked. Phew. And he really liked the one I picked (Star Wars: The Clone Wars). Cool.

Sara told me what Michael said from the top of the Sears Tower. Looking out from the skydeck over Chicago, he said, “I cannot believe that God has all this under control.” Awesome. He said it as an affirmative statement. The same sentence could mean otherwise; but by his inflection – Sara confirmed there was a kind of awe or appreciation in his tone – he meant God has things under control, it’s just hard to fathom when you’re looking out over one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world. What a deep thinker. Unfortunately, he’s going to give himself a headache, and a heartache, and a soul- or spirit-ache too, thinking so deeply. But Michael must agree with Socrates. “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I look forward to growing old with Michael and talking about these things. Hopefully we inspire each other, rather than become grumpy, old cynics. We will. Inspire each other.

Megan made a sort of deep observation too. See told me via Skype, “I can count in my brain.” Then she added some clarification with, “I can count inside my brain.” I knew what she meant the first time. In a way, she has identified her inner voice. She can count, and speak, inside her brain. Words don’t have to escape her lips. Words can just stop, or stay, inside her head. Very good. It’s important to learn this. (Some people never do!) This brings to mind all kinds of thoughts about our inner dialogues, our compassionate or critical inner voices – hopefully the latter – and our explanatory styles for life events as it relates to our levels of optimism (the quality positive psychologists are now saying is most revelatory or indicative of the amount of success and fulfillment a person experiences). How optimism, success, and fulfillment are determined objectively, I don’t know. But it sure sounds good! Let's hear it for optimism! I hope M & M are optimists.

During a Skype call, Megan said, “Daddy, I wish I could pull you through the computer!” Me too! Why haven’t we figured that out yet? Teleportation. Didn't Star Trek pioneer this travel method decades ago? Video calls are like so 2007. Although, seriously, I bet there are scientists out there really looking into 'beaming' people around. I think I read somewhere they can teleport electrons now. Maybe atoms. There's no way engineers will figure it out for humans, will they? I volunteer Uncle Scott and Uncle Jake for the first human trials of this amazing technology.

Megan cut her finger the day I left for China. It bled like crazy; blood was running down here fingers past her wrist. She cut her finger with what she later indicted as 'naughty scissors'. She said, “They are some naughty scissors, they snipped off the pad on my finger.” Indeed, they cut off a perfect circle of tissue, rather deep, from the end of her finger. Sara took her to the ER where they used some kind of synthetic skin, that adhered but later fell off, to patch her up. Megan officially hates the ER now since they also gave her a tetanus shot during her visit. “They stuck it in my shoulder,” she told me. I know. Ouch.

While Skyping from China, I panned my webcam so the kids could see out my hotel room window. I was on the 15th floor. Looking down at the traffic zooming by outside, and the distant people and bikes below, Megan asked, “Daddy, how do you get to the bottom in China?” I told her I use an elevator. But the perspectives and questions about new things from kids are always interesting. Hey, it was a good, practical question. I didn't take the stairs. I didn't scale down the building like a rock climber; I didn't use crampons and ice axes, a rope, suction cups, or a ladder; I didn't jump, parachute, hang glide, water slide, or fly. She used the word ‘bottom’ again a little later when she blurted, “Daddy, I have to scratch my bottom.” Okay, Sweetheart, sometimes it’s best to go ahead and do something like that without calling attention to it.

Dad Entry #63

Megan loves giraffes. We were at ‘Reptile-Fest’ surrounded by snakes and lizards, and Megan said, “I wonder if they have baby giraffes here.” Sweet thing. It was a serious inquiry so I gave it a sincere answer. “No Baby, just reptiles. Turtles, frogs, gators and snakes. But this is a big gym, the ceiling is high enough for giraffes.” We were in the UIC PE building (University of Illinois at Chicago Physical Education). Meggie knows what a reptile is, and therefore knows that a giraffe is not one; I think she simply, while surrounded by animals, succumbed to a moment of hopeful delight.

Michael started T-ball again. I am in China so I missed the first practice, but Sara told me he is by far the tallest kid on the team. He’s a big dude. But a sensitive one. I think that’s a good combo.

Sometimes when I plop myself down on the couch next to Meg she says, “No Daddy, you’ll sit on my dress.” And I think, where was this concern for your princess dress when you dripped waffle syrup on it at breakfast, and wiped Cheeto cheese on it at lunch?

I mentioned this already, but Meggie can’t wait to be 6 years old. I think her observations of Michael indicate the big ‘6’ is a breakthrough year. A real milestone. I’m smiling, but I also realize the difference between 4 and 6 is a 50% increase in lifespan. That’s nothing to sneeze at. It’s the same, by that measure, as the difference between 20 and 30. Would you like me to tell you about that?! And the ripe age of 6 really did mean big things for Michael; he started 1st grade, learned to read (even ‘chapter books’!), and is at school for a full day now (Meggie misses him in the afternoons). Michael also played on a T-ball team (Meggie loves to play ball too), went to Minnesota by himself for several days with Gramma and Papa, and possibly has other unique privileges or status I just can’t perceive or understand, even when I try to think like a 4-year-old. You bet, easy for me. But whatever the hierarchy or progression – or giant chasm! – that separates a 4- and 6-year-old, Meggie is feeling the gravity of it; she wants badly to cross, to leap! She says, “I want to be 6.” I know, Sweetheart, I want to be 25. When does it change, anyway; when do we go from wanting more years to wanting less?

Dad Entry #62

Recently, in a cookies induced euphoria, Megan announced, “I don’t like to be naughty anymore. I like to follow your guys’s rules.” Excellent. Meggie’s not really that naughty, but I assured her I support the new policy.

Sara mentioned Megan’s inquiry about ‘buggers’. That was the cutest part. Not boogers. Buggers. She consulted Mommy before approaching me. So she wasn’t asking anymore; she was teaching. It seems kids go fast from ‘asking’ to ‘knowing’, from unaware to expert; and then they teach. They share. Especially important stuff like the origin of buggers. ”Daddy, did you know that God put a machine in your nose that makes buggers? It has the special power to make buggers and drop them down your nose.” Sara rightly told her that our bodies make them, but Meggie wanted a more spectacular answer, one with direct divine involvement. I love that about her, she likes to reference God when discussing how things are created. Even buggers.

Megan is pretty tech savvy for a 4-year-old. She puts puzzles together and plays games on my Motorola / Google phone (did I just make a plug for my company?), which requires finesse with the touch screen and menus. She can navigate back to a game if she hits a wrong key. This is good, as I don’t want her calling, texting or emailing gibberish to a high level manager at work.

"Daddy, look at me!" These are fun words from Megan, followed by some goofy or inventive display, acrobatics or contortions or some breathtaking adornment of princess jewels around her neck, wrists and head.

I love it when the kids talk about Christmas in February. And not the one that just happened. Michael started his 2010 list. And he’s a good writer. It’s a detailed list. I guess there’s no harm in documenting your favorite toys in March; the list can be edited in December. Megan tells me she'd write a list but, as she very deliberately explains, “I’m only 4 and don’t how to write yet, but when I’m 6 like Michael I’ll know how to write, so I’ll write a list then, but right now I’m only 4, so I can’t write one.” I know, Sweetheart, some day you’ll be a terrific writer, just like Michael. For now, we help Megan, but she can write letters, so really we only have to spell for her. As for other holidays, we talk about Halloween in March, too. Only days ago Michael said he’s going to be Harry Potter this year and Megan plans to be Ahsoka from Star Wars. Woo-hoo! And Megan talks about her birthday – only 6 months away – almost daily now, albeit as a threat to anyone she takes issue with. She’ll say, “Daddy, can I play Bubble Burst on your phone?” And when I say no because it’s bedtime, she frowns and says, “If you don’t let me play, then you can’t come to my birthday party.” Then I tell her, “Oh, darn, I was going to bring you the biggest, greatest present in the whole wide world, but if I’m not invited….” So Megan withdraws her threat. Until the next day when she uses it on me again for telling her she has to wear something warmer because it’s chilly outside.

Reptile Fest

Whoever thought I'd be down with this? They loved it. That yellow one? An enormous albino burmese reticulated python. Why not?!

Happy Easter!

Two Zoo Kids

Taking Megan to the zoo is the best. Well, taking BOTH kids to the zoo is the best. Taking Meg HOME from the zoo is another best. In the car, she nearly always passes out (this child is not a sleeper, either), defining gravity and defying skeleton-ity. It's so funny. I will try to scrounge up one that I have gotten with my phone cam while driving 65 mph. Here she is after I lugged her in and tossed her on a couch.

Location: Megan's bed

Situation: Snuggly, cozy bedtime, just before sleep.


Megan: Mommy? Where in my body do I keep buggers?

Me: Um...do you mean boogers?

Megan: Yes, my buggers.

Me: Well, honey...you really don't have a place that you KEEP them. Your nose just MAKES them.

Quiet pondering.

Megan: So God couldn't figure out a place to keep them, so He made a machine to make them?

Me: Yes, Meg.

Bang Bang

I got a wild hair (get it?!) and for the first time, I cut bangs. On Megan. I will probably take her in to my stylist to help them out a little in the next day or two. Maybe she can teach me how to do it for next time.

Dad Entry #61

Megan’s hair is long; it makes her head seem big when it’s tousled a bit, with a little breakfast stuck in the ends somewhere, falling over narrow shoulders, long but not long enough to cover her skinny-mini body and her pancake-flat bottom. Her bottom is visible because too often she runs around in nothing but a cute pair of undies with cupcakes or mermaids on them. Cupcakes, mermaids, princesses. It's sad to think how someday soon her socks won’t have Tinkerbell on them, no bunnies on her jammies. She has a nightgown with Ariel on it. What will happen to Megan’s ‘footie pajamamas’?!?! Her painfully gaudy, over-accessorized princess get-ups? Some day her undies won’t have 'Cute Chic' printed on her butt. At least they better not!!! I suppose she won’t carry a handbag with Polly Pocket dolls in it to junior high school, or wear her 'My Dad Rocks!' shirt in that phase when it's not very cool to be seen with your parents. Speaking of handbags, Meggie loves to put things in purses, pouches, or any kind of container she can lug around all day. I’ve noticed this ‘purse habit’, if I can call it that – likely embedded instinctually in cavewomen gatherers a zillion years ago – is alive and well in my own 21st century offspring. My sweet Meg-Pie will even ask for and put things in an empty mayonnaise jar – if one is suddenly available and rinsed – and carry that around all day.

My friend John Malina and I were chatting; he has Abby, a darling little daughter like Megan. He said, yep, it won’t be long until they realize we aren’t quite the rock stars they think we are. Right now we’re the Superman in their universe, all big and strong and smart, but they’ll notice soon that maybe we’re more like Clark Kent. No cape. Not made of steel. But my Godmother, Donna, reminded me last week how special it is to be the father of a daughter. Sadly, Donna sent out a note on the first anniversary of her father’s passing. She said some amazing things about 'the first man she ever loved, how much she misses him, the man who made her feel safe, who never insulted her, who was an island of calm and reassurance.' I thought it a tremendous reminder of the gift, the duty, the privilege. Thanks, Donna. Sorry, this is heavy stuff. I do wish I was faster than a speeding bullet. How useful for basketball and softball. Not so much for golf, though.

Lately, we’ve been playing what the kids call ‘Sidious’. This is in reference to the Star Wars character Darth Sidious. He is the baddest of the bad guys. So I am expected to fill that role, chasing the kids around, attacking them in mock light saber battles with spins and slashes while emitting full-on sound effects to the point where my mouth gets dry and I need water. When I am wounded, or drop my weapon, I grab my 'enemy' which allows me to snuggle one of them a little. I can also practice jujitsu holds and chokes on my severely outweighed opponent. No, I don’t hurt them. But the hard part is, in the process of our battling, I’m also expected to hoist the kids over my head. And drop them on the bed. Over and over again. They love it so won’t settle for less than 10 reps. Apiece. Michael’s heavy; it’s a workout. Cleans and presses. Even Meggie isn’t so easy to lift and twirl and flip around anymore. Or I have to throw them over a shoulder and carry them to the ‘Jedi dungeon’ under the stairs. Apparently it’s fun, this game called ‘Sidious’, because I say, “Come on Michael, lets just shoot some hoops now for awhile,” and he says. “No, I wanna be Kit Fisto next, and Meggie is Master Luminara,” – yes, I know who these Jedi characters are – and then Meggie says, “No, I wanna be Ahsoka,” who, of course, is Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan (aka apprentice), everybody knows that, and so this game called ‘Sidious’ begins again and I swear the kids could play forever and not get tired of it.