Michael and I were talking baseball.
Michael: "Who's your favorite first baseman right now?"
Me: "Joey Votto. But he's not gonna win NL MVP again this year. Seems like a nice, humble guy though, and a hard worker."
Michael: "Favorite catcher?"
Me: "Mauer."
Michael: "Yeah, mine too. Second base?"
Me: "Dustin Pedroia. But my goodness is Dan Uggla scorching hot right now after a slow start."
Michael: "Hmm, I like Robbie Cano. Shortstop?"
Me: "Easy. Starlin Castro. The kid's batting over 300 and he's practically your age. And he's a Cubbie!"
And so on. Eventually Michael asked Megan - thankfully she'd been working on a DQ double chocolate cone so was okay with all the baseball talk - "Who's your favorite player?" Megan, my precious little sweetheart said, "Daddy!" Clearly that didn't work for Michael though; he said, "No, really Megan, who's your favorite major league player?" Megan said happily, "I like all the good players!" Michael, smelling weakness, kept going. Maybe he'll be a litigator some day. He said, "Great Megan, you can't even name a favorite player." This crossed the line - or maybe he did when he ridiculed Megan's 'Daddy' answer - so I shut it down, "Michael, back off, she's not a baseball super-fan, an expert, she doesn't have hundreds of cards like you, if we're talking about favorite Barbies, can she jump all over you if you don't have a perfect answer?" So Michael, from his heels, in a kind of parrying move, said, "I know Barbies." To which I mumbled, "I wouldn't brag about that, Kid." And then, sure-footed now, he'd clearly thought of something, he added, "In fact, I'd say my favorite Barbie is Ken." He was kinda smug when he said it, chin raised slightly. And yet he knew it was a silly comeback, a silly argument; he smiled just a little. Even so, I was impressed; he'd held his position beyond the point I would've acquiesced. Although, of course, I would've never held his position in the first place because he was WRONG! My stance on this important matter: Ken is Ken, not Barbie, not a Barbie you can choose from as your favorite. Barbies include Barbie Mariposa, Barbie Fairytopia, Mermaid Barbie; there's Rocker-, Fashion-, Malibu-, Holiday-, Wedding-, Denim- and Corvette-Barbie. Sign Language Barbie. Castle Barbie. Good lord. Farrah-Fawcett-in-that-red-swimsuit Barbie. No shit. I just googled it. And Barbie has about a hundred friends with different names, hair and skin color, etc. See, I'm a good Dad. And she thinks I only like baseball.
Speaking of baseball... we were watching the Cubs and Meggie said, "Dad, the baseball players spit on their court. It's crazy, right? You can't spit on your court!" I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd spit on baseball 'courts' a million times in my life, sometimes with tobacco in my mouth. Don't tell Grandma Barb. When I was a kid playing ball she said, "I don't ever want to see you spit." So I had to make sure she wasn't looking when I spit. Thankfully, Megan didn't comment on all the adjusting of cups and private parts that goes on in baseball. Grandma Barb did though, over the years.
Megan is pigeon-toed. And skinny.
I like it when I see something shiny in the carpet, tiny but noticeable. Sure, I'm a man: "Ooh, look! Shiny!" Anyway, I notice it and lean down and see that it's a single sequin. Another reminder I have a daughter. Debris from one of her crazy glam outfits. The woman at Crate & Barrel yesterday called Megan a 'little fashionista!' And two other women applauded her shoes which are slip-on heels with white feathery boa material on the toes, along with a single pink ribbon rose. And she slipped and nearly fell down the concrete condo stairs in those damn shoes; but I grabbed her arm to keep her upright before I even processed what was going on, luckily I was right next to her. And then all I could think was, this is not good.
Michael grabbed a bag of 'Flamin' Hot' Cheetos at Subway. I said, "You aren't gonna like 'em." He said, "No, I like them, I had them already with Nahum (pronounced Nigh-ome, rhymes with home, his friend and classmate)." I said, "You won't finish 'em and you're gonna be hungry for other chips and you're not gonna get any." To Michael's credit, he ate the whole bag. But it took him three days. I didn't force him. He just kept them and had a few with each of the next several meals.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Dad Entry #104
Megan likes to make her bed. She organizes and props up her 'pets' - her stuffed animals - and straightens her sheets. She's so cute it's crazy. But she's irritated with me right now; She said, "Dad, how come you just wanna play baseball with Michael all the time?" This broke my heart a little. I said, "That's not true, Lover-Dove, I like to play with you too." Wanna go hit some balls off the tee?
Megan asks to do dishes now. No kidding. "Daddy, put some water in the sink please so I can do dishes." First of all, everything goes in the dishwasher, Sweetheart. I don't care if it melts. And second, my daughter ain't gonna do no dishes. That's what your husband'll be for. I suppose that's not funny.
I like to fold Megan's laundry. It reminds me that I have a daughter. And that she's small.
I'm afraid that every time I take out Megan's pigtail rubber-bands I pull out clumps of her hair. I don't hurt her; I know how to avoid that, and she doesn't wince or complain, and she's not developing any bald spots, but somehow despite excruciating care I end up with strands of hair entangled in my fingers, along with the rubber-band. It's a pain in the butt; how do chicks deal with this everyday? My current strategy for my own hair: let it fall out. It's working. I take out Megan's hairbands before bath-time. During her bath, I have a new habit of encouraging a quick rinse of the conditioner. Megan always responds by saying, "No Dad, you have to wait a few minutes, you have to give the conditioner time to condish." Condish? Whatever, it sounds cute and I haven't heard it enough yet to quit provoking her to say it.
Michael is so into baseball. I'll be in the middle of a bedtime story, an improv' one, to both Megan and Michael (sidenote: this is challenging as my audience is diverse, and, as I've whined here before, telling stories fluidly, creatively, vividly, like it's depicted in bedtime or campfire scenes in the movies is not so easy), so I'll be weaving something pretty silly but it's working; the kids are listening; I can tell because they're attentive, they add commentary here and there, and provide direction (e.g. I'll ask, "Should the Pirate ship fire canons at the Viking boats or make a run for the sea cave?" and the kids will answer). So I'll be describing how the warrior (who we'll have named something like Killabrew, Turkalew, Servo, Shen, Jimenez, or The Monk, The Blacksmith, The Joiner... all characters we've told stories about), anyway, I'll be telling how the warrior jumps off the castle rampart and lands right on the guard, but this sends them both sprawling, and they crash into the glass tank where they're keeping the mermaid, this is very bad of course cause the tank shatters, and mermaids need water - duh! - and they're miles from the sea - but we can dip her in the castle moat! - and the silence in the castle is broken now, more guards are streaming in, and dogs are barking suddenly, big ones like the Lindgrens' German Shepherds, but aren't dogs friendly to mermaids, can't they read each other's thoughts, and communicate telepathically; will the dogs help the mermaid and the outnumbered warrior?! And I'm getting kind of excited because here I've gotten the story to a crescendo of sorts, and as I said earlier, it's not easy to do this on a semi-regular basis, and then, and then, Michael will blurt, "Dad, is Matt Holliday having a good season?" You know how a balloon deflates, looping and twisting and shrinking. And the sound. Maybe I'm a lousy storyteller. But I know he was listening too, because he'd spoken up a few times about the story, but if there was a PC 'Task Manager' that I could open to see what applications are running inside Michael's head, right there next to 'Bedtime Story Program' I would see 'Baseball Card Appraiser'. It's pretty much a background app these days, always running alongside 'Eat', 'Drink', 'Be Condescending to Megan' and all the others, often interrupting them in fact with an urgent question or concern. I love it, and here's why: I remember being the same way. Obsessed with the value of my cards, which is driven by player performance, of course. We have a lot of OCD in the family already though, not sure I wanna provide or support perfect vehicles for its expression and remarkable development. But who doesn't love baseball cards? So I answer Michael, "Matt Holliday's production is down a little this year, Bud, in general I'd say, but Berkman has really picked up the slack for the Cards, and you've got Pujols to worry about too if you're a pitcher, so Holliday's gonna see good pitches, and I think he's been heating up lately; he's still Matt Holliday. Anyway, so the mermaid's beautiful shiny tail is starting to dry...."
Megan asks to do dishes now. No kidding. "Daddy, put some water in the sink please so I can do dishes." First of all, everything goes in the dishwasher, Sweetheart. I don't care if it melts. And second, my daughter ain't gonna do no dishes. That's what your husband'll be for. I suppose that's not funny.
I like to fold Megan's laundry. It reminds me that I have a daughter. And that she's small.
I'm afraid that every time I take out Megan's pigtail rubber-bands I pull out clumps of her hair. I don't hurt her; I know how to avoid that, and she doesn't wince or complain, and she's not developing any bald spots, but somehow despite excruciating care I end up with strands of hair entangled in my fingers, along with the rubber-band. It's a pain in the butt; how do chicks deal with this everyday? My current strategy for my own hair: let it fall out. It's working. I take out Megan's hairbands before bath-time. During her bath, I have a new habit of encouraging a quick rinse of the conditioner. Megan always responds by saying, "No Dad, you have to wait a few minutes, you have to give the conditioner time to condish." Condish? Whatever, it sounds cute and I haven't heard it enough yet to quit provoking her to say it.
Michael is so into baseball. I'll be in the middle of a bedtime story, an improv' one, to both Megan and Michael (sidenote: this is challenging as my audience is diverse, and, as I've whined here before, telling stories fluidly, creatively, vividly, like it's depicted in bedtime or campfire scenes in the movies is not so easy), so I'll be weaving something pretty silly but it's working; the kids are listening; I can tell because they're attentive, they add commentary here and there, and provide direction (e.g. I'll ask, "Should the Pirate ship fire canons at the Viking boats or make a run for the sea cave?" and the kids will answer). So I'll be describing how the warrior (who we'll have named something like Killabrew, Turkalew, Servo, Shen, Jimenez, or The Monk, The Blacksmith, The Joiner... all characters we've told stories about), anyway, I'll be telling how the warrior jumps off the castle rampart and lands right on the guard, but this sends them both sprawling, and they crash into the glass tank where they're keeping the mermaid, this is very bad of course cause the tank shatters, and mermaids need water - duh! - and they're miles from the sea - but we can dip her in the castle moat! - and the silence in the castle is broken now, more guards are streaming in, and dogs are barking suddenly, big ones like the Lindgrens' German Shepherds, but aren't dogs friendly to mermaids, can't they read each other's thoughts, and communicate telepathically; will the dogs help the mermaid and the outnumbered warrior?! And I'm getting kind of excited because here I've gotten the story to a crescendo of sorts, and as I said earlier, it's not easy to do this on a semi-regular basis, and then, and then, Michael will blurt, "Dad, is Matt Holliday having a good season?" You know how a balloon deflates, looping and twisting and shrinking. And the sound. Maybe I'm a lousy storyteller. But I know he was listening too, because he'd spoken up a few times about the story, but if there was a PC 'Task Manager' that I could open to see what applications are running inside Michael's head, right there next to 'Bedtime Story Program' I would see 'Baseball Card Appraiser'. It's pretty much a background app these days, always running alongside 'Eat', 'Drink', 'Be Condescending to Megan' and all the others, often interrupting them in fact with an urgent question or concern. I love it, and here's why: I remember being the same way. Obsessed with the value of my cards, which is driven by player performance, of course. We have a lot of OCD in the family already though, not sure I wanna provide or support perfect vehicles for its expression and remarkable development. But who doesn't love baseball cards? So I answer Michael, "Matt Holliday's production is down a little this year, Bud, in general I'd say, but Berkman has really picked up the slack for the Cards, and you've got Pujols to worry about too if you're a pitcher, so Holliday's gonna see good pitches, and I think he's been heating up lately; he's still Matt Holliday. Anyway, so the mermaid's beautiful shiny tail is starting to dry...."
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Dad Entry #103
Michael received rave reviews from friends and family in Clear Lake. He's bright, happy, fun, energetic, polite, easy-going. He eats a lot; he laughs a lot. He goes with the flow, or can be persuaded to do so after minimal grumbling. My friends Sharon and Todd agreed, "We're just really impressed with Michael; he's cool, nice, smart. He's awesome." And he's crazy about baseball right now. I'm adding that part, not Todd and Sharon :) Michael will provoke Megan occasionally, and be condescending to her - which I have zero tolerance for even if he's right and she's wrong - but I'll say here what I tell him regularly: I feel very lucky to have him for a son. I don't mention this next part to him, as we are father and son right now, first and foremost, but I look forward to the times we'll have together, out there in the future, as just adults, friends, peers, men. We'll always be father and son of course, but looking at the world together, and our family, as equals during the highs and lows we'll experience... I think it'll be great to have Michael in my corner, and to be there for him, also.
I believe most five-year-olds can grasp the basics of earning and spending (even if the federal government can't). When you earn, you get money; when you spend, you lose it. And the latter can't exceed the former (unless you're the federal government, in which case it can do so by 14 trillion). But Megan gets confused - and angry! - when dealing with more abstract and delayed monetary concepts like saving, change (money left after a purchase), currency (she thinks five ones are worth more than one five), loans ('pay me back from your piggy bank when we get home'), and decisions like 'should I buy one big thing or three small ones?!' Yes, also problems analogous to our mismanaged federal government, and I haven't even mentioned how Megan struggles with freebies yet, when I buy her a little something, my concerns about her future expectations and dependencies; more fodder for partisan pundits if the topic was politics and not my sweetheart. It's so much nicer to talk about Megan. So Sara had a garage sale. Megan sold more of her old toys than Michael; she made $21 to Michael's $14. But Sara doled Megan's out in 3 bills (a little math problem for ya!), whereas Michael got 5. A meltdown ensued. Megan insisted she was getting less, and she can be so impressively stubborn, even when dead wrong, that attempts to explain or persuade are simply hopeless. Meltdowns are rare, and then only 'Category 1' I'd say, you know, the kind that blow shingles off the roof and knock over trees, nothing serious like tossing cars and homes around. I wouldn't say my Sweetheart is super-volatile, just super-stubborn. We're working on it, but life happens and there's no better teacher.
Megan asked me, "Does Grandma love me and Michael more than you?" Funny how kids - and too many adults - like to keep score, or try to put things or understand them in this kind of order. I thought, Of course not! My mommy loves me the most! Kidding. Sort of. I should've given her the canned 'Grandma loves her kids and grandkids all the same' response. Instead, I said, "I don't know, what do you think?" Megan said, in a quieter, more compassionate tone, as if she felt sorry for me, "Yeah, I think she loves us more."
I believe most five-year-olds can grasp the basics of earning and spending (even if the federal government can't). When you earn, you get money; when you spend, you lose it. And the latter can't exceed the former (unless you're the federal government, in which case it can do so by 14 trillion). But Megan gets confused - and angry! - when dealing with more abstract and delayed monetary concepts like saving, change (money left after a purchase), currency (she thinks five ones are worth more than one five), loans ('pay me back from your piggy bank when we get home'), and decisions like 'should I buy one big thing or three small ones?!' Yes, also problems analogous to our mismanaged federal government, and I haven't even mentioned how Megan struggles with freebies yet, when I buy her a little something, my concerns about her future expectations and dependencies; more fodder for partisan pundits if the topic was politics and not my sweetheart. It's so much nicer to talk about Megan. So Sara had a garage sale. Megan sold more of her old toys than Michael; she made $21 to Michael's $14. But Sara doled Megan's out in 3 bills (a little math problem for ya!), whereas Michael got 5. A meltdown ensued. Megan insisted she was getting less, and she can be so impressively stubborn, even when dead wrong, that attempts to explain or persuade are simply hopeless. Meltdowns are rare, and then only 'Category 1' I'd say, you know, the kind that blow shingles off the roof and knock over trees, nothing serious like tossing cars and homes around. I wouldn't say my Sweetheart is super-volatile, just super-stubborn. We're working on it, but life happens and there's no better teacher.
Megan asked me, "Does Grandma love me and Michael more than you?" Funny how kids - and too many adults - like to keep score, or try to put things or understand them in this kind of order. I thought, Of course not! My mommy loves me the most! Kidding. Sort of. I should've given her the canned 'Grandma loves her kids and grandkids all the same' response. Instead, I said, "I don't know, what do you think?" Megan said, in a quieter, more compassionate tone, as if she felt sorry for me, "Yeah, I think she loves us more."
Friday, July 29, 2011
Quotables
MICHAEL
With reading considered a completed lesson for Michael, I hear lots of peanut gallery-esque remarks from him as he reads his way through life. Last week on the way home from Kansas, we passed one of my favorite signs: Terrible's Casino. It is an at least 100' tall sign in the shape of a handlebar-mustachioed man complete with ten gallon hat. As we passed it, I heard him mutter, "Well THERE'S a great way to kill your money."
MEGAN
Conversation today with Megan:
Meg: "How many 100s makes 1,000?"
Me: " 10."
Megan: "That. BROKE. My brain."
With reading considered a completed lesson for Michael, I hear lots of peanut gallery-esque remarks from him as he reads his way through life. Last week on the way home from Kansas, we passed one of my favorite signs: Terrible's Casino. It is an at least 100' tall sign in the shape of a handlebar-mustachioed man complete with ten gallon hat. As we passed it, I heard him mutter, "Well THERE'S a great way to kill your money."
MEGAN
Conversation today with Megan:
Meg: "How many 100s makes 1,000?"
Me: " 10."
Megan: "That. BROKE. My brain."
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Dad Entry #102
Megan said, "I saw a picture of you when you were little, Daddy." She said it like it was a secretive or scandalous discovery of some sort. I said, "Yeah, it's true, I was little once, smaller than you even." Then I asked, "Was I cute?" Megan said, "Yes, but then you grew up to be 16 and went to your own house and fed yourself." Ha, Megan's encapsulation of the passage to adulthood. Growing up. Some truth to it. Although, I didn't have my own place or 'feed myself' that young; my mom cooked for me - along with fast food joints, and my fraternity house mom and Grandma Bev at Iowa State - until I was about 20.
Michael's in Minnesota for the week. He called last night to say he won the homerun derby. Staged by Papa Mike, it was apparently a well organized event, with multiple rounds and competitor-specific distances (e.g. Michael had to hit it to the sidewalk, Ellie only past the tree). There was no Prince Fielder though, or even Daddy (I still got it, I sent one over the fence in my softball game last week, which is kinda hard to do in this thick, humid air). No prizes either, as the winner noted in my conversation with him, "I think I deserve a prize or something, don't I?" Michael hit 10. Grandma got second - she's pretty athletic, and a pretty athlete, my mom - followed by Alissa and Ellie. I'll have to watch the MLB Network for the official score and highlights.
Yesterday, out of nowhere Megan said, "Daddy, I miss watching you play basketball. I wanna go to one of your games again." I was touched, I don't know why she thought of it, it's not basketball season, it's not on TV a bunch, I'm not crying tears of joy or sorrow over Cyclone bball. Okay then, gotta plant that WNBA seed for my sweetie-heart, get onto another team. Megan might be tall! She was the tallest kid on her tee-ball team, I know I've said that many times here. She's up to my belly-button now. Which is too tall for my baby girl! But I tower over her still, and really, really love it when, in an elevator for example, a stranger steps in, and Megan tenses and moves toward me, kind of leans on me, real close, at this point she can't get far enough from the stranger or close enough to me, even if the stranger is the nicest guy in the world and all genuine warmth and smiles, Megan is just not comfortable, maybe she even takes my hand or puts an arm around my waist. Safe. In that moment, her dependance or trust or whatever it is, it's very empowering, and I'm pretty sure I would take on a pack of wolves, or hockey goons, or crazy soccer moms, to protect her, even if I wouldn't last long. Hysterical soccer moms eat guys like me for breakfast. I would rather face rabid beasts, or toothless enforcers.
I want my kids to learn that repetition is the mother of learning. I don't expect them to pursue the Malcolm Gladwell '10,000 hour rule' for international stardom in something. I just want them to appreciate the benefits of practice. There is no substitute. Whether it's playing an instrument, swinging a bat or golf club, or writing (what I do here: practice writing), I want them to realize it takes hours and hours of practice for incremental, appreciable improvement. The best musicians and golfers do their thing for hours a day for thousands of days. That's what it takes. You need some ability to begin with, and being average - or even good - at many things, being well-rounded, is fine too, but if you wanna be head-and-shoulders above, if you wanna be 'great'... repetition and tons of it. Swing that racquet or club or bat every day, even if it's just in the yard, going over mechanics, without hitting any balls. Keep shooting, playing that song, painting, singing, swimming, skating, skiing, dancing, running, throwing, solving, speaking, presenting, coaching, leading, writing. Practice the skills. If you're not cool with average, or with performance plateaus, if you wanna get better at something, better than you were yesterday, last season, last year... hours of repetition is your answer. Your only answer. The price, however, is time. And that's a big price, involving decisions and motivation. But big rewards are possible, too. 'Less is more' for some things, like certain style concepts, good snappy writing, makeup, government. But not so with practice. That was preachy. But I'm leaving it :)
Michael's in Minnesota for the week. He called last night to say he won the homerun derby. Staged by Papa Mike, it was apparently a well organized event, with multiple rounds and competitor-specific distances (e.g. Michael had to hit it to the sidewalk, Ellie only past the tree). There was no Prince Fielder though, or even Daddy (I still got it, I sent one over the fence in my softball game last week, which is kinda hard to do in this thick, humid air). No prizes either, as the winner noted in my conversation with him, "I think I deserve a prize or something, don't I?" Michael hit 10. Grandma got second - she's pretty athletic, and a pretty athlete, my mom - followed by Alissa and Ellie. I'll have to watch the MLB Network for the official score and highlights.
Yesterday, out of nowhere Megan said, "Daddy, I miss watching you play basketball. I wanna go to one of your games again." I was touched, I don't know why she thought of it, it's not basketball season, it's not on TV a bunch, I'm not crying tears of joy or sorrow over Cyclone bball. Okay then, gotta plant that WNBA seed for my sweetie-heart, get onto another team. Megan might be tall! She was the tallest kid on her tee-ball team, I know I've said that many times here. She's up to my belly-button now. Which is too tall for my baby girl! But I tower over her still, and really, really love it when, in an elevator for example, a stranger steps in, and Megan tenses and moves toward me, kind of leans on me, real close, at this point she can't get far enough from the stranger or close enough to me, even if the stranger is the nicest guy in the world and all genuine warmth and smiles, Megan is just not comfortable, maybe she even takes my hand or puts an arm around my waist. Safe. In that moment, her dependance or trust or whatever it is, it's very empowering, and I'm pretty sure I would take on a pack of wolves, or hockey goons, or crazy soccer moms, to protect her, even if I wouldn't last long. Hysterical soccer moms eat guys like me for breakfast. I would rather face rabid beasts, or toothless enforcers.
I want my kids to learn that repetition is the mother of learning. I don't expect them to pursue the Malcolm Gladwell '10,000 hour rule' for international stardom in something. I just want them to appreciate the benefits of practice. There is no substitute. Whether it's playing an instrument, swinging a bat or golf club, or writing (what I do here: practice writing), I want them to realize it takes hours and hours of practice for incremental, appreciable improvement. The best musicians and golfers do their thing for hours a day for thousands of days. That's what it takes. You need some ability to begin with, and being average - or even good - at many things, being well-rounded, is fine too, but if you wanna be head-and-shoulders above, if you wanna be 'great'... repetition and tons of it. Swing that racquet or club or bat every day, even if it's just in the yard, going over mechanics, without hitting any balls. Keep shooting, playing that song, painting, singing, swimming, skating, skiing, dancing, running, throwing, solving, speaking, presenting, coaching, leading, writing. Practice the skills. If you're not cool with average, or with performance plateaus, if you wanna get better at something, better than you were yesterday, last season, last year... hours of repetition is your answer. Your only answer. The price, however, is time. And that's a big price, involving decisions and motivation. But big rewards are possible, too. 'Less is more' for some things, like certain style concepts, good snappy writing, makeup, government. But not so with practice. That was preachy. But I'm leaving it :)
Monday, July 18, 2011
Dad Entry #101
Megan's an ant-smasher. I'm not sure what it means. At least she's not repressing it. She usually stomps on 'em, but yesterday she used a rock and was a bit more surgical, hunched over, chasing and squashing as her prey skittered for the safety of sidewalk cracks or grass. Even Michael, alarmed by her blood thirst, said "Geez, Megan!" After that it got weird; before getting into the car, she handed me her weapon - the rock - and said, "Keep that, it's my 'Ant Smash Rock'. Can we write that on it, 'Ant Smash Rock', like with a pen or something?" I didn't answer; I was imagining Megan's run as 'Xena the Warrior Princess', filling the big shoes - literally I think - of Lucy Lawless in that terrible series that ended many years ago, thank God. Yeah, that won't do; they'd put her in a deerskin bikini and Uggs, something stupid like that. I'd prefer she was like Angelina Jolie's character in 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' or 'Wanted' or 'Salt'. Actually, I remember those movies now, forget it, I hope she's an accountant.
Michael had his first zit. Pretty sure it was a pimple, a full blown whitehead, right between his eyes. He picked at it last night. And speaking of Lucy-Lawless-sized-feet, Michael's dogs are gettin' big in a hurry. It's all happening too fast!
Michael has a lot of baseball cards now. And he's been watching games on TV. He knows most of the good players. Gone are the days of:
Michael: "Dad, do you know who Albert 'Puh-jawles' is?"
Me: "I think you mean 'Poo-holes'."
Michael: "Oh, yeah, that could be. Is he any good?"
Me: "Albert Pujols? No, terrible, never heard of him. You can trade him to me though."
Is it just me or do individually packaged Velveeta slices last way too long? A million years from now, when the Earth is nothing but a barron wasteland of post-nuclear ash, they will find perfectly good cheese. If you can call it that.
Sitting to the left of Megan, hip-to-hip in the big chair, looking down at her long eyelashes and tan button nose, with my right arm around her, her head and sun-bleached hair in the crook of my elbow, watching her play the 'Hello Kitty' game on her Nintendo DS, listening to her narrate all the 'important' activities she's undertaking to get along in the game, while I take long deep breaths and sip green tea from my warm 'Master Kong Chef's Table' mug I have in my left hand... I think it was my perfect moment of happiness and health. I will try to recreate it again tomorrow.
Michael had his first zit. Pretty sure it was a pimple, a full blown whitehead, right between his eyes. He picked at it last night. And speaking of Lucy-Lawless-sized-feet, Michael's dogs are gettin' big in a hurry. It's all happening too fast!
Michael has a lot of baseball cards now. And he's been watching games on TV. He knows most of the good players. Gone are the days of:
Michael: "Dad, do you know who Albert 'Puh-jawles' is?"
Me: "I think you mean 'Poo-holes'."
Michael: "Oh, yeah, that could be. Is he any good?"
Me: "Albert Pujols? No, terrible, never heard of him. You can trade him to me though."
Is it just me or do individually packaged Velveeta slices last way too long? A million years from now, when the Earth is nothing but a barron wasteland of post-nuclear ash, they will find perfectly good cheese. If you can call it that.
Sitting to the left of Megan, hip-to-hip in the big chair, looking down at her long eyelashes and tan button nose, with my right arm around her, her head and sun-bleached hair in the crook of my elbow, watching her play the 'Hello Kitty' game on her Nintendo DS, listening to her narrate all the 'important' activities she's undertaking to get along in the game, while I take long deep breaths and sip green tea from my warm 'Master Kong Chef's Table' mug I have in my left hand... I think it was my perfect moment of happiness and health. I will try to recreate it again tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Dad Entry #100
Sometimes I think I write too much here, but then I realize 50% of my intended audience can't even read yet. Maybe they'll be interested in about 20 years. Until then, the jury's out.
At Starbucks this morning I saw a little girl with her shoes on the wrong feet. I miss Megan. She's in Kansas City for two weeks.
Megan rode on the scariest roller coaster at "Worlds of Fun" yesterday. She insisted on going. She's only 5; Sara said it was a real ride, like the kind people scream and puke on. She said Megan was terrified. And then exhilarated. And then proud. That is kind of a cool Pavlovian progression of emotions. Or a risk / reward lesson. A thrill, a rush. But do we want her conditioned this way, to 'be brave and try it', to think 'if I don't go, I'll never know'? Yes. Of course not. Maybe. Here we go again. I want her to be confident, adventurous (but cautious), I want her to think, "I can do this..." unless she should think, "This could be trouble..." Yeah, it's why I pray.
I want badly to pitch more BP to Michael. He's playing ball with Papa John in Kansas, and they went to a Royals game. Michael loved it. It's called indoctrination. Next up: watching the MLB Home Run Derby and All-Star Game, followed by a Twins game at Target Field with Papa Mike, followed by the Brewers game at Miller Park, then the White Sox at The Cell, punctuated with the best experience in baseball... watching the Cubs lose at Wrigley! This is an especially ugly year for the Northsiders, our lovable losers; only one other team - out of 30! - has lost more games at the break. Even the Royals have lost one fewer, and beat the Cubs head-to-head. The Twins are always better; they have a great organization up there. We don't care as much about the Brewers or Sox.
I had something special planned for entry #100, based on the "Family Project" survey I did last summer. But I can't do it until the kids return from KC. So maybe #101 will be 'special', or #102.
Megan's tee-ball and Michael's baseball seasons are over. Meg's was mostly a cute-fest. But Michael's got pretty serious during the playoffs. I wasn't ready for that. I haven't wanted a baseball team to win so badly since game 7 of the 2003 NLCS. Greg and I were at the game, ready to celebrate all night in Wrigleyville. Until the Cubs lost.
I played a little trick on Megan. She likes to unlock the condo door now, and she's good at it; her hands are strong and dextrous for as small as they are. But this time the door wasn't locked; I remembered I left it unlocked when I ran out to pick them up. Since I'm ornery, I told Megan as we approached the door, "Wait, I wanna try and unlock it with my mind." Megan stepped aside. I closed my eyes and wiggled my fingers over the lock. Then I turned the knob and it opened. My audience was impressed! (At least the 50% I referenced above.) Megan said, "How did you do that?!" Since a magician never tells, I looked at Michael who was already saying, "It wasn't locked, Megan."
Megan must've been thinking about the lock trick later when she blurted, "Yeah, no person on Earth is magic, right Dad, except for the Tooth Fairy?" Exactly right, Baby.
Is it just me, or do school gyms and cafeterias have the same bouquet of aromas they did when I was a kid? There's a mustiness to them, plus hints of disinfectant, sour milk, frozen pizza, sweaty mats, stinky socks... what else?
Megan is still pretty little. I was folding her laundry and smiling at her skinny jeans, and the fact her shorts are like smaller than an envelope. And then I snapped out of my reverie and thought, wait a minute, short shorts aren't allowed on my daughter. What the hell's goin' on around HERE?!?! Just kidding. Sort of.
At Starbucks this morning I saw a little girl with her shoes on the wrong feet. I miss Megan. She's in Kansas City for two weeks.
Megan rode on the scariest roller coaster at "Worlds of Fun" yesterday. She insisted on going. She's only 5; Sara said it was a real ride, like the kind people scream and puke on. She said Megan was terrified. And then exhilarated. And then proud. That is kind of a cool Pavlovian progression of emotions. Or a risk / reward lesson. A thrill, a rush. But do we want her conditioned this way, to 'be brave and try it', to think 'if I don't go, I'll never know'? Yes. Of course not. Maybe. Here we go again. I want her to be confident, adventurous (but cautious), I want her to think, "I can do this..." unless she should think, "This could be trouble..." Yeah, it's why I pray.
I want badly to pitch more BP to Michael. He's playing ball with Papa John in Kansas, and they went to a Royals game. Michael loved it. It's called indoctrination. Next up: watching the MLB Home Run Derby and All-Star Game, followed by a Twins game at Target Field with Papa Mike, followed by the Brewers game at Miller Park, then the White Sox at The Cell, punctuated with the best experience in baseball... watching the Cubs lose at Wrigley! This is an especially ugly year for the Northsiders, our lovable losers; only one other team - out of 30! - has lost more games at the break. Even the Royals have lost one fewer, and beat the Cubs head-to-head. The Twins are always better; they have a great organization up there. We don't care as much about the Brewers or Sox.
I had something special planned for entry #100, based on the "Family Project" survey I did last summer. But I can't do it until the kids return from KC. So maybe #101 will be 'special', or #102.
Megan's tee-ball and Michael's baseball seasons are over. Meg's was mostly a cute-fest. But Michael's got pretty serious during the playoffs. I wasn't ready for that. I haven't wanted a baseball team to win so badly since game 7 of the 2003 NLCS. Greg and I were at the game, ready to celebrate all night in Wrigleyville. Until the Cubs lost.
I played a little trick on Megan. She likes to unlock the condo door now, and she's good at it; her hands are strong and dextrous for as small as they are. But this time the door wasn't locked; I remembered I left it unlocked when I ran out to pick them up. Since I'm ornery, I told Megan as we approached the door, "Wait, I wanna try and unlock it with my mind." Megan stepped aside. I closed my eyes and wiggled my fingers over the lock. Then I turned the knob and it opened. My audience was impressed! (At least the 50% I referenced above.) Megan said, "How did you do that?!" Since a magician never tells, I looked at Michael who was already saying, "It wasn't locked, Megan."
Megan must've been thinking about the lock trick later when she blurted, "Yeah, no person on Earth is magic, right Dad, except for the Tooth Fairy?" Exactly right, Baby.
Is it just me, or do school gyms and cafeterias have the same bouquet of aromas they did when I was a kid? There's a mustiness to them, plus hints of disinfectant, sour milk, frozen pizza, sweaty mats, stinky socks... what else?
Megan is still pretty little. I was folding her laundry and smiling at her skinny jeans, and the fact her shorts are like smaller than an envelope. And then I snapped out of my reverie and thought, wait a minute, short shorts aren't allowed on my daughter. What the hell's goin' on around HERE?!?! Just kidding. Sort of.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Dad Entry #99
Michael asked if he was Italian (more on that later) so we chatted about ancestry, what it is, what it means. I told him, "I am American, and grateful for it, and you are too, but the term 'American' doesn't really describe ancestry or lineage to me unless you're Native American." Then Michael remembered and said, "Alissa has a friend who is related to Sacajawea!" He was suddenly excited by the possibilities; he said, "Maybe we're related to Lebron James! Or Aramis Ramirez!" Hmmm, okay, so the concept is only loosely understood for now, or it's being loosely applied, the concept of ancestry, but it is exciting, Michael's got that right, and if you go back far enough, I believe, yes, the Cox's are indeed related to Lebron and Aramis.
Megan is on the Diamondbacks since every team is named after an MLB franchise. By coincidence, Michael is on the Diamondbacks in his league, too. We were watching the Cubs play the Rockies on TV. Megan recognized the jerseys and said, "Oh, the Rockies, I know those guys, we played them." I smiled. Did she think they were the same players she faced? (Tulo and CarGo are two of the best on the planet.) Or was she was just matching names? It sure sounded like the former...
Megan overheard some women speaking Spanish. She thought it was cool. I told her, "I can teach you Spanish." Michael told her, "No, me teach you Caveman. It fun. It easy. It annoy grown-ups." It sure does!
I bought a book called "The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman". Bash me for buying the book later. (It was a #1 New York Times Bestseller though.) Honestly, I was interested in the prescribed 'Slow Carb Diet', the benefits of insulin / blood sugar maintenance... the healthy eating part. Really. Now scientists say fat and salt aren't so bad, what's killing us are sugar, HFCS, and refined flour, blah, blah. Anyway, the funny moment: I left the book out and Michael started reading the title before I could whisk it away. So I decided not to bring more attention to it than deserved; I let him read the cover. I cringed and waited. Thankfully, he said, "Dad, what is rapid fat-loss?"
Megan is still a messy eater. I love it when I step in the kitchen and there's a crunch underfoot and it's a cheerio. Or what's left of one. I still try to pick up the particles, you know, get them in a single pinch between thumb and fore-, even though it's only flour now and impossible to clean without a vacuum. I don't like vacuums very much. I'm pretty sure Sara will corroborate. Side note: Aunt Jenny was more afraid of the 'Sweeper' - what we called the vacuum - when we were kids. Or, more precisely, Jenny called it the 'seeper'. (That does sound scary!) Cute-as-pie little Jenny was vigilant; whenever a vacuum came to life, she warned everyone, "Seeper get you!"
We saw a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk. Michael said, "Oh, Dad, in Indiana Jones I saw this, I could use that for a weapon!" Let's hope it never comes to that.
Megan is on the Diamondbacks since every team is named after an MLB franchise. By coincidence, Michael is on the Diamondbacks in his league, too. We were watching the Cubs play the Rockies on TV. Megan recognized the jerseys and said, "Oh, the Rockies, I know those guys, we played them." I smiled. Did she think they were the same players she faced? (Tulo and CarGo are two of the best on the planet.) Or was she was just matching names? It sure sounded like the former...
Megan overheard some women speaking Spanish. She thought it was cool. I told her, "I can teach you Spanish." Michael told her, "No, me teach you Caveman. It fun. It easy. It annoy grown-ups." It sure does!
I bought a book called "The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman". Bash me for buying the book later. (It was a #1 New York Times Bestseller though.) Honestly, I was interested in the prescribed 'Slow Carb Diet', the benefits of insulin / blood sugar maintenance... the healthy eating part. Really. Now scientists say fat and salt aren't so bad, what's killing us are sugar, HFCS, and refined flour, blah, blah. Anyway, the funny moment: I left the book out and Michael started reading the title before I could whisk it away. So I decided not to bring more attention to it than deserved; I let him read the cover. I cringed and waited. Thankfully, he said, "Dad, what is rapid fat-loss?"
Megan is still a messy eater. I love it when I step in the kitchen and there's a crunch underfoot and it's a cheerio. Or what's left of one. I still try to pick up the particles, you know, get them in a single pinch between thumb and fore-, even though it's only flour now and impossible to clean without a vacuum. I don't like vacuums very much. I'm pretty sure Sara will corroborate. Side note: Aunt Jenny was more afraid of the 'Sweeper' - what we called the vacuum - when we were kids. Or, more precisely, Jenny called it the 'seeper'. (That does sound scary!) Cute-as-pie little Jenny was vigilant; whenever a vacuum came to life, she warned everyone, "Seeper get you!"
We saw a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk. Michael said, "Oh, Dad, in Indiana Jones I saw this, I could use that for a weapon!" Let's hope it never comes to that.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Dad Entry #98
Megan might become a lacto-ovo vegetarian. I bought some buffalo jerky at the farmers market and she said, "You eat part of a buffalo body? That's not nice."
Michael is currently fascinated with Braille. I don't blame him; I agree it's remarkable how blind people read. There are signs with Braille in the condo building, e.g. near stairwells and elevators. He has stopped multiple times now to feel and marvel at them.
Megan told me, "When I grow up, I'm gonna live in California." Ok, I guess I won't mind living there... :)
We stop and inspect the carcasses of dead insects a lot.
I wanna see "Kung Fu Panda 2" with the kids this weekend. "There is no charge for awesomeness!" - Po
"Kung Fu Panda" and "Megamind" are my favorites. Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Einstein. Yes, same boat. Humor: The highest form of intelligence. But doing Physics well ain't easy either; my lowest grades in college I think. I loved "How To Train Your Dragon" and "Despicable Me". And "Cars" and "Madagascar" are worth every penny. Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller. Is "Rio" any good? I haven't seen that one yet. Is it as good as "Nemo"?
Megan had her last tee-ball game today. She's a little tentative at the plate. She likes to roll it gently to the left side. I've given her a few tips, not least of all: "Swing harder Sweetheart, let 'er rip!" She's not open to suggestion from me though; she told me, "Daddy, you are not my tee-ball teacher. But maybe someday you can become a professional about hitting." Huh? A pro hitter or pro coach? Professionals? Who's already telling you about the pros? Your brother? (If so, that's awesome, I'm happy he's excited about baseball!) And why don't I possess the unquestioned authority you observe in your tee-ball coaches?! Your old man is the guy you wanna talk to about hitting, Honey-Bunny. And it's 'coach', in sports we call 'em coaches, Coach Walt and Coach Mike, not so much 'teachers'. I should note here that Walt and Mike are terrific coaches, awesome guys, great with the kids. I'm grateful for that. The kids have had wonderful coaches for all their teams so far. I suspect that won't be the case every time, but we'll see. So far so good.
Megan is such a perfect little creature, I ache a bit when I miss her, when traveling for work, even traveling for fun, hunting, whatever. She can be naughty, but she is without a doubt the cutest thing that ever lived.
Michael is currently fascinated with Braille. I don't blame him; I agree it's remarkable how blind people read. There are signs with Braille in the condo building, e.g. near stairwells and elevators. He has stopped multiple times now to feel and marvel at them.
Megan told me, "When I grow up, I'm gonna live in California." Ok, I guess I won't mind living there... :)
We stop and inspect the carcasses of dead insects a lot.
I wanna see "Kung Fu Panda 2" with the kids this weekend. "There is no charge for awesomeness!" - Po
"Kung Fu Panda" and "Megamind" are my favorites. Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Einstein. Yes, same boat. Humor: The highest form of intelligence. But doing Physics well ain't easy either; my lowest grades in college I think. I loved "How To Train Your Dragon" and "Despicable Me". And "Cars" and "Madagascar" are worth every penny. Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller. Is "Rio" any good? I haven't seen that one yet. Is it as good as "Nemo"?
Megan had her last tee-ball game today. She's a little tentative at the plate. She likes to roll it gently to the left side. I've given her a few tips, not least of all: "Swing harder Sweetheart, let 'er rip!" She's not open to suggestion from me though; she told me, "Daddy, you are not my tee-ball teacher. But maybe someday you can become a professional about hitting." Huh? A pro hitter or pro coach? Professionals? Who's already telling you about the pros? Your brother? (If so, that's awesome, I'm happy he's excited about baseball!) And why don't I possess the unquestioned authority you observe in your tee-ball coaches?! Your old man is the guy you wanna talk to about hitting, Honey-Bunny. And it's 'coach', in sports we call 'em coaches, Coach Walt and Coach Mike, not so much 'teachers'. I should note here that Walt and Mike are terrific coaches, awesome guys, great with the kids. I'm grateful for that. The kids have had wonderful coaches for all their teams so far. I suspect that won't be the case every time, but we'll see. So far so good.
Megan is such a perfect little creature, I ache a bit when I miss her, when traveling for work, even traveling for fun, hunting, whatever. She can be naughty, but she is without a doubt the cutest thing that ever lived.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Dad Entry #97
I went through Megan's purse. Was I practicing? For her teenager years? The sneaky rituals and parenting tricks I'll employ. No. Maybe. It depends. No. Whatever, I have ten years before that stage. Or nine. Eight. Six? Actually, I'm more fearful I'll be too passive; I'll trust Megan's moral compass when I should punch her boyfriend instead. I followed the rules when I was a teenager. I said goodnight to my mom every night when I was in high school. I mean when I went out and came home late; I had to walk up to the edge of her bed and tell her I was home (safely). Some nights I tried to keep my distance, and kind of whisper-yell from her bedroom doorway (because I smelled like cheap, skunky beer). My mom would groggily respond, "Ok, goodnight," to my, "I'm home," like she was still halfway under, and I would relax, relieved, and then the next morning she'd ask with a piercing, direct certainty, "So how come you barely stepped into the bedroom last night to say goodnight?" That magical mother sense. But Megan will be fine; I can trust her inner strength. She'll make her own decisions. Put another way: she's stubborn, not easily coerced or convinced to do something like be nice when she's crabby. Does this 'strength' as I've called it - because I'm too nice, naive, or dumb - anyway, does this mean she'll ignore peer pressure? Who knows. Okay, back to Megan's purse. Contents: a notebook, glitter pen, water bottle and rubber band. Pretty benign. Does anyone else remember Geraldo opening Al Capone's secret vault in Chicago during a live, heavily-hyped, special broadcast? Megan's notebook was small; it had stickers in it, mostly hearts and snowflakes. Nothing to worry about. No "I love Justin Beiber" scribbles, over and over, page after page. In Megan's handwriting!! She could easily manage that now if someone helped her spell. Who was her accomplice?!?! Seriously, I just thought it was cute she had a real purse - like a hand-me-down from Mommy custom made at 1154 Lill - and when I moved it from the middle of the hallway (?) I noticed it was very light. Gosh, I hate to say it, but when I think of purses I think of oversized, bulging bags, with straps awkwardly looped over arms, as sunglasses, checkbooks, make-up, and keys spill out, with photo buttons pinned on (of the kids in sports), all attached to a harried woman on some mission like shopping during a big sale or corraling misbehaving kids. I know that's distorted and wrong. But I'm being honest; I'd prefer I thought instantly of a 'red carpet handbag' instead, a designer dress accessory, which is more like a wallet, or a snack-sized-ziploc (one that's a bit more sturdy, pimped-out and colorful, and likely has diet pills or other drugs in it - stimulants, muscle relaxers, hunger cessation supplements, typical hollywood stuff, probably not apple slices or baby carrot sticks like I put in the snack-sized-ziplocs in Michael's school lunches).
Michael's first baseball season is winding down. He's improved; he has a nice swing. He does, however, like almost every second-grader, strike out a lot. It's his first year of 'kid-pitch'. Seven-year-old pitchers are erratic. That's an understatement. After four balls from a player, a coach takes over. But even that makes for a difficult, mid-AB change. A few of the kids cry when they K. Michael's not about to cry, but I can tell it grates on him. So I said, "Name a good player." He said, "Aramis Ramirez." I agreed with him when he said, "It's almost like for some guys I can tell they're good by the sound of their names." I responded with a bad Tim McCarver impression, enunciating "Michael Cox" in a very baseball-friendly, announcer-kinda way. He wasn't convinced. Anyway, Aramiz Ramirez does have a nice ring to it, and yes, he's a good hitter. So I told Michael, "Pay attention, we're gonna google his career stats." In 14 seasons, Ramirez has hit 294 homers. Not too shabby. And he's struck out 922 times, and that's not bad either; it's less often than many - Soriano! - who swing for the fences. Michael was quiet; that means it sunk in. But he still asked me the next day, "Did you strike out when you played baseball?" I said, "Sure, I played a lot of baseball and struck out plenty of times, but I don't think about that, I think about the times I hit homeruns, launched it over the fence, outta the park, and then I got to trot around the bases, now that's a good feeling, and one you'll love too, you can crush it, I've seen you, and that's what we, as hitters, remember. Just go up there and get your hacks. Got it?" He nodded at least. (For the record, what grated on me was if I booted one at shortstop. I hope Michael's just a monster first baseman. That's easier duty over there. You just gotta rake at the plate.)
Michael's first baseball season is winding down. He's improved; he has a nice swing. He does, however, like almost every second-grader, strike out a lot. It's his first year of 'kid-pitch'. Seven-year-old pitchers are erratic. That's an understatement. After four balls from a player, a coach takes over. But even that makes for a difficult, mid-AB change. A few of the kids cry when they K. Michael's not about to cry, but I can tell it grates on him. So I said, "Name a good player." He said, "Aramis Ramirez." I agreed with him when he said, "It's almost like for some guys I can tell they're good by the sound of their names." I responded with a bad Tim McCarver impression, enunciating "Michael Cox" in a very baseball-friendly, announcer-kinda way. He wasn't convinced. Anyway, Aramiz Ramirez does have a nice ring to it, and yes, he's a good hitter. So I told Michael, "Pay attention, we're gonna google his career stats." In 14 seasons, Ramirez has hit 294 homers. Not too shabby. And he's struck out 922 times, and that's not bad either; it's less often than many - Soriano! - who swing for the fences. Michael was quiet; that means it sunk in. But he still asked me the next day, "Did you strike out when you played baseball?" I said, "Sure, I played a lot of baseball and struck out plenty of times, but I don't think about that, I think about the times I hit homeruns, launched it over the fence, outta the park, and then I got to trot around the bases, now that's a good feeling, and one you'll love too, you can crush it, I've seen you, and that's what we, as hitters, remember. Just go up there and get your hacks. Got it?" He nodded at least. (For the record, what grated on me was if I booted one at shortstop. I hope Michael's just a monster first baseman. That's easier duty over there. You just gotta rake at the plate.)
Friday, June 03, 2011
Thursday, June 02, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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?"
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?"
Monday, March 28, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 14, 2011
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!
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, February 28, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
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.
Friday, February 11, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
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?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 14, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 03, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)