I am reading the autobiography of Craig Ferguson. He's Scottish. I love the Scottish, their humor, their ridiculous accent. And their teeth aren't that bad. The weather sucks though; it's rainy and miserable in Scotland almost always. I had some great times in Edinburgh for work. In between F-bombs and jokes and spotty recollections of spectacular benders, Craig said some things about parenthood that are, well, worth plagiarizing here, except I already blew it and gave him credit. He wrote, “My son came into the world a sticky, angry, and slightly confused mess…. Anyone who has been present at a birth knows how weirdly adrenal the whole event is. Up to that moment my child had been an abstraction, then suddenly he was real and the world had changed beyond recognition. Now there was someone I would unthinkingly lay down my life for, and I felt a massive, uncontrollable, powerful, feral love.”
He also said – and this is coming from a celebrity, an actor, a Hollywood personality! – “When you become a parent, you go from being a star in the movie of your own life to becoming a supporting player in the movie of someone else's.”
My words now, sorry. There are lots of things I enjoy in life, but I’m not sure any match the moments when I walk into Michael’s or Megan’s room at night, and, thanks to their nightlights, I can see their faces, and I can lean in super close and listen to them breathe. I can kiss them. But mostly I stare, and just sort of admire them. They are asleep and in peaceful repose, of course, although they might stretch or turn, sigh loudly or smack their lips, and Megan is never the way you should be in bed, which is to say head on a pillow and feet pointing downward; she is usually lying across the bed, or awkwardly on a pile of stuffed animals, or contorted in some horrifying manner. I fix her. But I’m there just to admire; it’s the one time they aren’t playing with or watching something that I’d be interfering with by being all up in their grill, staring at them. Craig described parental love pretty well. The one thing I’d add is the gratitude I felt, and enormity of responsibility – two things – which were also massive and maybe sudden, the way I felt their impact, when I first met my two sticky, angry and confused messes.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Dad Entry #79
Michael scored very high on his standardized tests for reading comprehension. Mostly because he greedily hoards Pokemon cards and then deciphers and memorizes every oddball detail printed on them. We’re talking about character skills like “Elemental Blast”, “Psychic Pulse” and “Malevolent Meteor”. He seizes and visualizes the meaning of these big words in spectacular mental scenes, I’m sure, vivid and permanent. Paragraphs in some test about Dick, Jane, and Spot must bore him to tears, but he understands them perfectly. Michael has never had a skinny vocabulary. I remember years ago when he memorized the Lightning McQueen book. It was not a 5-words-per-page affair either; it took at least 10 minutes to get through. Pretty much everyone who witnessed a ‘reading’ was very impressed. And Michael performed quite a few with enthusiasm and perfect pace and inflection. Michael was closer to average for math (the other half of the two-part standardized testing), but Sara and I were pleased and proud. His lowest marks (still around average) were for measurement usage and recognition, or something like that, in the math portion. We chalked that up to poor teaching. They should use Pokemon as a teaching tool for measurement awareness, also, like, “At what distance can Aerodactyl vaporize his enemy?” That sorta thing. But we figured reading comprehension is more important than anything else for someone Michael’s age – and perhaps always – so we’re very happy for him.
I was trading parenting stories with some co-workers. We were joking about the merits of unpredictability over consistency. Some dads are unpredictable when it comes to discipline (and visceral reaction). My dad was unpredictable to some extent and I think it worked perfectly when combined with my mother's unwavering consistency. Note: the following is hypothetical; in no way am I hinting at true events that took place during the mid-80’s in the kitchen of the Cox family home in Shenandoah Estates in Crystal Lake, Illinois. So what, exactly, is unpredictability? It’s when a dad only grunts at the news of a bad test grade but then has a Bobby-Knight-arranging-chairs moment the next time a chore is neglected. We're talking about crimes that are different but of comparable severity; there's a chance Dad might only frown, but sometimes.... I don't know if it's mood-driven or whim-based or reflexive discipline, good cop / bad cop, or textbook parenting of a bygone era. Although I'm not capable of ruling this way - and psychologists might classify it as confusing, misdirected, inappropriate, or harmful - I, for one, think it's enormously effective. I think it's genius.
Feeling sick and sore, I took a bath last night. Before I filled the big tub I moved the toy basket that now holds four Barbies. Three have mermaid tails and the other is, of course, Merliah Summers, the famous Barbie surfer and star of the box office smash "Barbie in a Mermaid Tale". Merliah has legs, but in the movie I think she wears a tail. We love mermaids. I enjoyed my first episode of Hannah Montana the other day. And I recommend the film “Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue”.
A while back Megan colored on, with markers, the arm of the couch and shortly after that the carpet in her bedroom. She knows these are serious infractions. Sara and I aren't sure what triggered the vandalism. And Megan isn't forthcoming with answers or explanations when admonished; she just cries. Which is tough since she's cuter than a thousand puppies. But we punished her and my sweet little Crip hasn’t tagged anything since.
I was trading parenting stories with some co-workers. We were joking about the merits of unpredictability over consistency. Some dads are unpredictable when it comes to discipline (and visceral reaction). My dad was unpredictable to some extent and I think it worked perfectly when combined with my mother's unwavering consistency. Note: the following is hypothetical; in no way am I hinting at true events that took place during the mid-80’s in the kitchen of the Cox family home in Shenandoah Estates in Crystal Lake, Illinois. So what, exactly, is unpredictability? It’s when a dad only grunts at the news of a bad test grade but then has a Bobby-Knight-arranging-chairs moment the next time a chore is neglected. We're talking about crimes that are different but of comparable severity; there's a chance Dad might only frown, but sometimes.... I don't know if it's mood-driven or whim-based or reflexive discipline, good cop / bad cop, or textbook parenting of a bygone era. Although I'm not capable of ruling this way - and psychologists might classify it as confusing, misdirected, inappropriate, or harmful - I, for one, think it's enormously effective. I think it's genius.
Feeling sick and sore, I took a bath last night. Before I filled the big tub I moved the toy basket that now holds four Barbies. Three have mermaid tails and the other is, of course, Merliah Summers, the famous Barbie surfer and star of the box office smash "Barbie in a Mermaid Tale". Merliah has legs, but in the movie I think she wears a tail. We love mermaids. I enjoyed my first episode of Hannah Montana the other day. And I recommend the film “Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue”.
A while back Megan colored on, with markers, the arm of the couch and shortly after that the carpet in her bedroom. She knows these are serious infractions. Sara and I aren't sure what triggered the vandalism. And Megan isn't forthcoming with answers or explanations when admonished; she just cries. Which is tough since she's cuter than a thousand puppies. But we punished her and my sweet little Crip hasn’t tagged anything since.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Little Suburban Haute Couture
My darling girl, for her birthday, decided that she wanted to have a "fashion party." My children have a knack for relatively nebulous birthday party ideas and this one was no different. Gretchen and I discussed the many options of what a model-y party would look like, replete with laxatives and champagne, sucking up pixie stick lines through 100 dollar bills. Since I don't know the extent of some of the moms' senses of humor, I decided to keep those ideas on the backburner for another year (you know, for when we know them all just a little better).
Megan went to spend the morning with Grandma while I spent hours prepping the house. I rearranged nearly the entire first floor to accommodate the most dress up clothing, accessories, items of makeup and bowls of skittles possible. I then also set up a "photo studio" for the girls to model their ridiculous get-ups. Megan nearly flipped out when she got home and saw my handiwork. They all had a great time and I got some fantastic pictures of Meg and her girls. They are all so CUTE!
I should also note Megan's strange tight-lipped smile. That's all I can do...note it.
Megan went to spend the morning with Grandma while I spent hours prepping the house. I rearranged nearly the entire first floor to accommodate the most dress up clothing, accessories, items of makeup and bowls of skittles possible. I then also set up a "photo studio" for the girls to model their ridiculous get-ups. Megan nearly flipped out when she got home and saw my handiwork. They all had a great time and I got some fantastic pictures of Meg and her girls. They are all so CUTE!
I should also note Megan's strange tight-lipped smile. That's all I can do...note it.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Dad Entry #78
Yesterday, Megan told me there's a show she wants to watch at thirty-o'clock. "It's on Monday at thirty-o'clock," she said. She got the day right.
"Will you get your broccoli breath out of my face, it's devastating." Michael said that to Megan after dinner last night. They were looking at something together at the table, almost cheek-to-cheek. It wasn't a nice thing to say, but it seemed like a big word coming out of a seven-year-old mouth. And I agree you can't understate the awfulness of bad breath.
Megan wants to read 'body books' so often at bedtime I find myself missing Cinderella. "Can't we read Fancy Nancy instead, or a princess book?" I plead, cringing, as she pulls another anatomy encyclopedia off her bookshelf. "We haven't read Double Pink in a while," I add, but I've already lost; Megan is climbing into bed with her favorite pop-up human body book. Super. Mostly I'm tired of the inundation I'm getting in gross anatomy, but I also get uncomfortable when Megan asks, "What does this part say, Daddy," while pointing at paragraphs titled "Female Puberty" or "The Male Reproductive System". Then I have to improvise or dance around those parts, which I do poorly, and my audience is perceptive; it only heightens her interest.
That reminds me, Megan gave me a speech about the birds and the bees the other day. "Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?" It was one of those abrupt, 'out of nowhere' comments and I was confused. "Pipe?" I asked. She said, "Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it's a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one. And when babies come out they are covered in a super bunch of blood." Pipe? Super bunch of blood? True, about the blood; I've seen it twice. And I remember, with Michael, the doctor tossing aside the placenta, literally, tossing it into some waste container, and I thought, umm, are you sure you don't need that, it looks pretty big and important, like, maybe, Sara's liver or something. I remember a popular Farside comic depicting an operating room, and a piece of stringy organ or tissue gets flung out of the patient and flies across the room and the surgeon says, "Somebody remember where that thing lands."
For fun, I googled 'the birds and the bees'. Paraphrasing Wikipedia: "The birds and the bees is an idiomatic expression referring to courtship and sexual intercourse. The phrase is a metaphor often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about sex and pregnancy. The birds and the bees is a story sometimes told to children in an attempt to explain the mechanics and consequence of sexual intercourse through reference to easily observed natural events. Bees carry and deposit pollen into flowers, a visible and easy-to-explain metaphor of male fertilization, and birds lay eggs, a version of female ovulation." Gee, how wonderful. Flowers blooming, birds singing. And natural. And simple, it sounds so simple too, but I'm pretty sure it's always the same regardless of time, place, mood, strategy; when this talk occurs between parent and child, awkwardness and confusion reign. And attempts to sanitize the moment with terms like 'intercourse' and 'courtship' make it worse. Now I keep thinking of the line, "Let's talk about sex, bayyy-beee!" courtesy of Salt-N-Pepa, 1990. What's even crazier than me even thinking of that song is the fact it'll be over 25 years old when I have 'the talk' with M & M.
I walked while Megan pedaled a lap around the neighborhood yesterday. She looks impossibly cute in her big purple helmet and purple elbow or knee pads - they will work as either, you can mix and match, woo-hoo! The helmet is nonnegotiable. The extra pads, however, are optional but she likes to wear them. Hey, whenever possible, accessorize! Sometimes Megan can't generate the momentum or power to get up a slope, so I give her a little help, a little push. She's doing great though and I excitedly told her, "If you keep riding your bike like this Sweetie, your legs will get even stronger and you'll be a super bike-rider!" She told me, "I already am, Daddy." Oh, sorry. We'll send you to the X-games. You can win the gold medal in the BMX with training wheels event. I was happy to hear that kind of self-assurance, or confidence, or pride, or whatever it is, though. Self-esteem is so important. I don't see a shortage in Megan at the moment and I am very happy about that.
"Will you get your broccoli breath out of my face, it's devastating." Michael said that to Megan after dinner last night. They were looking at something together at the table, almost cheek-to-cheek. It wasn't a nice thing to say, but it seemed like a big word coming out of a seven-year-old mouth. And I agree you can't understate the awfulness of bad breath.
Megan wants to read 'body books' so often at bedtime I find myself missing Cinderella. "Can't we read Fancy Nancy instead, or a princess book?" I plead, cringing, as she pulls another anatomy encyclopedia off her bookshelf. "We haven't read Double Pink in a while," I add, but I've already lost; Megan is climbing into bed with her favorite pop-up human body book. Super. Mostly I'm tired of the inundation I'm getting in gross anatomy, but I also get uncomfortable when Megan asks, "What does this part say, Daddy," while pointing at paragraphs titled "Female Puberty" or "The Male Reproductive System". Then I have to improvise or dance around those parts, which I do poorly, and my audience is perceptive; it only heightens her interest.
That reminds me, Megan gave me a speech about the birds and the bees the other day. "Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?" It was one of those abrupt, 'out of nowhere' comments and I was confused. "Pipe?" I asked. She said, "Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it's a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one. And when babies come out they are covered in a super bunch of blood." Pipe? Super bunch of blood? True, about the blood; I've seen it twice. And I remember, with Michael, the doctor tossing aside the placenta, literally, tossing it into some waste container, and I thought, umm, are you sure you don't need that, it looks pretty big and important, like, maybe, Sara's liver or something. I remember a popular Farside comic depicting an operating room, and a piece of stringy organ or tissue gets flung out of the patient and flies across the room and the surgeon says, "Somebody remember where that thing lands."
For fun, I googled 'the birds and the bees'. Paraphrasing Wikipedia: "The birds and the bees is an idiomatic expression referring to courtship and sexual intercourse. The phrase is a metaphor often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about sex and pregnancy. The birds and the bees is a story sometimes told to children in an attempt to explain the mechanics and consequence of sexual intercourse through reference to easily observed natural events. Bees carry and deposit pollen into flowers, a visible and easy-to-explain metaphor of male fertilization, and birds lay eggs, a version of female ovulation." Gee, how wonderful. Flowers blooming, birds singing. And natural. And simple, it sounds so simple too, but I'm pretty sure it's always the same regardless of time, place, mood, strategy; when this talk occurs between parent and child, awkwardness and confusion reign. And attempts to sanitize the moment with terms like 'intercourse' and 'courtship' make it worse. Now I keep thinking of the line, "Let's talk about sex, bayyy-beee!" courtesy of Salt-N-Pepa, 1990. What's even crazier than me even thinking of that song is the fact it'll be over 25 years old when I have 'the talk' with M & M.
I walked while Megan pedaled a lap around the neighborhood yesterday. She looks impossibly cute in her big purple helmet and purple elbow or knee pads - they will work as either, you can mix and match, woo-hoo! The helmet is nonnegotiable. The extra pads, however, are optional but she likes to wear them. Hey, whenever possible, accessorize! Sometimes Megan can't generate the momentum or power to get up a slope, so I give her a little help, a little push. She's doing great though and I excitedly told her, "If you keep riding your bike like this Sweetie, your legs will get even stronger and you'll be a super bike-rider!" She told me, "I already am, Daddy." Oh, sorry. We'll send you to the X-games. You can win the gold medal in the BMX with training wheels event. I was happy to hear that kind of self-assurance, or confidence, or pride, or whatever it is, though. Self-esteem is so important. I don't see a shortage in Megan at the moment and I am very happy about that.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Dad Entry #77
Megan's shoes are still pretty small. Cuter objects don't exist. Megan - the entire Megan - is still pretty small; I can lift her over my head, spin or flip her easily, and hold her upside down so she can 'walk' on the ceiling. I can put her in a duffle bag and move it up and down and all around like she's in a roller coaster car. (The handles on the bag are key.) And I can catch her if she launches herself from a higher step or chair or ledge. I am very reliable as evidenced by Megan's trust; she leaps at me without warning sometimes. I actually feel an adrenaline burst as I have to instantly react and position myself for a safe and soft grab of this thing that's VERY precious to me. But - sniffle - I can't do this stuff with Michael anymore. I can pick him up and toss him around a little, tackle him, wrestle him, get him to tap out if need be. But that's about it. I don't hurt him. I know at 200lbs I'm in another weight class.
I worry about Michael being, well, a worrier. Now that is funny. Honestly, I just wrote that first sentence without any awareness of its circularity or obvious allusion to heredity, without any intention to highlight that. No kidding. So maybe he gets the habit from me, although Sara is a bit of a ruminator too. It is both helpful and harmful to be this way. More of the former, I think, but it lends itself better to certain types of careers, certain habits and ways of life in general. Surgeon: "Hmm, did I just sew up the patient with my scalpel still in there? I better make sure it's back on the tray instead." But there are numerous variables that impact, well, everything in life, so maybe we should just add it to the list. Sensitivity and awareness and analysis are important. Pain is a good teacher. But paralysis is no good. Nor is it when anxiety and depression gnaw at a person's happiness, or slowly erode their peace of mind. I can speak from experience. I'll remind Michael that motion changes emotion, I'll remind him do something productive, directly constructive to his concerns if possible, when he feels a little down. I'll tell him to get moving, literally, and keep moving, get his pulse up if he's worried about something. I find it difficult, as a parent, to consider the negative genetics I might've transmitted to my kids. It's possible I have one or two deficiencies that I passed on. And that's sarcasm at its finest if you didn't notice.
I write these things because I enjoy thinking and writing about my kids - selfish, I know, but who isn't vain and selfish, I mentioned vanity in a previous entry. Anyway, I also write these because I hope the kids will enjoy reading them someday. I tell myself it'd be cool if I had some realtime commentary scribbled over 30 years ago by my parents or grandparents. But they have tons of stories to tell, of course, and not all is lost or told through an altered, contemporary lens. And they were awfully busy working their asses off. I intend to try that too someday. We do have tons of pictures, though. And we have VHS video of when we were roughly teenagers - all 'cool' and awkward - but the reality is we don't watch it. We never watch it. And, it just occurred to me, I'm happy we never watch it. So now I'm wondering what M&M will really think about all this anecdotal nonsense I keep writing.
Yesterday the kids were singing the Lady Gaga song "Bad Romance" (I had to look up the title) with the lyrics - if you can even call 'em lyrics - "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah, rahma-rahma-ma-ahh". Poignant stuff. That's the part the kids will bust into song with at random moments, like over a pile of Legos or at the dinner table. I asked them, "Do you know who sings that song?" Michael said, "Lady Gaga." I said to the kids, "Did you know Lady Gaga wore a dress made out of meat? The whole thing was made out of raw meat, like raw steak." Megan said, "Oh, then we would have to put her on the grill!" Yes, we would. One of many moments I've been so very proud of Megan.
I worry about Michael being, well, a worrier. Now that is funny. Honestly, I just wrote that first sentence without any awareness of its circularity or obvious allusion to heredity, without any intention to highlight that. No kidding. So maybe he gets the habit from me, although Sara is a bit of a ruminator too. It is both helpful and harmful to be this way. More of the former, I think, but it lends itself better to certain types of careers, certain habits and ways of life in general. Surgeon: "Hmm, did I just sew up the patient with my scalpel still in there? I better make sure it's back on the tray instead." But there are numerous variables that impact, well, everything in life, so maybe we should just add it to the list. Sensitivity and awareness and analysis are important. Pain is a good teacher. But paralysis is no good. Nor is it when anxiety and depression gnaw at a person's happiness, or slowly erode their peace of mind. I can speak from experience. I'll remind Michael that motion changes emotion, I'll remind him do something productive, directly constructive to his concerns if possible, when he feels a little down. I'll tell him to get moving, literally, and keep moving, get his pulse up if he's worried about something. I find it difficult, as a parent, to consider the negative genetics I might've transmitted to my kids. It's possible I have one or two deficiencies that I passed on. And that's sarcasm at its finest if you didn't notice.
I write these things because I enjoy thinking and writing about my kids - selfish, I know, but who isn't vain and selfish, I mentioned vanity in a previous entry. Anyway, I also write these because I hope the kids will enjoy reading them someday. I tell myself it'd be cool if I had some realtime commentary scribbled over 30 years ago by my parents or grandparents. But they have tons of stories to tell, of course, and not all is lost or told through an altered, contemporary lens. And they were awfully busy working their asses off. I intend to try that too someday. We do have tons of pictures, though. And we have VHS video of when we were roughly teenagers - all 'cool' and awkward - but the reality is we don't watch it. We never watch it. And, it just occurred to me, I'm happy we never watch it. So now I'm wondering what M&M will really think about all this anecdotal nonsense I keep writing.
Yesterday the kids were singing the Lady Gaga song "Bad Romance" (I had to look up the title) with the lyrics - if you can even call 'em lyrics - "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah, rahma-rahma-ma-ahh". Poignant stuff. That's the part the kids will bust into song with at random moments, like over a pile of Legos or at the dinner table. I asked them, "Do you know who sings that song?" Michael said, "Lady Gaga." I said to the kids, "Did you know Lady Gaga wore a dress made out of meat? The whole thing was made out of raw meat, like raw steak." Megan said, "Oh, then we would have to put her on the grill!" Yes, we would. One of many moments I've been so very proud of Megan.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Dad Entry #76
Sometimes when Michael gives Megan a command like, "Pick up your mess, Megan," or "You need a jacket, Megan," she will say, "You know Michael, you're not the daddy." Michael backs off but I'm generally puzzled and speechless for a moment when Megan says this - even though I've heard it before - because, maybe, it still has to sink in, maybe I'm still incredulous despite seven years of parenting already; it takes a moment for me to realize I'm involved, she's referring to me, I am the daddy. That's right, I'm the daddy! I'm in charge! I'm kidding. But not entirely. When Megan name-drops "the daddy", invoking my power in a way to defend herself, a little pride flickers inside me, but also a spot of humility, and why not some anxiety too for good measure; this is a big job after all, being 'the daddy' - and it's yours, it's your job, I'm thinking - and then I have an opportunity to do the job, because it's true, Michael is correct as usual, Megan really does need to pick up her mess or put on her jacket, but I'm lost in an introspective fog, I'm overwhelmed a little, super-grateful, amused but also in awe at this obvious, undeniable, unquestionable (until they're teenagers or sooner) authority that's been bestowed upon me and is acknowledged by my subjects as fact and law in debates between them. By the time I depart "Planet Dan" - that's what my family calls it anyway - Megan has already picked up her mess or put on her jacket. Because she's a good girl. And because, yes, I'm "the daddy" and Megan knows those commands are supposed to come from me - she is precisely characterizing them that way in her response to Michael - and she knows they will come from me shortly. She just doesn't like to take orders from Michael.
Megan showed me how to take makeup off of her face tonight. She doesn't wear it often - either via Sara or her own hand (it's pretty easy to tell the difference) - but she had some on tonight. We used a clear solution from a smallish bottle and Q-tips. It was Sara's makeup remover. I was worried about getting the mystery cleaner in Megan's eyes but I trusted she knew what to do and she did. Truly I had no idea which stuff to use. Not only do men never read directions, we never read labels either. Megan excitedly told me and showed me how to do it. I cleaned her eyelids while she closed her eyes. I wiped her pursed lips. I nearly passed out from adoration. Although, she's too young for makeup, right? Yeah, nevermind, I'm pissed-off! Not really. It's a treat she doesn't get very often. She enjoys it; she loves to go all princess on us. If it reaches Lady Gaga proportions, then we'll shut it down completely for awhile. Meat dress?! Are you kidding me?!
Megan showed me how to take makeup off of her face tonight. She doesn't wear it often - either via Sara or her own hand (it's pretty easy to tell the difference) - but she had some on tonight. We used a clear solution from a smallish bottle and Q-tips. It was Sara's makeup remover. I was worried about getting the mystery cleaner in Megan's eyes but I trusted she knew what to do and she did. Truly I had no idea which stuff to use. Not only do men never read directions, we never read labels either. Megan excitedly told me and showed me how to do it. I cleaned her eyelids while she closed her eyes. I wiped her pursed lips. I nearly passed out from adoration. Although, she's too young for makeup, right? Yeah, nevermind, I'm pissed-off! Not really. It's a treat she doesn't get very often. She enjoys it; she loves to go all princess on us. If it reaches Lady Gaga proportions, then we'll shut it down completely for awhile. Meat dress?! Are you kidding me?!
Monday, September 20, 2010
Dad Entry #75
I've criticized Michael for being hard on Megan - and he is - but it goes both ways. And some days are just wonderful, like this morning, when Michael hit the mother lode; he stumbled on a forgotten stash of Pokemon temporary tattoos and generously split them with Mego. Then they gleefully set about covering themselves like Kat Von D and Jesse James (of West Coast Choppers - and Sandra Bullock - fame, not the wild west icon). Yesterday was a little different. Michael was having trouble with a stubborn button on his pants. I helped him, but Megan observed what was happening and said, "Daddy, I know how to do snaps and buttons now." Was this a jab at Michael? Perhaps. They are both skilled at poking and jabbing. What siblings aren't? Michael fired back, "Snaps are easy, Megan, everybody can do snaps." Of course, snaps weren't in the embarrassing spotlight. I couldn't tell if Megan was throwing salt or just reminded of a new skill and genuinely proud and maybe a little insensitive with the timing of her announcement. Negotiating buttons effectively is important when your favorite thing to do is dress up in multi-layered, massively-accessorized, cringe-inducing outfits. They are elaborate. They clash, they blind, and occasionally they have buttons. Regarding insults, Michael seems more aggressive to me - he is older and smarter so it only makes sense if you've ever observed humans in a rivalrous or competitive environment - although he's also more sensitive. And Megan gets in her shots too. No doubt about it. Megan will benefit like crazy from having an older sibling. I did. No question. It's huge. In the meantime, she'll have to put up with some comments I wish Michael would let go, arguments and corrections he should leave unspoken. Michael can be impressively condescending in his dealings with Meg. But he's only seven; children like to overassert themselves. So do insecure adults, unfortunately. Anyway, I have to remind Michael often that he's two years older than Megan; of course he knows more things than she does right now; of course she tells him things he already knows; of course she says things that are goofy or just plain wrong.
There is one thing, however, that gets under my skin. As I said, Michael will correct and argue with Megan once in a while - perfectly normal and she does the same to him - but when Megan cheerfully asks for Michael's attention, "Look Michael, I can jump into the chair!" or whatever, and he ignores her completely... yeah, that's the one thing. If you haven't noticed, I have a soft spot for this little creature that some say even looks like me. My heart swells a fraction at the slightest thought of her. So when she is proud and excited to show Michael something, no matter how small or silly, and he responds deliberately with... nothing, well, it tugs on my heartstrings. And my anger-strings. Michael is one of the biggest orbiting planets in Megan's solar system. The irony, of course, is that sometimes we ask Michael to ignore Megan. We purposely instruct him to pretend she isn't even there if she's trying to incite something. Irony is ever-present when you're a parent; it's ever-present when you're a person. Michael's a terrific big brother; he includes her in so many of his games; he tolerates her occasional ornery moments and spazzy behavior. He will look after her. His very presence when she is in high school will be huge. Literally. As I said before, she will benefit in a big way from having an older sibling. Especially one like Michael. I benefited; thanks, Jen.
Megan can be VERY dramatic, but, despite great enthusiasm, her antics are typically minor league stuff, your basic attention-getting efforts, crying and so on. Michael's drama is a bit more sophisticated and humorous. It comes with age, I suppose. Megan asked Michael a while back for a plastic container he was going to throw away (a plastic mayonnaise container with a big, blue, pull-off top). Michael said no. I said, "Why not, Michael?" And he answered, "Because I'd rather save the Earth than let Megan have it." Yikes! Save the Earth? That's pretty ambitious. I like it! I'm proud of you, Son! Well, Michael intended to recycle the container instead of toss it in the trash. Good for Michael, but, yeah, he came off as a bit severe, a bit righteous. Was Meggie left wondering if she had selfishly disregarded the welfare of our planet? No. Was this example all I could think of to illustrate my point? Yes. Megan seemed unphased by the implied anti-environment label Michael was pinning on her; she wants to save the whales and all that and everyone knows any accusation to the contrary is blatantly false. As for more examples of drama, I remember one time when Michael refused - and ridiculed - the meal choices I gave him (like turkey or PB&J sandwich, or mac & cheese or buttered noodles). Just like his sister does, although her complaints are more frequent than his! So I said to Michael, "Fine, I guess you'll have nothing to eat then." Michael's response: "Well, do you want me to live or die?" Live of die? No, I was not attempting to starve him. I most assuredly said, "Live," but I added, "I'd appreciate you living with a little more respect and gratitude, but I know you're just bummin' cause season two of Star Wars: The Clone Wars is over." Have I mentioned how awesome that series is? Check it out!
There is one thing, however, that gets under my skin. As I said, Michael will correct and argue with Megan once in a while - perfectly normal and she does the same to him - but when Megan cheerfully asks for Michael's attention, "Look Michael, I can jump into the chair!" or whatever, and he ignores her completely... yeah, that's the one thing. If you haven't noticed, I have a soft spot for this little creature that some say even looks like me. My heart swells a fraction at the slightest thought of her. So when she is proud and excited to show Michael something, no matter how small or silly, and he responds deliberately with... nothing, well, it tugs on my heartstrings. And my anger-strings. Michael is one of the biggest orbiting planets in Megan's solar system. The irony, of course, is that sometimes we ask Michael to ignore Megan. We purposely instruct him to pretend she isn't even there if she's trying to incite something. Irony is ever-present when you're a parent; it's ever-present when you're a person. Michael's a terrific big brother; he includes her in so many of his games; he tolerates her occasional ornery moments and spazzy behavior. He will look after her. His very presence when she is in high school will be huge. Literally. As I said before, she will benefit in a big way from having an older sibling. Especially one like Michael. I benefited; thanks, Jen.
Megan can be VERY dramatic, but, despite great enthusiasm, her antics are typically minor league stuff, your basic attention-getting efforts, crying and so on. Michael's drama is a bit more sophisticated and humorous. It comes with age, I suppose. Megan asked Michael a while back for a plastic container he was going to throw away (a plastic mayonnaise container with a big, blue, pull-off top). Michael said no. I said, "Why not, Michael?" And he answered, "Because I'd rather save the Earth than let Megan have it." Yikes! Save the Earth? That's pretty ambitious. I like it! I'm proud of you, Son! Well, Michael intended to recycle the container instead of toss it in the trash. Good for Michael, but, yeah, he came off as a bit severe, a bit righteous. Was Meggie left wondering if she had selfishly disregarded the welfare of our planet? No. Was this example all I could think of to illustrate my point? Yes. Megan seemed unphased by the implied anti-environment label Michael was pinning on her; she wants to save the whales and all that and everyone knows any accusation to the contrary is blatantly false. As for more examples of drama, I remember one time when Michael refused - and ridiculed - the meal choices I gave him (like turkey or PB&J sandwich, or mac & cheese or buttered noodles). Just like his sister does, although her complaints are more frequent than his! So I said to Michael, "Fine, I guess you'll have nothing to eat then." Michael's response: "Well, do you want me to live or die?" Live of die? No, I was not attempting to starve him. I most assuredly said, "Live," but I added, "I'd appreciate you living with a little more respect and gratitude, but I know you're just bummin' cause season two of Star Wars: The Clone Wars is over." Have I mentioned how awesome that series is? Check it out!
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Dad Entry #74
Michael has a mop like Laird Hamilton's. I should take him surfing. I'm talking about his hair, of course. It's streaked with natural blond highlights and it spills over his ears, not unlike the haircut of an English page boy. Actually, that's not fair; Michael's hair looks way cooler than that, but the fact I even notice, the fact I'm even commenting on it means, I guess, that I'm mildly old-fashioned. Oh well. My grandpas were baseball players and soldiers. They had short hair. Period. But my dad, aka Papa Mike, says, with great pride in fact, that he had longish hair when he was younger and he was quick to remind the critics in his family that... so did Jesus. Whatever, Michael looks great. And he feels great. And he's big. He's tall. Good for him. And back to the hair: I'm the first to point out there are lots of guys with crazy hair who are good at what they do - athletes, artists, adventurers - and that's all that matters. I would think dreadlocks are a burden with all the sweating and helmet-wearing athletes do, and I would think a low-maintenance, never-in-the-way cut would be best for, say, a rock climber, or even a rockstar. But I know it's quite absurd to suggest a guitarist not have long, wild, or very stylish, hair. How our heads look is an important part of our image, and who among us isn't vain? At least a little? My beloved son is no different. He claims to have an effect on women after all (see his quote below). Chip off the old block. Did I mention, however, that he's only seven years old?!
Michael might be tall, and his hair might be cool, but Sara recently noted a physical flaw. She says he can get pretty 'smelly'. His feet in particular, although at bedtime the other day I leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and a little BO wafted up from his armpits. It didn't make my eyes water or anything, but it's true; our little guy is turning into a big guy, and despite regular scrubbings, big guys can get stinky pretty quickly when they're active. Yes, Sara bought him some deoderant. Deoderant? Already? Yeah, kids grow up fast. But it's awesome.
Michael might be tall, and his hair might be cool, but Sara recently noted a physical flaw. She says he can get pretty 'smelly'. His feet in particular, although at bedtime the other day I leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and a little BO wafted up from his armpits. It didn't make my eyes water or anything, but it's true; our little guy is turning into a big guy, and despite regular scrubbings, big guys can get stinky pretty quickly when they're active. Yes, Sara bought him some deoderant. Deoderant? Already? Yeah, kids grow up fast. But it's awesome.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Dad Entry #73
Megan asked Sara recently, “Mommy, do teacher’s have birthdays?” Interesting question. The logic and reasoning framework inside a 4-year-old’s head is still rickety, or under construction, and I love to see its flimsiness exposed. This is not an indictment of my children. My kids are brilliant. For their age. So back to Megan's question: do teacher’s have birthdays? Well, teachers are strikingly human – which would imply a birthday – but they’re also figures of authority. Are they too rigid, too stuffy, to party? Are they somehow immune to the attraction of presents and fun, unlike children who are drawn like moths to light? Could a normal person ever forget or ignore their own birthday, or - gasp! - refuse the attention and gluttonous gift-giving? No way! A single step down that thought path would short-circuit a young brain. It's inconceivable. Mommy and Daddy have birthdays, so it isn't taboo or against the law or anything for adults. Was Megan's question triggered by an incomplete understanding of biology, birth, or age. No, it was more about parties and presents. But Megan loves her teachers; I don’t think it’s a reflection of whether she sees them as fun. They are kinda serious, though; would they throw a party for themselves with cake and balloons, candles and pointy hats with painful elastic chin-strings? Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake are teachers. And she knows they are really nice and fun and they celebrate birthdays. They party. So maybe this is one of the connections, one of the joists or beams, still missing from her basic logic structure, from this analogous edifice I guess I'm referring to here, the brick and mortar of which is a child's experiences, ruminations, and conclusions.
Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”
I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.
I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.
Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”
I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.
I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 05, 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.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, April 12, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Reptile Fest
Whoever thought I'd be down with this? They loved it. That yellow one? An enormous albino burmese reticulated python. Why not?!
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