He's Been First Communicized!

Shut UP Cute Ball Players

I Swear She's A Blessing

Dad Entry #96

Megan snores. Sometimes she ends up in a contorted position with her head tilted back and mouth gaped open. Then I can hear it, a little rattle in her throat. Sleep apnea? A life of fatigue and crabbiness and unrealized potential?! No, the snoring is rare; she’s usually silent as a mouse. A perfect angel. Until she gets crabby.

Michael’s bad sleeping habit – sweating – seems more frequent, and disruptive. He bundles up like an Eskimo, or a Bears fan at Soldier Field, many-layered, wrapped tight and surrounded by his comforter, blanket, sheets, another blanket, crayon pillow, and a jumble of stuffed animals. When I pull the covers back from his chin, a heat wave wafts upward, like I’ve lifted the lid from a pot of boiling water. No kidding. Steam. Then I touch his brow and it’s soaked. So is the hair on his temples. It’s like someone threw water in his face.

We were at a restaurant and a group of young women walked by. I’d say they were late teens or early twenties. Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!” Like everything Megan says - except for, “I hate (fill in the blank)!” and, well, several other things - it was super cute. The comment warmed my heart. Was it the innocence of it? The inaccuracy? The appeal, to a little girl like Megan, of such an esteemed and illustrious group as the Girl Scouts?! The cookies? I’m not sure. I know young men can do Eagle Scouts, but I’m not aware of an equivalent for young women. The comment just sort of pointed to Megan’s ‘understanding horizon’ I guess I’ll call it. Limited by age, of course. It’ll be a decade or so before she understands teenager-hood, and after that, what it’s like to be a woman, to really know what women look and feel like, what scares, inspires, and delights them. It’s a complex subject, and diverse, but there’s a book about it, a manual; it’s a billion pages long and incomplete and never been written and incomprehensible anyway.

Megan likes minty gum. She calls it ‘spicy’ gum, which is one of the fifty million things I love about her.

I already mentioned this when he tried it on, but Michael looked super-GQ in his First Communion suit. With clip-on tie, shiny black shoes, and new haircut. Stud.

Michael and Megan bicker. They joust a lot now; it brings back memories! Jen? Regardless, the other day Megan said, “I wanna marry you, Michael.” Michael responded – and I don’t know where he heard this – “Umm, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

The kids like to tell on each other, too. “Dad, Megan tried to kick me” and “Dad, Michael won’t let me play.” Cries of “It’s not fair” are common. And they threaten each other. Michael says, “Okay, you did it again so I guess I have to expel you from school.” This upsets Megan, as she enjoys playing school. She likes the fake assignments and ‘notes sent home to parents’ and field trip announcements that Michael creates and hands out to her. So Megan acquiesces – or is a tiny bit nicer – unless Michael goes too far. Then, like the other day, she’ll say, “I’m telling Mommy, and I’m gonna tell her to punish you real good!” The ‘real good’ ending made it sound less painful or punitive or something. But it gives Michael pause. The other day Megan insisted on passing Michael on the stairs. We weren’t in a hurry; it was just one of those mornings full of competition, irritation, and sniping between them. When Megan pushed past Michael on the stairs he said, “How come Megan always has to be first, even at someone else's birthday party!” Ooh, I knew immediately this was a severe charge, maybe the supreme accusation of selfishness for persons of single digit age. The Everest of indictments for self-centeredness! Birthdays are sacred. Christmas is the only exception, the only day it’s okay to have more fun and more presents than the birthday boy. Although, hopefully he gets a lot of attention too. He does at our house. Did I mention Megan’s comments about the “Jesus world?” Yeah, pretty cool, fifty million and one.

Dad Entry #95

Michael and I love a show called "River Monsters" on Animal Planet. An 'angling adventurer' named Jeremy travels the world catching giant freshwater fish. They're often billed as 'man-eaters' by the show's commercials and our sensationalizing media, even when they have no teeth. But Jeremy did catch an enormous, 9-foot-long white sturgeon Jeremy on yesterday's episode. The fish are always huge. And ugly. And therefore kinda creepy. So despite any irritating trumped-up, over-produced drama, Michael and I are addicted to the show. We watch it in HD on the big flatscreen; the scenery is amazing. In Alaska - where we were yesterday :) - grizzlies nearly attacked us while we fished for sockeye salmon that turn a brilliant red when spawning. One even took a fish right off our line which prompted our guide to fire a warning shot from his 50 caliber handgun which, by the way, is like a canon. And the 9-foot white sturgeon Jeremy landed... now that is a massive freshwater fish, and only half as big as their max size. This left Michael and I wide-eyed and breathless. I wanna take Michael carp fishing in Clear Lake, where I can promise him at least a 2-3 foot fish, and one nearly as unattractive as the stuff Jeremy catches. The show's a little scary for Meg - for example when Jeremy dives in a murky river in India and literally collides with a gigantic catfish - so we watch it when she's not around. During an episode on the Nile in Africa, Michael said, "Africa is an interesting place." I asked him, "You wanna go there with me sometime?" He said, "No, I don't want to get malaria," and then added, "I don't want to go through that process." I don't know if he meant the 'being infected by blood-sucking insects' process, or the fever, chills, sweating, pain and gasto-intestinal issues that are symptoms of the disease. I was mostly impressed with his use of the word 'process'. He's seven years old.

For the record, Michael's right to be worried about malaria in Africa. According to the WHO, every 30 seconds a child dies there from its effects. Of course, I told Michael he'd be fine if he visited Africa, since vaccines are being developed, and we'd treat him immediately if he showed any symptoms. I think this confounded him further... so why are so many kids dying? Why do 1 million people die annually from malaria when we have treatment? I decided not to launch into a discussion about poverty, disparity, and so on. I think Michael reads about things like malaria in his National Geographic Kids magazine. Maybe I should take it away from him!

Continuing on a serious note, I wonder if Michael will catch wind of the trendy wave of apocalyptic predictions, the Mayan calendar, End of Days, Doomsday, whatever. Didn't someone say the world would end a few days ago? Seriously, I mean someone who actually got widespread press and recognition for their prediction? It appears they were wrong. The question my dad - Papa Mike - and I like to kick around is if global threats and uncertainty are in decline now, or on the rise. Sure, there are many threats and issues now, but will any amount to the death and destruction of the World Wars, or the genocides orchestrated by Hitler and Stalin? Does the average person feel more secure now, or were they better off 50 years ago? It's difficult to consider an average, but it's really a simple question. We don't have to overcomplicate every idea, every answer. What is the direction of the world? Up or down? It seems silly to include these comments here, but hopefully the kids will read this blog someday, when they're older, and the world's a little older too. I hope any new developments between now and then are positive. But today you can scare yourself reading about terrorism and tsunamis, about Middle East dictatorships and government corruption. Entire countries are over-leveraged; the whole western world's in debt! What about global warming, and 'peak oil' with no real alternative fuels yet (at least for global transportation). Nuclear power is good for electricity, but look what happened in Japan recently? And what about 65 years ago?! Nuclear power as a weapon is terrifying, in the hands of a dictator, or a suitcase nuke or dirty bomb? What about chemical and biological weapons? Pollution and toxins? Corporate profit over people and Wall Street's insatiable gluttony? Zombies and vampires?!?! Ha, you might think they're real based on the deluge of recent movies and shows about them. One thing we can't deny: the world is faster and more developed, more technological now. And the 24-hour news cycle - and it's the 24-hour bad news cycle for sure - doesn't help raise our collective level of optimism and security. But Voltaire - that's a cheesy name for an Enlightenment era philosopher, isn't it? - said, "Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." I tend to agree. But the media spreads too much fear, as a strategy to increase reader- and viewership. It capitalizes on this notion that tragedy sells, always bias the story toward shocking, "If it bleeds, it leads." That's no good. Especially if, as a society, we want to promote a higher sense of optimism and security. Is it naive to want that? Or even worse, dangerous? Or is it healthy, and a little self-fulfilling even? I'm not sure, Michael and Megan can decide for themselves. Is the world good or bad? Even Einstein said, "The most important question any human being can ask is, 'Is this a friendly universe?'" Of course, I think the world is good; I think most people are good. But bad things still happen, and there are rotten apples that can do serious damage. Regardless of it all, most countries on the globe have cities and places that are safe. And worth visiting. I hope Michael and Megan agree; I hope they see the world. And meet many people. I hope they take a trip - safely! - to Africa someday.

Dad Entry #94

The kids love school supplies. They'd rather shop in the school supplies aisle at Target than the toy department. It’s a new obsession with playing school, I guess. Sara and I are cool with it; we figure there are worse things to be obsessed about than school. So I bought piles of pens and pencils in China and brought them home as gifts. It’s what they asked for, and they’re less expensive over there, mechanical pencils, glitter markers, highlighters, Post-it notes, and so on. Again, better it be school and art supplies than other things they could ask for like candy or cheap plastic toys or weapons. Michael hasn't asked for Chinese throwing stars yet. Or nunchucks. But it won't be long; I gave him a deck of cards with 54 different images of Shaolin Monks doing Kung Fu. HI-YA! I will introduce him to Bruce Lee soon. And Donnie Yen.

Michael and his 2nd grade class - and Megan too, since Mommy was a chaperone - went on a field trip to the Chicago Field Museum of Natural History. So last night Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn’t wear underpants?" I said, “Really, that's interesting, how do you know?” Megan said, “I saw it at the museum on Michael’s field trip, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked.” Megan must've really studied the hieroglyphic symbols and drawings at the Egyptian tomb exhibit. But then I thought, Were the man's private parts depicted somehow, in that weird Picasso-esque 2-dimensional drawing style, commonly used by Egyptian artists? And then I thought, Why couldn't the Pharaoh find someone who could draw with more of a 3-D rendering effect? And then I thought, Megan gets her ADHD from me, obviously. Whatever, at least the stick figure drawing with male private parts was not anatomically confusing for Megan, like, say, the drawings of Egyptian men with dog heads. Uh-oh, I just teed that up for the ladies, didn't I? A man with a dog head isn't confusing at all... yeah, yeah.

Michael knows how to use Microsoft PowerPoint. No kidding. He said he knew how and when I was incredulous, he said, "I'll show you." So I opened PowerPoint on my PC and handed it to him and he proceeded to create a slide about Megan. He selected a layout and design, then he entered some text about her favorite things and added a clip art image. Wow. He's going to sit me down soon and project a few slides on the wall, or maybe route it via HDMI to our flatscreen, where he'll use a laser pointer to walk me through a presentation in PowerPoint complete with a spreadsheet and graph of the payment schedule he's proposing for the big allowance he deserves, with competitive bids and valuations and accounting for the chores he'll perform, followed by a pareto of how he'll spend the money. My son. He's very cerebral. I was giving him some reminders about baseball at his game on Saturday, in between innings. Michael played 3rd base and afterwards I pointed out to him, "Hey man, when the ball is hit to someone else, remember to cover your base. Especially if there's a runner on 2nd, he might advance to 3rd and someone might try to throw him out there." Michael's eyes were glazed over halfway through my comments. He wasn't interested. But... I bet if I gave him a baseball rulebook, he'd devour it and before long spout things like, "Dad, did you know there's something called the Infield Fly Rule, to prevent infielders from dropping pop-ups on purpose so they can turn double plays. Without this rule, a defense could drop a pop-up with runners on first and second, and turn it into a double play because the runners have to stay close to their bases so they won't get doubled-off, but then they can be easily forced-out at 3rd and 2nd base if the ball is dropped." Yes, Michael, I know, I played in the infield in something like 500 baseball games.

Bunnies and Babies

My sweet babies nearly fainted when they found that the Easter bunny had left eggs in their ROOMS (how did we not HEAR him?!) There was only a few moments of tears fighting over eggs, but everyone shared very well in the end. It's lovely that I have one choc-oholic and one straight sugar craver.

Dad Entry #93

Protective cups are required this year in Michael's baseball league. We explained to him, and to Megan who was eavesdropping, that it will protect his private parts. Megan was jealous; it's another activity or object that Michael - just because he's older - gets to participate in or possess before her. Megan said, "Well, I need one too, because my privates were burny the other day." She clarified it was the 'burny' feeling one gets from soap (we covered this shocking discovery in a previous entry). We explained that cups protect boys from a different kind of trauma. “They’re not really designed for girls,” I said, imagining their shape. Could I be more vague if I tried? Poor Meggie; I think she still wants one. I can't decide if it's because she likes baseball – she absolutely likes sports and is good at them – or because she views the cup and special holster-like underwear as another fashion accessory, sporty, unique, wearable over tights. With matching belt, scarf, shoes, jewelry... BAM!

The other day I heard, "Daddy is always happy." It was Megan's voice in the backseat and she said it again, "Daddy is always happy, Michael." I don't know what happened or what Michael said to get that response. But I was, well, happy to hear Megan say that.

Megan and Michael both had baseball / t-ball pictures Saturday. Michael's been through it before but it was the first for Mego. She was proud. So cute. She wore her baseball hat all weekend. My heart just about explodes whenever I think about it.

The route to Beijing usually takes us over the North Pole now, which is where I am as I type this, in seat 23B of a 777. I’m daydreaming how wonderful it’d be to have Megan on my lap now, sleeping peacefully (it just became an impossible dream), her soft hair under my chin. Maybe I could hold her dirty little hand. Even I cringe at the sight of her jagged cuticles and dirty nails after she eats anything at all. Of course, if we were snuggling together in this economy seat, we’d be terribly uncomfortable, crabby as hell, smashed and sweaty. We’d be smashed in the spatial sense, not via alcohol, although that can be arranged for free on international flights. For me, not Meg, of course, although a little sedative for Meg would be required FOR SURE on this 13 hour flight. She would go postal. Actually, in my daydream I just moved her to her own seat; her bony bottom was charlie-horsing my thigh every time she shifted, which was every 10 seconds. For 13 hours. This trip, door to door, is kind of an endurance test. Michael would do okay I bet; I can imagine him right now seated by the window, looking down at the Arctic Circle, or Siberia, or wherever we are, imagining it was Hoth, pretending the giant AT-AT walkers were tromping through the snow on their way to crush the rebel base (see ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ if none of this rings a bell). I mentioned to the kids this morning that we fly over the North Pole. Megan got pretty excited. I told her I’d look for Rudolph and that red-suited fat guy. I’m sure you can see it from space, Santa’s massive compound, all lit up, the toy factory and elf dormitory and reindeer stable. There must be confectionaries, a sleigh repair and auto body, a chocolate factory, a Starbucks. Regarding my latest trip to China, Megan asked me, “Do you talk Chinese?” I said, “No.” She said, “Dad, that’s bad.” I remember the rhyme. Megan continued, “How are they gonna tell you where the chocolate bunnies are, and the Pokemon cards, if you can’t find them at the store?” Yes, Easter is here and Megan wants chocolate bunnies… from China. Ha. I don’t think they’re really big on Christianity – or Easter – in China. I’ll find some chocolate for sure, because, as I told Megan, “Don’t worry Sweetheart, Daddy has lots of Chinese friends in China who can speak Chinese.”

On the eighth day, God made Skype. After napping on day 7. Getting to see and interact with the kids via portable video is pretty remarkable. Sara moves her PC so I can ‘be with’ the kids when they’re at the table eating, at the Lego table playing, on the couch, in the bathtub, etc. We have a ‘no screens’ rule at bedtime (no Nintendo DS, no cell phone videos, no cell phone games), but maybe Sara will let me read or tell them a bedtime story from China.

Dad Entry #92

We visited Minnesota recently. The seating arrangement at meals is a pressing matter for Megan and Ellie. Who gets to sit by Gramma? (This is the most coveted place.) Then: What about Uncle Dan? Whadda we do with Papa Mike? And so on. Frenzied negotiations ensue. Important stuff. Sometimes bitterly fought over. And protested. As adults we long for the days when our biggest stressors were these kinda things.

Megan and I were discussing lucky numbers. I told her mine is eleven, because Papa Swede was in the 55th Armored Infantry Battalion of the 11th Armored Division. Megan didn't understand any of that. I said, "What's your lucky number?" She said, "One thousand!" I said, "Oh, wow, I guess we can fit that on a jersey." I think preschoolers drop big numbers like adults do big names. Megan: "I have like fifty hundred stickers." Daddy: "Oh yeah, well Steve Jobs called Papa Mike one time."

In church Michael leaned over and said to me, "Did you know that in a black hole, there's no time?"

I said to Michael, "Did you know if you turn off a lamp, there's no light?" Just kidding. (Nice little hint at "The Breakfast Club" there.) I never poke fun at Michael's enthusiasm for amazing things. It's awesome. He has an awesome brain!

Earlier Michael told me, "Did you know that Americans eat enough pizza every year to cover New York City... twice." He gets these cool facts from his National Geographic Kids magazines.

Megan has fun facts of her own. She told me, "Daddy, it takes 9 hours to fly to Hawaii, did you know that? You have to fly, and it takes 9 hours!" (Megan's teacher went to Hawaii.) Or a couple days ago when we were driving Meg said, "Did you know there are trucks full of pigs, and when you drive by them you can see their snouts! They all stick out! And pigs make bacon, did you know that?"

Megan has had some deep thoughts lately about the 'Jesus world'. This is synonymous with earthly death for her; you die and go to 'Jesus world'. Cool. I dig it. I agree. She's in CCD or 'church school' on Sundays, plus she goes to a Lutheran preschool. And we pray and so on... I guess we shouldn't be surprised. Megan will say, "In the Jesus world we could see Belle!" Or, when Mommy threatens to take Pokemon cards away for bad behavior, and she makes it clear they are gone 'for good', the kids will never get them back, Meggie might say, "What about in the Jesus world?" While looking up into the night sky Megan asked Mommy, "So after all that space and moons and stuff, it's pretty much all Jesus world, right?"

Save The Earth

I am so proud of Michael. He really is such a cool kid. A few weeks ago, we were going to the park. When we arrived, he decided that he wanted to clean up all the garbage stuck in the winters undergrowth. Conveniently, the park we were at was across the street from the police station, so we went to ask for a bag for our clean up session. The police in the office were very impressed with Michael (of course).

We proceeded to clean up for an hour and gathered a huge garbage bag full of gunk. I was shocked that there was so much, and Michael was disappointed in the human race, that we could be so careless. He decided right then to start a club: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle Club. He came home and made posters for his friends that wanted to join, as well as permission slips so that their parents would be aware of what they had committed to. We resolved to pick a new park to clean every week this summer. How awesome is THAT, coming from a 7 year old?!

He makes my heart happy and hopeful.

Cheerleader Extraordinaire

Freakin' adorable.

Another Day at the Courts

Michael's last game in this league. They lost by two and crying boys abounded, but Michael told me he didn't even pay attention to the score. Good or bad? Michael did score, which was a great feeling as much for me as for him!

Dad Entry #91

I'm very proud of my son today. It's mostly because he's shown no signs of ending up like Charlie Sheen.

The last 2 or 3 nights I've sung Megan to sleep. I've sung her songs "from the paper" - what she calls my printouts of lyrics - until she's peacefully, blissfully REM'ing. But my sleeping beauty can still surprise me, like yesterday, when I noticed her eyelids were heavy, then closed, then her body seemed to sink, relax. Her breathing turned rhythmic, dispupted only by a series of lip smacks and a perfect, graceful snort. How sweet, I sung her to sleep. But... to make double-sure before I tip-toed out of her room I decided to repeat the same song, rather than shuffle the papers and change the melody, things that could stir the beast. Did I just call my precious little thing a beast? Yes. Yes, I did. Anyway, I was singing "What Child Is This" - Megan is young and loves Christmas carols all year round - and I was starting my third consecutive rendition, feeling proud cause I knew she was way under. But Megan squinted her eyes half open, annoyed, and said, "Daddy, quit singing the same song over and over again." Fussy people are the spice of life. Not 'variety'. We would be so bored without fussy people. Happy, and at peace, but bored.

Today Megan said, "We need to go back to the forest preserve, because I think once, a long time ago, I found a penny there." Hmmm. I guess we should boost Megggie's 'abundance mentality'.

Megan and I watch - and sometimes even do - instructor-guided exercise routines offered 'On-Demand' on cable TV. Megan asked me today, "Daddy, why do you workout?" Before I could answer she added, "Do you want to be really, really skinny like Aunt Gretchen?" You betcha!

Dad Entry #90

Megan’s such a tall, thin, Nelson-bottomed little thing I’m surprised they make jeans that fit her. But they do. Her ‘skinny jeans’ fit perfectly. It’s a fad that struck at the right time for Megan. FYI, 'skinny jeans' are a newish designer cut that makes aspiring punk rockers look silly and my sweetheart look adorable. Also FYI, a ‘Nelson bottom’ is flat. Imagine a great white shark biting off both of your butt cheeks. You would be left with a Nelson bottom.

Michael had some impressive gas today. Withering. Potent. Fear Factor worthy. Would’ve made Bear Grylls dry heave. Michael was so proud he suggested we have a ‘fart tournament’. I knocked him down a peg when I acted unimpressed that he'd made his mother and sister gag. I told him he wasn't ready for a title shot. I told him he'd be seeded much lower than both of his papas in any kind of fart march madness. And even they couldn’t take the belt from Uncle Scott. "Keep practicing, young Jedi," I advised. But I asked him to practice when I’m not around; I conceded that much.

When I hold Megan now and she puts her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulders, her legs hang almost to my knees. That, friends, is sad. Very sad. She’ll start school in the fall! Public school. Kindergarten. She's growing up too fast.

Megan says she's good at the board game Candyland. She's okay with the notion you can be good at a game that's entirely chance; she has exactly the same chance of winning as her opponents. And yet she wins more than I do, so, technically, her superiority claim holds water. One of us is easily discouraged by, say, that little bastard the Gingerbread Man who sends you backwards. He drives me crazy!!! And one of us is more sensitive to repeated losses. So I steer the game, if needed, much like dealing from the bottom of the deck in Euchre, which I did unashamedly in high school when in need of a victory against drunk rivals. Megan doesn't suspect anything, although she offers subtle suggestions like, "Daddy, you want me to win, right?" Yes, Sweetie, I do. I really do. She doesn't win every time though. It can be a tough, competitive world out there depending on the games we join; we can't forget that lesson now can we :)

It occurred to me when I was in China and I couldn't read anything around me (everything’s in Chinese characters), that it's a taste of how Megan sees the world. I see people and objects but I can't read the signs. And there are signs and words everywhere in public places; on storefronts, menus, billboards, buildings, funny T-shirts, products for sale. But I suppose – since she hasn’t learned to read in any language yet – Meggie doesn’t exactly know what she’s missing.

Michael has scored in two consecutive basketball games. I'm excited, but not about the scoring as much as the fact he enjoys doing something I enjoy also… playing basketball. Ok, that’s BS, I’m excited about the scoring too. But I think it’s fair to say many competitors and performers gravitate to activities they’re good at. They’re more likely to stick with efforts or groups they make positive contributions to. So yes, I hope Michael keeps scoring and getting rebounds and playing tough D. I hope he's the next Dirk Nowitski.

To say Megan is only a little dramatic is like saying Muammar Gaddafi is only a little crazy. Tears are a heartbeat away. Fake tears. Or sweet-voiced suggestions that are somehow transparent, or come across as shtick, an act she hasn't perfected, like this weekend when she saw a Barbie she wanted at Target and said, "Daddy, I've always wanted this for weeks." Something about that statement sounded contrived to me. And confusing. Even though I've worked in Corporate America for 15 years, where I’ve certainly been desensitized to insincerity. And confusion. You can’t fool me, Megan.

Ballin'

He Shoots...

often, but this time, he SCORED!!!! Michaels very first scoring shot of his life!

Kansas Blood

Michael has discovered the joys of bbq ribs. He clearly relishes the experience, not slowing down for facial cleansing or even a quick finger wipe.

Dad Entry #89

Michael's playing hoops! There's a referee, numbered jerseys, a scorer's table, a scoreboard, coaches yelling... it's for real, man! Michael's first step to becoming a Jayhawk. If he insists. I'll still root for the Cyclones against him. Ahh, that's not true; I almost cried watching him play for the first time (I'm pretty sure I said that during his first baseball game too). Oh well, no big deal, I want him to have fun. (And maybe shoot a thousand shots a day). Nope, I know without the fun, you can forget about a player becoming a player. Michael's team is undefeated, thanks to 3 or 4 little dudes that dribble circles around everyone. I missed the first 2 games while in China, but last weekend I watched 'em smoke a team about 40 - 10. Some of the kids played last year and clearly have an edge. Michael gets better, and more engaged, every game. He has the body for it; he's one of the tallest players in the league. He is, however - poor guy - a chip off the old block I'm afraid; suffice it to say he does not have a 'win at all costs' mentality. If the two of us can't fight our way out of a paper bag, at least we'll be in there together. Of course, plenty of cool cats do well in sports; there are mellow players, mostly unflappable, with mad skills. Am I getting ahead of myself? Watching the kids play on a smaller floor with 8-foot rims reminded me of my first games at Neil Armstrong elementary in Parkview, Iowa. Almost 30 years ago. Gramma Barb and Papa Mike were my coaches. Good times.

The other day when I told Michael I was gonna start the shower, he said, "I don't wanna take a shower."
I said, "Five minutes ago when I asked if you'd take a shower instead of a bath, you said, yes, you would take a shower."
Michael said, "Well, do you ever answer a question without thinking?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well I do too," he said.
It didn't feel like I was debating a seven-year-old. Felt more like a rebuttal from another adult, or a teenager, or a lawyer, or a psychologist. Michael ain't no dim bulb.

The kids experienced something terrible recently. Both of them. "When I pee, it's burning hot," is how my sweet Megan described it. I remember it happening when I was young. I haven't experienced it much in recent years. It involves washing. And soap. We started using real soap, bars of Dove and even real shampoo occasionally, mixed in with the 'no tears' stuff. We've had one or two episodes with the eyes, but this was the first time both kids got stung... there. I was afraid we'd never get 'em to wash again. At best only a cursory lathering of nearby regions. Stuff like, "Okay, I rubbed some soap on my thigh, so my privates are clean." That sorta thing. But I think we're over it. That's not to say things are done without caution. There's a kind of seriousness to that part of the bath now; we suspend the playing and splashing and laughing. Concentration and dexterity are suddenly paramount. And I sense a palpable relief once certain areas are cleaned without any four-alarm fires in private places.

Snow-maggedon 2011

While before the storm, weathermen were predicting that this storm could actually leave us all communists, we DID have supposedly the third most snow in Chicago's history. I am not sure it warranted the unavailability of bottled water at the stores, but still. It is a lot of snow. The craziest part was the thunder and lightening during the snowfall (or snowdump)...perhaps even God himself doesn't want Rahm on the ballot.

The kids made a fort, which I thought was maybe a little underachieving, since we have enough snow for a condominium. But I of course told them it was the best fort ever (slackers) and made hot chocolate and cookies.

Lions

I had no idea how arthritic my hands would feel the day after the cornrow debacle. I literally had to take two rounds of Aleve. But it paid off with the huge mane that resulted which Megan lo-o-o-ved.

Pictionary

Belated Christmasing photos...we had several rousing rounds of the old school pictionary, which the kids could not get enough of (until papa dished out the ice cream). Here is the Meg sequence, from hearing her word from Aunt G to the 'oh my goodness i can't draw THAT!' to the final execution. Uncle Jake had an uncanny way of guessing all of Megan's clues, regardless of how amoeba-like they looked. He'd shout 'Raking leaves!' and she would turn with a smile and say 'YES!" I am not sure what that could lead us to believe...Jake and Meg are kind of circling the same cerebral cortex?

Dad Entry #88

The kids and I watched the last episode - EVER! - of Hannah Montana. In the final scene, Hannah and her BFF! were at the airport together, about to leave for Paris for a year of excitement abroad - must be nice - rather than go straight to college. At the last second Hannah's best friend - I don't remember her name and thank goodness or I'd be disappointed in myself - decides she can't do it, she can't go, she wants to stay home and go to Stanford. It was a sad moment. I wasn't crushed exactly, but I wondered about Meg. Hannah and her friend embraced and said goodbye, and sappy music was playing, and naturally I assumed Megan was sad, about to cry probably, for sure in fact, so I felt a sudden need to console her. Megan was in the big chair next to me so I turned and said, "It's okay, Sweetheart, they're still best friends and they'll get to see each other again soon; this is a good thing really." Megan deadpanned, "It's just a movie, Dad."

I picked up Megan from preschool. The kids get about 10 minutes on the playground before they're lined up and released to the parents. Watching a bunch of 5-year-olds running around is fun. But later, for some reason, I had some crazy deep thoughts about the playground. Silly perhaps, but it's another metaphor for life it seems to me. I wondered if God views us - adults - this way as mostly we just run around full of emotion in life, spinning our wheels. We work and play. Occasionally we do something meaningful - maybe help a friend, face a fear - but mostly not. We might hurt ourselves here, or even each other, but to an observer - from the 'outside' - it's no big deal, everything's okay, lighthearted, unimportant, it's just a space to move around in and learn, fall and get up again, stretch, explore, until, well, we see it for what it is. Then preschool ends and we're off to kindergarten! Maybe the starter pistol is still echoing for us here. That was deep. I'm exhausted. Megan was so cute on the playground, climbing and running around all pigeon-toed in her high-heeled, knee-high boots. They're black patent leather. Fake leather, of course, from Target. Whatever, she looks like a Charlie's Angel, and thankfully she was impossibly agile like one in the heels that day; she never wiped out.

Dad Entry #87

Megan has big eyes and long eyelashes. She's gorgeous. But she has some beauty-related flaws. She gets food on her face, and snot around her nose. She wipes them on her sleeve. We'd prefer she use a napkin or Kleenex. She farts a lot. Surprisingly long, loud ones at times. She giggles kind of self-consciously afterward, at least, so that's good. Some of her outfits clash, but not in a pitiable, or even unstylish, way. It's more like, "Wow, leg warmers with sequined jeans and a tutu and big fuzzy slippers. Interesting. Creative. Bold! Comfort and warmth with panache. Voila!" Megan still brandishes a kind of whiny, or baby, or girl-about-to-swoon voice. Maybe it's multiple voices with multiple aims like sympathy, manipulation, permission, candy! Whatever the case, it fails to entrance Daddy, or sway Mommy, or generate a windfall of compassion or attention or whatever its purpose. It's just annoying.

I'm really happy Mary Ann suggested 'Grace' for Megan's middle name. I recall thinking it was a pleasant option, and I liked it, and we didn't have a better sounding idea, really. But now as I think of its meaning - as I age and roll with the ups and downs of life and consider, more deeply, the meaning of the word 'grace' - I'm so happy for its attachment to the little girl I often watch in amazement, this precious thing, because she started out so small and keeps growing and changing, or because she's so cute, or because she's so stubborn and defiant and dramatic sometimes I'm impressed by the effort.

My mom says a child is your heart walking around outside of your body. Sometimes it's wonderful; sometimes it's tough. Hearts are sensitive things, after all. I agree. Michael and Megan are certainly that, to me and Sara.

Megan saw me with my shirt off the other day and, referring to my chest presumably - I really hope it wasn't my shoulders or back - she said, "Daddy, why do you have hair on your body?" Without thinking much I answered, "Well, some boys do, because we're different than girls." I was satisfied but Megan wasn't; she said, "Why are boys different than girls?" The tide was pulling me into deep water here and I wasn't sure I could swim. I knew I didn't want to swim. I said, "There are a few reasons, but, oh, hey, let's go play Polly Pockets!"

Sara told me Megan wore a nude-colored leotard to gymnastics this week. Sara laughed and said, "You should see her, she looks like a skinny little naked thing running around the gym." I just don't know what to say about that.

Michael said he finished 2nd in the spelling bee at school. We aren't certain but we think this means he outlasted all but one of the eight to ten second graders who participated, only the best spellers from each class were eligible. He was undone by the word poetic. He put a 'k' on the end. We lavished him with compliments, well-deserved. He devours books. He's a smart dude, curious, sensitive, observant. We love him tons. But he farts too. Not as loud as Megan though.

Dad Entry #86

I am reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. It's about a father and his young son. My bookmark is a picture of Michael. It's a tough book to get through; McCarthy is notoriously unpredictable - e.g. "No Country For Old Men" - so I'm holding my breath hoping the father can save his little boy.

Michael was selected to participate in the spelling bee at school. He said his teacher picked three people from his entire class. We're proud of him. Ever since the news, we've relentlessly peppered him with words to spell. Megan too. She asked him to spell 'Stickety-Dickety-Doo'. He nailed it. He isn't annoyed at all by our incessant drilling. We're not doing it because we're maniacal about his success in the spelling bee, it's just because we're, well, annoying. Michael is awesome. When I gush about Megan, or wear one of my two 'I love Megan' shirts, some people - especially my female relatives and friends - accuse me of loving Megan more than Michael. That, of course, is nonsense. Megan is cuter than a thousand puppies - there's no doubt about that - but much more stubborn and volatile and dramatic and likely to meltdown and tell me I'm the worst daddy ever. And when I first mentioned this minor criticism - 'worst daddy ever' - to Sara, she said, "Well, that's fitting, because she told me I'm the 'worst mommy ever' so she might as well have both for parents." Sara referred to Megan as 'our little tyrant' the other day. I nodded.

Michael asked, "What is an alibi?" After a moment of suspicion - what's with all the crime talk?! - we discussed it. Then I asked Michael, "Do you know what motive is? Michael immediately guessed - correctly - that it's related to the word motivation. Good man. Indeed, I explained that motive is the cause or reason for a person's actions, and it's considered, like alibis, when solving crimes. The hypothetical scenario we examined involved bank robbers. Megan was listening; she blurted, "Oh! Maybe bank robbers want more money!" Meggie catches on fast! She's right, obviously, although I was thinking of examples of criminal motive with a little more depth...

Christmas was terrific. The kids are really fortunate. I am really fortunate. A big thanks to family and friends for that.

Harry Potter Legos

Dad Entry #85

Regarding Michael's ransom note below: he needs a lesson in forensics. I should point out, for example, that world-class criminals avoid leaving fingerprints, recognizable handwriting, DNA, and personal stationary (what Ash Grove paper is for the kids) at a crime scene. Every adult in America is an expert now after 17 seasons and 5 cities of CSI; although, I've often thought, it's too bad this education came after the OJ debacle.

Spoiler alert: do not read this paragraph if you still believe in Santa! Michael seems a little incredulous these days - e.g. "How does Santa cover the whole world in one night?" - but I think he's okay with hook, line and sinker if it means more presents! I was roughly Michael’s age when I cross-examined my folks; I poked big holes in every part - from Santa at the mall to the toy-making elves to the impossibility of scale already noted by Michael - so they caved and broke it to me gently, “It’s a special tradition based on a real guy named St. Nick,” and so on. I fear any day Michael will do the same thing, paint us into a logical corner, somehow mortally wound the charade. Maybe I sniffed it out a little early since I had an older sibling. Jen's good, but three poker faces must've been easier to read than two. I think Megan will be relieved when she finds out eventually; she's a bit afraid of this fat guy with magic powers who 'watches if she's naughty or nice' and runs around her house late at night on Christmas. And I’ll be quick to tell her she’ll still get a big present ‘from Santa’ on Christmas morning. We did.

Megan asked me, "Daddy, do you remember when I was three and I didn't even know how to write an M?" Oh geez, let me see, that was AGES ago.... I remember when Megan was only seconds old; when the doctor pulled on her head, elongating her neck way too much in my expert opinion, trying to free her from Mommy’s tummy. Funny, it just occurred to me that Megan LOVES giraffes.

I shoe-shopped with Meggie at Kohl's on Black Friday. Some Twinkle Toes Skechers caught her eye. They looked like jewel-studded Chuck Taylors to me. Megan said, "Daddy, we're looking for size 13." She sounded like a professional; it made me wonder if it's an instinctive thing in women, like hunting is in bird dogs. Although, no one even comes close to buying more shoes than Papa Mike. I can't throw a gender blanket on this one; it would make more sense to label it patriarchal heredity that skips a generation. "But maybe size 12 will work," Megan told me. Ok, good, I'd have no idea other than checking the shoes you wore in here. "Lift me up, Daddy, I can't see the shoes up there." Yes, Ma'am.

Michael told me yesterday, "I wish you could put love in the basket. Love is more valuable than money. Love is worth more." I didn't ask him if he meant the collection basket at church, a Salvation Army bucket with a bell-ringer, or what. It doesn't matter; his point is the same and a good one. It was a warm and sincere comment, and I agreed with Michael and started thinking about it, thinking about how it relates to him, his views, his place and direction in the world. Maybe it's too early to have these thoughts about Michael, but there's no one on the planet I love more, so I let my monkey-mind go. I hope Michael has these inspiring, transcendental realizations or reminders – e.g. love is more valuable than money – especially when things get messy, or his chips are down, and he needs a boost. But I also hope he doesn't wield them as excuses, or even worse, as foundational principles for a kind of arrogant idealism. I would say, "Love. But also work." Because both are rewarding in ways we can't foresee or imagine, and neither, by itself, is enough to be really happy in life. I think my Grandma Bev said that, or if she didn't, I gleaned it from watching her. And by work, I don't mean 9-to-5 for 'the man'; work can be a lot of things, creative pursuits, helping others; to me it's about staying active and having self-discipline. “The sky’s the limit if you have self-discipline.” That is my message for Michael. But self-discipline can be hard to maintain, so I’ll have to add, "And Dude… do as I say, not as I do."

Michael embarks on a life of crime...

Michael left this ransom note for Mommy after hijacking some of her jewelry. I think Megan was complicit, but my hunch is Michael was the mastermind, and poor Megan was recruited to be the fall guy, the patsy.

Megan's Numbers

Megan's getting good at writing her numbers. Maybe '3' and '4' need some work, maybe '7', but she's doing great. And she signed her paper, also. At the bottom. And quite small. But... well done, Mego!

Dad Entry #84

Meggie pointed at the TV during a Kay Jewelers commercial today and said, "I wanna give one of those to my mom." They were showing charm bracelets. What a sweetheart. And her Barbie socks are cute. I am admiring them as I write this. I was reading Esquire magazine, and they had some anecdotal commentary from Leslie Nielsen, the great deadpan comedian and actor who recently died. He said, "I left my daughter with four friends who were sunbathing by the pool. I said, 'Hey, keep your eyes on Maura.' She must've been six years old at the time. Well, they started talking. I cross the yard, go up these stairs, and see her at the bottom of the pool. You react instantly. I remember diving into that pool and grabbing her. She spluttered when she came up, so she wasn't drowning. She hadn't been down for that long. After I knew she was okay, two feelings ran through me: I was livid at my friends for not watching her. And, not that I was a hero or anything, but it felt really good to know that without even thinking, I would do anything to save her. The feeling that I had when it occurred is no different than it is now at the thought of it."

Michael has an address book and he asked me for my info. I grabbed a pen and pulled open the tab labeled "C-D". Michael had written his own info into the top formatted space provided under the letter C. Same page as I was headed, what a coincidence! :) For his entry, Michael wrote:

Name: Michael Cox
Address: Palatine
Phone: Droid X

I smiled. To his credit - and ours as parents - he doesn't have a cell phone number, but he does have a Droid X, both kids do, for games, puzzles, and other apps, for the camera and camcorder functions, for watching movies, and for other silliness they've discovered at the 'Android Market' like the 'Big Fart Button'. Oh yes, hours of fun. With a single button! (And a splendid array of fart noises.) Leslie Nielsen also said this, "I have a fart machine that I usually bring with me. I was at a bar once, going down toward the john, and these two guys were in a confrontation and things were getting a little dicey. As I got in between the two of them, I said, 'Where's the john? Is it straight back there?' Fffffhpppppffffft. Well, these guys look at each other and then look at me, and they both start laughing. Fight was over."

When I think of things my children have that were nonexistent when I was little, I think of touchscreens, temporary tattoos, fart machines, and Starbucks. Our fake fart sounds were just the creative use of exhalation and lips. Or armpits, although regrettably, and to my great shame, I was never very good at doing it this way, and I mostly hid this embarrassing ineptitude from my friends. And if you just made a fart noise while reading this, you're not alone, I did the same thing as I was writing about it and fondly recalling the good ol' days when great recitals of fart imitation were only performed a-cappella (if that makes any sense). It's kind of like when vinyl was all we had. I bought a couple records just before cassettes were available. Huey Lewis and Twisted Sister. Or was it Hall & Oates? Speaking of flatulence, Megan ripped a couple doozies the other day. Impressive, coming from such a pretty little girl. We were genuinely amazed and incredulous when we heard them - they were a kind of loud, longish, vibrating bass fart - and then Megan smiled, and we all burst out laughing. Poor thing had a balloon in her tummy. Where would we be, as humankind, without farting to brighten our days. And regarding Starbucks, Meggie loves the modern concept of the coffeehouse. She orders chocolate milk and lemon bread and a coffee for her driver (Mom or Dad). And it only costs - her driver - like seventeen dollars. What a deal!

Michael can spell words now that I can't spell. Seriously. He searches for monsters in magazines and pamphlets, learns how to spell them, then challenges me.

Megan loves peanut butter so much she's content to eat spoonfuls of it for a meal. No, we don't let her, but it's clear this is true. She would. The irony is that Meg's cousin Alissa is allergic to peanut butter. I felt a pang of pity for Alissa - as I have many times before - as I just thought about this. But then I considered the following: maybe certain allergies - peanut, gluten, lactose - that bring about a consciousness or sensitivity around what and how we eat... maybe they're not all bad, maybe they're a boon in the grand scheme, while the rest of us are putty in the hands of marketing and convenience, two powerful modern forces behind the seemingly endless movement of processed, chemical-laden stuff on every corner.

Grammy taught Megan the Hail Mary prayer a while back. Megan had it all correct except the part when she said, "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for the scissors." That sounds better than "pray for us sinners" anyway.

Dad Entry #83

Last week Megan told me, "Daddy, I can smell the throw-up in the back of my throat." This was not a surprise as our princess had been up sick all night. I asked her, "Do you wanna brush your teeth, Sweetheart?" Megan: "No, it's fine." Huh?! Megan added, "Daddy, I threw up like 10 times last night in the bucket. Like when the doctor was going to cut me out of Mommy's tummy, and Mommy threw up in the bucket." It’s cute she remembers that… ha. It’s cute she mentions it, though. She likes to hear about the day she was born. Even though it's common, there's still a bit of fuss in the operating room during a c-section. And I embellish. And I'm pretty sure she likes the part at the end when we tell her it was one of greatest days of our lives. Days of our Lives… I wonder if crazy Sami is still on the show. Oh yeah, years ago I tapped the vein. Not really. But I saw bits of a few episodes.

Michael and I won a pumpkin pie at the annual Sanborn Elementary Turkey Shoot. I think that was 2nd prize. 1st prize is the bird. I told Michael that 2nd place is the first loser. No mercy! Cobra Kai! Hardly. We were thrilled with a pie (until we had to eat it). We were so proud of ourselves; we touched fists, blew ‘em up, and puffed out our chests. After all, lots of dad / kid combos compete; everyone in the school is eligible. Michael did great. But, yes, basking in the pleasure of our award – the pie – didn’t go so well. Michael didn’t like the taste. (Neither did Megan.) Michael lobbied for something else instead, "Ice cream? Or anything chocolate?" Sorry, we told him, but pumpkin pie is the prize. It’s Thanksgiving. You don’t win the heavyweight belt and ask for a necklace. You don’t get a Super Bowl bracelet. There’s no Stanley fork. You don’t invade France and get Spain. I know, I begged myself to stop, also. Terrible analogies, every one, but there was a point to make. And clearly I didn't make it because Michael blurted, “All of my hard work for nothing!” I was irked at this; gracious winner he was not, and – even more irksome – only winner he was not. “First of all,” I said, “Did you even break a sweat? We didn't get to warm up and we only shot for two minutes.” He gets sweaty practicing in the basement though, maybe that’s what he meant. But I added, “And, umm, didn’t you have a partner?” I hit everything but one shot in fact - I would dominate the grade school ranks! - and I drained two long ones for extra points. But then I pumped Michael up so much it’s no wonder he went all NBA prima donna on me. The knowledge of our victory was all I needed, but somebody had to eat the pie. With a whole can of Reddi-wip. I even put some on the pie. In case you live on Mars, a while back someone invented the pressurizing and propelling of cream out of an aerosol can. Amazing. I put it somewhere between the filament light bulb and velcro. Although adding the fluted top for decorative application was just showing off. With Reddi-wip you can dispense dollops – or massive amounts for that matter – of whipped cream directly into your mouth. The kids and I did this repeatedly like marvelous gluttons.

Dad Entry #82

Michael was being tough on Meg the other day. He went so far as to criticize her handwriting. She had written her name and maybe ‘MOMMY’ and ‘DADDY’ or her alphabet – that’s about the extent of her repertoire right now – on a scrap of paper and Michael looked at it and frowned and said, “Megan’s handwriting (insert especially unflattering grimace here) is so messy.” His expression and tone made it worse than an impolite observation; it was a sharpened put-down. I think the first thing I did was stick a finger in my ear to make sure my hearing wasn’t impaired. I was like, “Seriously Dude, on top of everything else you just called her out for her barely-five-year-old penmanship? You’re kidding, right?” Michael looked a little sheepish; he understood he’d gone too far with a jab about her writing skills of all things. For perspective, I should note here that Megan isn't even in kindergarten yet. We’ve tried hard to reduce Michael's instinct to be critical and competitive with Megan about everything. But I know some of it’s natural. Sibling rivalry. I tell him over and over again we have to encourage her, that she’s younger (“than us” I add here, perhaps that is silly, but I’m attempting to lump Michael in with me and Mommy in this case) so we need to help her learn and grow, lift her up instead of chip away at her, take pride in looking out for her. I assure Michael it’s the way we – Mom, Dad, and older people in general – treat him too; we try to be positive and encouraging. His response to that is, “Then why am I always the one in trouble?” This isn’t true, of course, as just about every bedtime finds Megan all wound up and flipping out - and therefore in trouble - while Michael is reading peacefully in his bed like an angel. A few days ago when I told him to leave Megan alone, he said, “Why are you mad at me, again? My life is always wrecked because you destroy it.” That’s an exact quote. Michael has a way with words. I tell Michael that cutting Megan some slack is just the way we should treat everyone who’s younger or less experienced or weaker than ourselves. I read a great quote recently from a contemporary of Wild Bill Hickok’s in Deadwood. He said, “Wild Bill was gentle as a child unless aroused to anger by intended insults, he was loyal and generous to a fault, and he invariably espoused the cause of the weaker against the stronger one in a quarrel.” So that was a weird interjection, perhaps, but even if I bolstered my case to Michael with quotes from old gunslingers – “Billy the Kid says eat your vegetables and be nice to your sister, Son!” – I fear it still wouldn’t inspire Michael to go any easier on Megan. And I understand why I can't more pleasantly persuade him; it’s a little too quixotic, ‘taking pride in taking care of Megan’, and so on. It’s hard to have a younger sibling who wants always to be included, and - it must appear sometimes - takes half of the affection and attention. But Megan is developing thick skin. She can defend herself and return fire. This is a very good thing! (Sort of; I hope she never learns to mudsling like a politician. I’m so happy the election commercials will stop now; bring back the non-stop Cialis and Geico ads.) And I think some competition is good between siblings; I hope they observe each other studying and getting good grades, for example, in hopes of not being outdone by the other. Plus, let’s be honest, Michael’s only a seven-year-old himself. But, this is also true: Michael is a very sensitive and bright seven-year-old.

I like watching little kids draw. They don’t seem to judge the accuracy of their renderings. They just scribble with excitement. Megan will draw something and say, “Look Daddy, a tiger!” I guess she feels the need to identify her picture, but I think it’s because she’s proud, not because she’s decided that otherwise I couldn’t tell what it is. Of course, what she’s drawn falls a little short in terms of capturing the grace and power, even the stripes or four legs, of a tiger. It really looks like nothing at all, in fact. But to her it’s a tiger! And to me it’s a tiger! “Awesome, Honey,” I’ll say, and I mean it, because she’s attempted to draw one of the coolest animals on the planet. And it’s awesome that she likes her drawing. And that’s a true story; last Sunday she drew a tiger. (At least she said it was a tiger!) Creativity is so important. Encouraging it is important. Sara is terrific about stocking supplies and keeping the kids engaged in art. And they enjoy it. Maybe with very young people, that critical voice hasn’t pushed it’s way to the front; the inner-judge has yet to convince them that they “can only draw stick-figures,” that their artistic talent is minimal. I say kill the inner-judge. Unless it’s the same voice that keeps them out of trouble; the same voice that reminds Megan not to write on the furniture. I think that’s a different voice though. Speaking of voices, I hear one now. It’s saying, “You’re rambling….”

Pumpkin Farm and Stargazing

Annabelle

Dad Entry #81

The other day I escorted Megan into a restaurant bathroom. It was obvious they were using a good deodorizer. Suddenly, Megan was happy. She smiled and bounced and cheerfully said, “It smells good in here! It’s really supposed to smell like potty in here, right Daddy?” It seems to me that happiness has a little to do with expectations.

I was a bit too hydrated and went to the bathroom twice during a short period while playing Star Wars with Michael. When I excused myself to pee the second time Michael said, “Again? You must have a bladder infection.” I didn’t ask him where he learned about the symptoms of urinary tract disorders. Maybe from Megan, our girl with all the 'body books'.

We went on a walk around the neighborhood. I realized there are interesting things outdoors to see and think about, natural things, if you're still young and sensitive and open. There are leaves, pine cones, acorns and flowers. There are bunnies and squirrels. There are trees to climb. There are bugs! We feed bits of bread to the ducks and pond fish. Bluegills, big carp, and a catfish the size of my arm surface to eat the bread. We pick and feed crab apples to the geese. I'm not sure we should do that, but they congregate under the tree and eat them when they fall anyway. It’s inevitable; they’re going to shit all over the neighborhood regardless. And when we have food they seem less irritable, less violent, less likely to have a honking fit and charge at us attempting to slap us with flapping wings. Geese are mean.

That reminds me... an Android (cell phone) video game called ‘Angry Birds’ has a firm grip on Megan and Michael. I'm addicted too. We need help. Although Michael prefers a game called ‘Ninja Kaka’ lately, where, rather than knocking over structures with flying birds, he uses touch screen gestures to slice flying fruit into vivid, juicy ribbons with a samurai sword. All on a high-definition cell phone display with terrific sound effects. When I was his age we had ‘Pong’. That was it. Until ‘Space Invaders’ appeared on Atari, and Pac-Man too; we played them on our crappy, little, blurry tube televisions, and we were so amazed we said to ourselves, “Technology is SO advanced now, surely by the year 2000 we’ll be able vacation on the moon, or time travel!” That was 1985.