Dad Entry #124

The volume of artistic output from my kids is staggering. Thankfully paper is recyclable. If I saved everything, I'd be buried in it. So would you; we like to share! They have shows now about this very phenomenon, 'Hoarders' and 'Buried Alive'. It's awesome (my kids' art, not hoarding); the outpouring of creativity and expression is truly astounding. It does, however, put a strain on my capacity to judge what's keep-worthy. It's a daily struggle. Most of it gets pitched. Tossing one of Megan's drawings can be excruciating. Michael's origami cranes are difficult to let go. There are times I think of saving it all and buying a warehouse, a space to radiate young Michael and Megan vibes, for eternity, just by virtue of the multitudinous masterpieces stored there, works created - sometimes not very painstakingly - by my two favorite artists. The presence of tons, literally, of their beautiful and imaginative energy would just imbue the place with the same feeling I get when I hug them. What a pleasant thought. I'm going to shop for warehouses now.

The Cyclones are in the Big Dance! They square off against defending champion UConn in the first round. What's this got to do with M and m, you ask? Well, they both have Cyclone t-shirts for one thing.

I viewed a talk the other day (on a favorite website, ted.com) given by a passenger on the airplane that emergency landed in the Hudson River in 2009. He said it was terrifying, of course, when the pilot turned off both crippled engines and said only three words, "Brace for impact." He was pretty certain he wouldn't survive based on documentary footage of similar incidents. But a sense of sadness overtook the fear; he explained, "I didn't want to go. I loved my life. And this sadness really framed only one thought. I only wished for one thing. I only wished I could see my kids grow up. About a month later I was in a performance by my daughter, a first grader, not much artistic talent yet (audience laughter), and I'm balling, I'm crying like a little kid, and it made all the sense in the world to me, I realized at that point, by connecting those dots, I realized that the only thing that matters in my life is being a great dad. Above all, above all, the only goal I have in life is to be a good dad." Amen!

Dad Entry #123

Megan has an interesting way of venting when other avenues, mostly crabbing and crying, are exhausted or inadequate. Crying is tiresome and ineffective - as a tool for protest that is - depending on audience and environment. And whining gets you only so far. (Farther with Daddy than Mommy, one might guess. And one would be correct. Go figure.) So how can a girl dissipate that lingering anger? Well, Megan retires to an art-friendly place to practice what I can only describe as a mild form of voodoo. She draws the frustrating person or situation and puts a big X through it. It's not exactly pins in dolls. So I'm not alarmed. Yet. Voodoo appears to be a Haitian thing, and I'm pretty sure Megan's never been there. I know my religious friends of a more orthodox persuasion are likely terrified of voodoo. I don't blame them. In fact, I just fearfully fidgeted a little. But mostly, so far, I'm pleased that Megan is a budding little artist. She has some real drawing talent.

The kids and I are looking for a house. My wish-list is simple; we need three bedrooms and we REALLY need a flat slab of concrete (some driveways work and some don't) for a basketball court. This area cannot be obstructed by trees or the home itself. We'll need arc on our shots and space for baseline maneuverability. Once we've identified the spot (heartlessly chopping down hundred-year-old trees if need be) we'll erect our hoop. Let me be clear: there are crappy hoops and there are good ones. Crappy hoops are flimsy and unsolid and, frankly, as disappointing to me as wet toast. The backboard should be glass that doesn't move AT ALL when the ball is put against it to bank in a shot. The rim is a different animal, of course; it should have a 'breakaway' mechanism for dunks (oh yes, there will be thunderous dunks, but only after lowering the hoop I should add in the spirit of full disclosure... until the kids are both older and taller than me). And our rim needs appropriate bounce too, or 'give', for the kind of shooting and rebounding rolls and touch and feel we're used to from the other hoops we compete under, in school gyms and so on. Hoops like this do NOT go on roofs or gutters (did I mention wet toast), they go in the ground via a big square post and it takes Paul Bunyan or a semi-truck to move them even an inch. And, as I noted above, it must be height-adjustable. I think that covers it. And I guess we'd like a house with indoor plumbing too.

Dad Entry #122

I make a bad-ass Hamburger Helper.

Megan gave me a pair of pajamas yesterday and said, "Donate 'em, Dad." I unwadded the clothing bundle she'd handed me. It was her 'Cuddle Monster' PJ's. "Too small now," she muttered and walked away. It was all very sudden. I guess I hoped she'd wear them forever.

Last night Michael and I landed, somehow, on the subject of 'World's Most Important Jobs.' The phrase itself sounds important; I think that's why I just capitalized it. Anyway, I said, "Well, you know what the most important job is, right?" I think I've mentioned this before because Michael answered quickly and correctly, "Being a great parent." I said, "Bullseye." Then I added, "How am I doin'?" Michael smiled and said, "You're exceeding state standards." Ha! I think he noticed we thought it cute (and maybe, admittedly, we thought it a little silly or nerdy also, but we love him for it and I can be nerdy with the best of 'em!) when he said the same thing in a discussion months ago about his standardized test results from school. He scored in the high 90's percentile - of course :) - in every subject or category. So we were lauding his academic focus and prowess, and he said, "Well, I am exceeding state standards." My son has a great sense of humor. And, uh, does anyone else think that's kind of a tongue-twister? Say 'I am exceeding state standards' 25 times. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.

We're off to the Quad Cities again this weekend to see Grandpa Byard. We'll stay at the same hotel we're pretty familiar with now. A Marriott. Since Dad and Papa Mike both have a zillion Marriott points we just pull in and stay for free. We love the place. It has a pool.

Slips of Paper

Often I write down the insanely adorable things the kids say, and then they float around on my desk for days, months, perhaps years. I just gathered up a few and am posting them so I can finally recycle the paper. Bear with me if I have posted these before.


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While playing doctor with Megan, I was the patient. She checked me head to toe and at one point, she lifted my shirt to check my heartbeat. Following is the ensuing (and confidence-destroying) conversation:

Megan: Is there a cat in the home?

me: No, why?

Megan: Aren't those cat scratches on your tummy?


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Megan: Did you know when you have lice, they like, build little stick houses and stores and a whole life in there?


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January 2011

Megan: I'm feeling tired today. Maybe Jesus went to a store. Maybe he went to a store and he's not watching us or controlling us. Maybe when he goes to a store, people have bad days.


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In response to the info that we can't always buy every single thing that we want and that our money is limited:

Michael: Okay, so like, how thick is our pile?


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June 17, 2010?

Michael: Mommy, this morning, Meggie and I played together.

me: Yes, I know, I heard you.

Michael: While we were playing, there were tears in my eyes.

me: Why?

Michael: I dunno. Tears of joy?


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June 13, 2010?

Michael: Am I ever in your dreams?

me: Sure. You're in my dreams a lot!

Michael: REALLY?!

me: Well, I think about you all the time, so it only makes sense that you'd show up in my dreams.

Michael: Okay. This is going to sound bad. but I don't really think about you very much.

me: Well, I'm a mom and it's my JOB to think about you. You're a kid – your job is learning and growing, not thinking about your mom.

Michael: So I don't ever really dream about you, cause I don't really think about you.

me: Well, I know you love me, so it's okay, buddy. Don't sweat it.


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February 2012

Megan: It would be wierd to be you.

me: It would be wierd to be you.

Megan: Oh, mom. You would LOVE being me.


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Dad Entry #121

Megan is a note-writer. With impressive range. Whether happy or sad, to praise or argue, lavish love or sling venom, she puts it all in letters now. I can sense from non-verbal cues if she's handing me fan- or hate mail, before I've opened the envelope or unfolded the paper. For example, over the weekend I received an 'I LOVE MI DODDY' note from a very smiley and bouncy deliverer. But when I denied Megan a heavy, slippery glass cup in favor of a non-breakable plastic one, I was given the following without eye contact or a smile: 'DER DADDY, WI CAT I YOOS THI GLAS IT IS JUST A GLAS, FROM MEGAN.' I should mention this was written on a store-bought Christmas card with the words "Peace On Earth" over a beautiful dove. Someday we'll discuss the finer point of coordination between a card's printing and what's later hand-written and personalized; I hear it's tacky to scribble 'Happy Birthday' under an embossed 'Thank You'. Megan knows this but will express, on an otherwise happy card, a discrepant complaint or accusation. Mommy and Daddy both get stuff like, 'WI AR YOU BIN MIN' on pink paper, maybe with a butterfly sticker that seems to clash with the theme of us being 'mean'. The good news is, you can get cards at the dollar store. Lots of them. Cheap. So on some level, Sara and I are just happy Megan keeps practicing her writing.

Megan's favorite breakfast is anything with frosting on it.

We went through seven boxes of Kleenex over the weekend. Maybe six. At least five! I'm certain there were four empty boxes in the recycling bag this morning, and a box in the car. And I wasn't using them. The kids have colds.

Megan's a lip-smacker when she sleeps. I stay with her after the bedtime ritual sometimes, while she drifts off. Heaven. I'll be reading via the kindle app on my phone when a small racket starts up next to me, like a beatboxer, or a taste-tester, or a ravenous person without manners. She might carry on for 30 seconds. Megan doesn't snore very often though; she's a stark underachiever compared to family standouts like Uncle Bill. But it's pretty cute when she gives it a try, when she's out cold and saws a log, even if quietly.

I told Megan her birth story the other night, one of her favorite bedtime yarns. I was weaving the usual, with minor embellishments; this one doesn't require any Hollywood-sensationalism to keep her rapt. (Although, Meg's a great story-listener, even if I lay an egg.) So eventually Megan said, "Did you forget about the pan?" I knew what she meant but played dumb. She clarified, "You know, the bedpan, the one Mommy threw up in." I said, "Oh, yeah, I forgot." Megan continued, "Mommy threw up because she saw me and I wasn't Rachel." I smiled - it was a funny thing to hear - but then I assured Meg she wasn't the cause, or at least that wasn't the cause; Mommy got sick because there was too much pressure on her organs. But Meg continued cheerfully, "No, you were gonna name me Rachel or Megan, you hadn't decided, I know it was hard." Yes Honey, it was SO hard, picking Megan or Rachel, and I had to do it I remember, by myself, the toughest part, while Mommy just laid there and gave birth. Seriously though, I realized she was just spicing up her birth story. (I do the same. They named the nursery after me at St. Luke's in Davenport. And erected a statue.) So Megan knows - because we tell her, probably too much - we were nothing but sky-high super-thrilled when she was born. As for the 'pan', well, I was hoping to banish that to forgotten history; it just seems unpleasant and unimportant. But Megan likes this story, her story, and apparently nothing about it is unimportant or trivial. I agree! The pan was actually plastic and kidney shaped; I'm not sure it's even called a bedpan? Would one of you nurses enlighten us, please?

Bedtime Anecdotes

1
My entire family has been hit with a plague. It is dragging on and on...and dragging our spirits down and down. Tonight as Meg was snuggling down for sleep, she was coughing again. I suggested turning on the humidifier and getting her some medicine. She nearly had a heart attack remembering the cough syrup I gave her last time...apparently the off-brand isn't nearly as tasty. As I walked out the door to fetch the meds, she wailed, "No, mommy! I would much rather be miserable coughing all night!"

2
I was telling Megan what a blessing she was. She said, "God gave us to each other," all blissfully. I agreed and told her that, "When he looked at you and decided to send you to me, he made me the luckiest mommy ever." She immediately looked at me like I was an insane person and replied, "Mom. That's not really true. MARY is the luckiest mommy in the world. Mary is luckiest mommy in HISTORY." I stand corrected, Meg.

Revealing signage in the kids' bathroom

Dad Entry #120

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, my clothes were washed without much effort on my part. At a maximum, I delivered them to a closet or placed them in a hamper, I don't recall specifics. Maybe I threw strikes with socks, and sank buzzer-beaters with balled-up jeans. But that was it, the extent of my laundry duties. Although, there were rules; I'm pretty sure leaving items inside-out and tossed about my room was frowned upon. And I think my washing-person (thanks, Mom) appreciated a heads-up if things were caked with mud or permanent markered or somehow in tatters. But these things, like so many others, were noticed and handled with or without any awareness or courtesy from me. Sure, I was yelled at for the unexpected destruction of new or nice outfits. Otherwise, my dirty clothes always quietly reappeared, fluffed and fresh and delightfully scented, as if by magic. At some age I was trusted with the tiny follow-up task of putting my clothes away, jamming them into drawers, from a neatly folded stack left on the bed. But never once did I have to repeatedly wear dirty clothes (despite a desire to do so, perhaps); never once was this important, taken-for-granted service withheld. And now I'm certain it wasn't magic, because I'm the magician. The circle of life. Illustrated by laundry. As I've mentioned before, it's heartwarming, even if tedious, to fold a pile of princess socks, undies with rainbows and butterflies, delicates with kittens and bows. As long I fold laundry while watching Sportscenter, or some hunting show, I can admit, appreciate, and write about the smile this puts on my face.

Michael and I are taking archery together. We both hit multiple bulls-eyes last week. We're proud. We're improving, and our instructors are Olympic caliber shooters. For real; I'm not kidding for once. We use recurve bows; of course the one I use is much larger, and my arrows are longer, than Michael's. They provide the gear. It's great; I'm happy and grateful Sara found the course in the Palatine Park District catalog and signed us up. I suffer a bit of a dilemma when shooting a bow, just as with a shotgun, since I'm right-handed but left eye dominant. Michael doesn't have this excuse :) I think it helped me in baseball, however, as a righty hitter. So go the pros and cons of our God-given physicalities, each unique, and if you think about it, miraculous. Like I tell my kids: you are the technology. The standard, the amazing thing. Not that Motorola smartphone you're playing games on, not your Xoom tablet, your DS, your Wii, the television, the car, the Space Shuttle even... YOU! The best and brightest engineers can't create it, or recreate it, what God has given you. For free! Use it! Enjoy it. And please take care of it, for your own sake, and, I'd humbly suggest, to show your gratitude.

Dad Entry #119

I was washing Meg's hair in the bath yesterday when she said, "Watch out, I'm about to fart!" Sure enough, her warning was abruptly followed by a water-muffled – but very recognizable! – sound, and then a rising formation of bubbles. Thankfully, the passion fruit shampoo was strongly scented. There was a momentary battle for aromatic supremacy, if you will, in my nostrils. But Megan's fumes aren't very noxious. Of course not. Michael's, however, are downright peel-the-paint deadly. He could win contests. He's right up there with Uncle Scott when it comes to abilities of this sort. Uncle Scott... to be honest, it's a painful memory. He locked the windows of his Jeep Cherokee onetime and then dropped a chemical weapon that nearly killed his passengers, me and Papa Mike. I recall writhing and clawing at the window controls to no avail. The black curtain was closing (mercifully, I was blacking-out) but Papa Mike’s cacophonous hacking and gagging jarred me awake again. Neither of us were granted trauma-induced amnesia, which is tragic, but it's why we can corroborate, to this day, the claim that Uncle Scott is in a league of his own. He has no peers. Yeah, on second thought, I can't put Michael at the same potency level as Scott. Michael's young, he hasn't mastered the art yet, tinkered with every type of food and beer; he might describe himself as just a Padawan. But some day.... God help us if we end up with two Jedi's in the family. And during an otherwise pleasant moment – and in a poorly ventilated area – they decide to do battle.

Megan is good at spilling things.

We have fashion emergencies occasionally when Daddy's place doesn't have enough pants, or jeans, or shirts or skirts or leggings or headbands or blouses or sweaters or hose choices, et cetera, et cetera. And they’re four-alarmers according to Meg, dire emergencies. Truthfully, I agree and sympathize. Really, I do. I don't like having mismatching or limited clothing choices either. Mommy and I do our best to make sure this happens rarely.

Megan has my eyebrows. According to Sara, anyway. I was smiling when Sara pointed this out – I'm proud of everything I share with Megan – but then I realized it wasn't a happy announcement. I get it; I understand why it's bad news. Fast-growing, thick, bushy, coarse, unruly, gnarly, dark eyebrows like mine aren't ideal on a beautiful little female face. Fine. Megan might rather have a pair with smaller footprints, and of a thinner, lighter composition. She might prefer eyebrows she won't have to painfully pluck and groom… forever. Sorry, Meg. But I think they're perfect. I think YOU are perfect.

On Friday night, we went to the Palatine High School girls basketball game. Michael won tickets as part of a reading program at Sanborn. It was great; the kids were excited by it all, the players and cheerleaders, the exuberant announcer and even louder buzzer!! There were flag-twirlers and dancers and a spirited halftime show. Sara asked Megan, "Hey Sugar-Bean, would you rather be a basketball player or a cheerleader?" Megan said, "Neither, I wanna be a veterinarian." Megan's a big-picture gal.

A New Cousin! Andrew Squish-A-Lish

The squooshiest baby that ever was! The kids were thrilled to be there to meet their new cousin, Andrew Jonathan, on January 12th. Megan was flagrantly smitten – Michael was a little more secretive about it. Megan is now an expert on all things childbirth (so might I recommend not bringing it up) and plotted ways to take Andrew home with her. I did not hesitate to foil her big plans. Now I am itching to see him again and kinda wish we had sneaked him out the door with us.

Dad Entry #118

Last night Megan said, "Michael doesn't like me. He doesn't like me even a little bit." This wasn't a shocking charge by any means; the kids spar a lot and Michael often appears indifferent or annoyed at all-things-Megan. But, of course, Megan is a huge planet in Michael's universe. Michael loves her; he's always aware of her - whether he lets on or not - and I've seen him adamantly defend her if things approach any seriousness with others. (This is good.) So I tried to allegorize Michael's true feelings by telling Meg, "Sweetheart, if you moved to Africa, Michael would miss you terribly. He would cry." Megan thought for a moment and said, "Yeah, but do you know who would cry the most?" I answered, very theatrically (and truthfully!), "Me, of course! I would cry the most! I would cry like a big fat humongous baby!" Megan said, "No, you would stop before Mommy. You would stop crying after, like, a lot of days but Mommy would cry everyday forever." It was a crazy scenario to consider, her moving to Africa, but all the crying it would cause seemed to cheer Megan up.

I visited Grandpa Bev in Clearwater over the weekend. Awesome. She is so awesome. Uncle Wayne is too, and Ursula, and Dick. Really, really enjoyed a night out with Wayne. A remarkable guy, of course. We covered a lot of ground discussing philosophy, spirituality, marriage, the family. We drank a lot. And we had an altercation. Wayne, on some level, seems to attract them. He's an alpha in the purest sense. Pretty fearless. (Like Papa Mike, I would say.) Some guy mouthed off to him at the bar and I new instantly it would escalate. Wayne was right; the guy needed to be challenged, and Wayne - who has taken and given more beatings than I ever will probably - did a fine job. The guy was threatening to split Wayne's head open or some nonsense, when the guy's friends pulled him away. I was taller and younger - believe it or not - than anyone immediately involved, and these things are almost always all talk nowadays, so I just stood by Wayne and was okay with it all. It did, however, raise my blood pressure and Wayne, as cool as ever, poked a little fun at me afterward, for my shifting eyes and quicker speech, even after things had abated. It makes we wonder how/when/why/where Michael will encounter and participate in these kind of male rituals, these conflicts. Every man gets into it with other guys, and takes and gives some abuse, whether physical or emotional, I don't think it matters; it's a fight. Is it better or worse that we live in such a litigious society? You could argue - because just punching someone can lead to so much legal trouble - we're less inclined to go that route. Perhaps we're more policed, as well, in the neighborhoods I go, at least, on the northside of Chicago. Southside = different story. But I don't see many fights. Although you hear more about guns, these days, in clubs and bars. I would guess Michael will be more of a big-picture peacemaker like me, and maybe a little less in-the-moment like Uncle Wayne and Papa Mike. Honestly, I don't know which 'way' I'd prefer he be; I don't know which way anyone is, for sure. I think it's silly to absolutely label people as one type or another. I know this, however; I hope Micheal's big, strong, quick, and capable, regardless what his methods are for defusing or resolving these situations.

Michael possesses a nice equanimity. And it's nice for him! Not just for his family, his friends, and everyone else he encounters. It's awkward for others when a person has anxiety or anger or attention or arrogance issues, sure, (let's call them 'self-control issues') but it's the perpetrator who suffers most, obviously, in the long run, if not immediately. I really admire Michael's disposition, his temperament, his presence. It's more my style. Is it stupid for me to say that, since I'm his father? Maybe not, I mentioned some other guys in his family above. And I admire many things about them, too.

Dad Entry #117

This comment is perhaps random, silly, and uninteresting (gee, maybe I should stop there) but the concept of personal preference fascinates me. It truly differentiates us all. What does it reveal? I don't know. Gotta ask someone like Sigmund Freud, I guess. Although, on second thought, I'd prefer we look through the lens of a less, well, honest-but-awkward psychoanalyst. Anyway, one of my favorite scenes is the quick-mart / gas station stop on a roadtrip with the kids. We did this a few times during holiday travels. "Pick a snack," I say. Vegas won't even put odds on Megan's choice; chocolate is a shoo-in. She will, however, select a granola bar if I nix the candy. And bottled water is almost certainly her drink. A creature of habit. Michael's less predicable (in this meaningless scenario, at least). His instant preoccupation is with beverages (uh-oh), not candy. He browses the glass-doored coolers first. Or he'll ask for a slurpee or slushy before we even step inside. And he prefers salty snacks to sugary ones. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?! Nothing, really, it's just something else to drone on about. Although, the following question is important, and very mysterious: How is it my kids don't love cheese curls? I mean love, as in LOVE, as in preferred over all else. Because that's the way I love cheese curls. That's the aisle I run to. Sure, my kids enjoy Cheetos. But not with any fervor! Not with insatiable lust! So why is that? Cheese curls are hands down the best snack ever invented - the inventor, without question, deserves a Nobel or knighthood or sainthood or something - and the strength with which I hold this conviction, the depth with which it's ingrained in my bones and being, the quenchlessness of my cravings... it must be hereditary, right? It must be present somewhere on that crazy helix, the color-coded toylike thing scientists say is my DNA. RIGHT?! So wouldn't it have passed to my children? I guess not. Maybe it's a recessive gene. Oh, so I can blame it on Sara? Way to go, Mommy; you ruined it for them.

Back in DE#116 (my new super-creative abbreviation scheme), I mentioned that my sweet Meg-Pie voiced her aversion to sweating, or, presumably, activities that induce this vexing, discomforting, annoying, chafing - horrible! - response to physical activity and effort. (I like to sweat, and so do millions of other people, but this isn't about us, this is about the cutest girl on the planet.) So anyway, I want to revisit this, and assure you Megan's not exhibiting any kind or imperious hyper-feminity. She's no tom-boy; but she's no diva, either. She's Megan. She still gets food on her face. And leaves it there. In public, even. And it's no bizarre fashion statement, ala Gaga, or goth or grunge. And Megan gets the worst chapped lips EVER! Again, not very womanish. But she does like fancy outfits, not-very-subtle ensembles with scarves and hairbands and gaudy accessories. At church, especially, she is always fabulously dressed and shod, and sometimes freshly mani-ed and pedi-ed (but never spray-tanned, thank God). And Megan likes to nest and organize too; there's a real streak of nurturer in there (a trait often considered more feminine than otherwise). But she'll roughhouse and wrestle with Michael and me.... So there you go, as with all of us - especially women! - Megan is too complex to characterize.

Dan Entry #116

Michael was pretty great over Christmas. I don't think it's overstate-able. I'm not exaggerating when I say he was perfectly fun, polite, positive, active, thoughtful, grateful... in a word, awesome. It's not everyday a man feels pride when compared to an 8-year-old, but I'm proud when my mom / Grandma Barb says, "He's like you, Dan." We both have flaws, but I know my heart's big and in the right place, and his is too. He has such a refreshingly sanguine disposition. I did have a thought regarding Christmas, though.... does Megan deserve some credit for this rose-colored recollection of Michael? Does an angel look more like an angel next to someone who is not? My sweetheart wasn't entirely sweet. Overall, she was a jewel - of course - but she had some all-too-public issues with crabbiness and gift-receiving-etiquette-and-gratitude. It's true, we had one of those moments. She didn't like one of her presents and protested. She didn't hold back much. It was a bit shocking. I had to pick my jaw off the floor and whisk her away for a brusque one-way conversation. She was exhausted, and over-excited, sure, but those excuses are inadequate. I would still, however, summarize Christmas 2011 this way: my kids were terrific and I'm very grateful for them and we had a fantastic holiday. But... was I rooting for some random rotten kid to throw a tantrum in church while Megan sat there beautifully quiet and cherublike? Absolutely! And did I feel bad when Megan saw her presents from Santa and blurted, "He didn't bring me coal!" No! I did not! Megan knew she'd screwed up the night before - and she was scolded for it - despite some continued defiance. She's a stubborn little thing. I hope that strength is always focused in a positive direction. If so, it will serve her well.

Megan said, "Daddy, you make the best frozen waffles!" Talk about proud moments in my life. My cooking skills are improving - with recipes that don't involve anything frozen - but this dubious praise reminded me I'm still no Jamie Oliver.

We were talking about the kids' organized activities the other day. I asked Megan if she wants to play T-ball again. She said, "No." I said, "Why not?" She said, "I tried it and I didn't like it." I said, "But it looked like you enjoyed it, Honey." She said, "Yes, but I remember that time I sweated." Oh dear....

I am struggling a little now with having one of each, a son and a daughter, a boy and a girl. I love it - pretty sure that's obvious - but it presents challenges. Michael doesn't like Barbies; Megan doesn't love open gym. Megan wants a bedtime story about puppies; Michael wants one about pirates. And so on. Megan's not a fan of Clone Wars; Michael doesn't like Mickey Mouse. (I think it's cute Meg still likes Mickey's Playhouse; probably because it's interactive and musical.) And apparently Megan doesn't like to sweat.

Yesterday, Michael called Megan 'an insignificant little child'. Yikes. So Megan called Michael 'dumb'. Simple, but effective. It was a tough bout to score, but I ruled it a draw. As usual, I was impressed with Michael's use of vocabulary. And he wields condescension with a surgeon's precision. His word-choice was notable, but so was his delivery, equal parts contentious and dismissive. Well done. As for Megan's response, upon further examination I found it less simple than at first glance. Her uncaring, cheerful aloofness was perhaps very calculated, and strenuously maintained, despite the sting of Michael's opening volley. See, Megan is not one to remain composed during emotional moments without effort. And Megan's cuter than a box full of kittens. There's that. So I deemed the performances of both combatants exceptional. Therefore, a draw.

Dad Entry #115

Christmas is here! Almost. The trees are up, lights are out, carols are looping. Catalogs are being combed, lists drafted (and then redrafted, appended, expanded, rebroadcasted). Actually, the kids haven't been too frenzied about it. Michael basically asked for... books. Only books. We had to prod him to include toys. We were like, "Dude, you're eight. And it's Christmas." Thankfully - or we would've felt like austere or puritanical parents - Meggie wants a million things. Although, that's not true either; she's not exactly ravenous. She's been more chirpy with gift ideas, though, which has Sara and I back to thinking we're normal, slouchy parents. Thank God. Megan's even had a few bouts of mind-changing and indecision, which has frustrated some attempts to buy for her. Legos or dolls, dolls or Legos? Just pick one! Santa needs to know! Megan's fondness for Legos is cute; it hearkens back to her toddler days of doing big-pieced wooden puzzles. She likes to piece things together. And Christmas isn't complete without Nicolas (our 'Elf on the Shelf'). He's confounding Megan again this year (or terrifying her, we're not sure which). Meggie's amazed by his nightly relocation, but also a bit creeped out. I don't blame her. Pretty sure there are horror movies with 'Elf on the Shelf' characters in them. As for Michael, well, he still accepts Nicolas and Santa with the kind of positive aplomb he accepts most things.

Michael's playing bball again. Good man. He's big. We just gotta work on those hands.

We went to 'Go Roma' for dinner a few nights ago. It's one of Meggie's fave restaurants. I ordered the tilapia. Meg looked at it and said, "Is that fish?" I nodded. She said, "I'm gonna pray for that fish tonight, Dad. That fish is an animal, it's not nice to eat it." For real? Where did Megan hear that? Oprah? Ellen? Who knows.

Speaking of food, I noticed, recently, a disturbing deformity plaguing every single item on a kitchen cabinet shelf. Cereal, granola bars, fruit roll-ups, crackers... all the same. I'm still investigating, but would hazard the following: my kids are really bad at opening new food boxes. I mean in a manner that renders them not ripped and destroyed. Lid flaps beware; you will be shredded. And that stupid, little, paper-thin tab that's supposed to be a latch? Ha, torn off and discarded already.

I took the kids to the Secret Shop at Sanborn. Their grade school hosts a holiday pancake breakfast along with a sort of impromptu venue for gift shopping, a portable market with themed tables full of assorted trinkets and gadgets (mostly inexpensive, ugly things... just kidding). There are tables with knick-knacky toys, sport paraphernalia, jewelry, stuff for pets, and so on. The kids can pick presents for loved ones. And it's all them; they browse and decide on their own. The results are often entertaining. You guys all got fabulous gifts. Oh yes! You better wear and display and use them with pride!

Dad Entry #114

The kids are doing well in school. We had parent-teacher conferences. Michael's glowing review from Mrs. Gasunas included accolades and anecdotes like – this was my favorite – “I wish I had 20 Michael’s in my class” and – Sara’s favorite – “Michael made Thanksgiving cards for everyone. On his own; it was not an assignment.” Megan’s ahead of the curve also; she enjoys learning, is energetic, artistic, well-behaved, social but capable of independence, only moderately moody, and – with the exception of an occasional ‘3’ written backwards or moments of confusing ‘b’ and ‘d’ – she's wicked smart! Just like Mom and Dad. And she's exceptional with scissors. Mrs. Kravitz showed us a project that involved cutting. Megan is very precise! Why is scissor-work the most important, you ask? Well, it's proof of her superior fine motor skills. I'm proud of this because I know – with ZERO doubts whatsoever – that her all-star hand-eye coordination is of patriarchal lineage. Megan might play a great shortstop someday like her Daddy. Although, Papa John’s a good golfer and ballplayer, too. So maybe she gets it from the Ploehn’s also, whatever; M & M are like the rest of us, a great swirling mixture of remarkable ancestors. Sara and I are feeling lucky today; M & M – or 'M & m' as Sara writes it – are pretty terrific. Of course, these sentiments are subject to review and minor downgrade at any moment, especially during their teenage years, or, hell, after mornings like yesterday when Megan woke up crabby, so Michael – in accordance with a practiced skill of his – threw gas on the fire. He can be impressively snooty and snappy with her, always at the wrong time. Although, he considers it perfect timing, I’m sure. Things can deteriorate to pandemonium except that I’m a Super-Dad and I squash it immediately. Or not.

I was thinking the other day about Michael’s very first reaction to Megan, when Mommy was still in the hospital bed, and Gramma and Grammie brought Michael into the room, and there was this noisy little hours-old blanket-bundle with a cute face – Megan – being lavished with affection, so clearly the new center of the universe…. Naturally, it didn't take long for Michael’s feelings on the matter to crystallize. He was not a fan! “Put it away,” he said. And the next day when it was time for everyone to go home, he was pretty adamant about wanting to leave Megan at the hospital.

Michael informed us a few days ago, "I am exceeding the state standards in every subject." Alright then. I guess that’s good. Well done, Son. I’m not making fun; Michael's bright and eager to learn, and this attitude, harnessed and directed appropriately, will make his life more fulfilling. In the meantime, maybe the government should ask for his solutions to the debt crisis? Perhaps the UN could brief him on world hunger and consider his proposals? I'm sure physicists are wondering where he stands on a unified field theory.

Yes, Michael's a bookworm. He consumes books like Papa Mike does salt. Grammie salts everything too, I think. Except for melon, which Michael was a little perplexed too observe Papa John doing one beautiful summer day. He reported to me this bizarre behavior and I shared with him my philosophy: cucumbers, French fries, and corn-on-the-cob. Those three. That’s it.

M, M and A (Annabelle) pics

Kiss From Anna


Bedtime


Still Sleepy in the Morning

Another Halloween Pic: Megan's Candy List

Halloween 2011

The Face That Launched a Thousand Nicknames

Megan
Meg
Meggie
Meg-O
Scrambled Megs
Zegzan
Peg
Peggy
Peg Peg
Peglet
Meglet
Nutmeg
Meg Pie
Peg Pie
Mei Mei
Pei Pei
Mimi
Meems
Moo
Lulu
Laylie
Loolie


I feel relatively certain I will add to this list as I talk to her, so I am sure you will all want to check back to this riveting post.

Dad Entry #113

Halloween was a success. By my metrics, anyway, which include things like: 1) Megan didn't fall ass-over-teakettle bounding down concrete patio steps in her too-long, hoop-y wedding dress and heels, and 2) Michael's nasty cough subsided long enough for him to trick-or-treat, and 3) The neighbor pulled a wagon with beers hidden in a blanket-covered false bottom, and 4) Michael got two lemonhead candies - big ones, shooter-marble-sized - which I promptly stole to enjoy next week when posting up at the end of some long creek bed, swale, cornfield, or finger of forest waiting for pheasants to fly out. Life is good.

Megan asked me repeatedly, "What are you going to be for Halloween, Dad?" She never seemed bummed that my responses were insincere or noncommittal, "I'm gonna be a Jedi," or, "I'm not sure Honey, what do you think I should be?" Her answer? A prince. She is so awesome. I think I better dress up next year. At least in an Elvis wig and sideburns and sunglasses. Not a prince but a king, the king. Or maybe my dad still has one of his old leisure suits, that'd be enough.

Megan is spelling an important word correctly now. Luv is Love. I prefer the former - which she's scribbled on several notes for me - but I've grudgingly endorsed the proper spelling.

Michael and I watched Iowa State pound Texas Tech on Saturday. On the road in Lubbock. The Cyclones just ran 'em over, 41-7. Over 300 yards rushing. I tried to conceal my surprise from Michael. I was pacin' and freakin' until it was almost like, dude, relax, even the Bears couldn't come back from this deficit. I sensed my nervousness had leaked out a tiny bit - like when I lept out of my chair and flexed and growled on touchdowns and turnovers - so for Michael's benefit, I nonchalantly mumbled a few things like, "Piece o' cake, on the road in Texas is ALWAYS a Cyclone victory." Whether Michael caught it as a reference to ISU's victory in Austin last year, as well, I'm not sure. The Cyclones were a freight train and I'm proud.

Dad Entry #112

Megan was looking at something on my Xoom tablet. She said, "Daddy, it isn't stuff about me?" I said, "What?" She said, "I don't see stuff about me." I inquired further and discovered she was Googling herself. Ha! She had entered her name - "Megan Cox" - into the Google search field and was examining the results. She said, "I wanna find pictures of me, like when I was a baby!" Awesome. Michael's been Googling things lately (don't worry, he's always properly supervised) and apparently his little sister has caught on. Although, I suppose, not entirely... when you're only 6 you don't comprehend how big the world is. Then in school, maybe, you're led to believe our planet is expansive and diverse - and it is, of course, in many ways - before you circle back again, and question that, and recognize how, in other ways, it's not as big as you thought... or so it's been for me; I seem to alternate between those polar sentiments. I experience 'small world' moments, chance encounters, six degrees of separation, the human condition. Then I think of the volume of space at the deepest parts of our oceans, miles and miles below the surface; apparently there are even lifeforms there, eyeless fish, giant squids, enormous spider crabs (I learned this with Michael). Or I think why haven't I set foot on the African continent yet? Why haven't I been to India, or Brazil, or Fenway?

Michael is going to be Joe Mauer for Halloween. Not bad. A very relaxed, pure hitter.

Then there's Megan. Oh, Megan. A bride? Really? Can't that wait, Sweetie-heart, for, well, ever?!?!

Megan doesn't read much yet, only 'sight words' or little 'popcorn words' as they're taught in kindergarten. So when she 'reads' aloud to herself, she's aided by pictures and perhaps some memory (of an earlier adult reading), but otherwise it's imagination, improv, off-the-cuff. She's pretty good at it! She provides great meandering, colorful narration for each page, stories within stories superbly expressed. I shall hereby present to you a sterling example: Megan was reading a book about puppies and said, "She nestled him in warmness." That is a knockout, awesome sentence! Original, fluid, with an active verb, full of feeling but not too wordy, and it elicits a sort of sensory recognition or memory. Right?! It's a homerun, touch 'em all, Baby! I mean didn't just hearing that sentence make you feel warm and cozy? Even though I guess it's about a girl holding her puppy. Whatev. It's choice. The work of a master. My daughter! My lyricist, poet, wordsmith... my angel! I wish I could do that, like Megan, put words together so perfectly. I was just reminded of something, a bonus question: "It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up." What character? What car?

New Ralph Lauren Ad (except her clothes are from Target)

Dad Entry #111

I love to watch Megan sleep. Yeah, still; it hasn't changed. Will I feel this way forever? I've decided it isn't creepy. Her college roommates might disagree. Her husband? Well, my hope is he'll have a daughter of his own, he'll understand, he'll call and say, "Ok, she's sleepin', come on over and watch her for a few, then we'll have a beer." Perfect. Except, I'll wanna peak in on my granddaughter, too. Just for a minute. That'd be swell. Sounds crazy, sure, but why would I feel any differently about Megan 30 years from now? I'll always appreciate her in peaceful repose - won't I? - as one stares for a moment at a masterpiece of art, reflecting on its timeless beauty, marveling at the creative forces that somehow produced it. Am I getting ahead of myself? I mentioned a while back that Megan was so perfectly occupying a sweet-spot of cuteness. And I lamented my belief it would end soon; I envisioned it as more of a peak than a plateau. I was wrong. Megan hasn't exited any sweet-spot yet, even though she's six now, and she was three or four back then. Her skinny jeans, her questions and comments, her voice (when it's not whiny), anything at all that she utters, her pigeon-toed-ness, her little girl imagination and thought processes, her doll-playing, her drawings, her laugh, her skirts and shirts and shoes and books... everything about her is still pretty damn cute.

Michael went to his first NFL game last Sunday. Adrian Peterson scored three TDs for him in the first quarter. AP cuts quicker than anyone in the game; it's an impressive thing to see in person. The Vikings hosted the Arizona Cardinals at the Dome. Papa and Gramma have great seats, and it's the loudest sports venue I've ever been to, a sea of screaming purple. Michael and I agreed afterwards we're still Bears fans, but it was awesome. When they blare Led Zeppelin's 'Immigrant Song' - "I come from the land of the ice and snow!" - I wanna run onto the field and tackle someone. Or everyone! I'm not sure Michael was as goose-bumped as I was at various points and plays, but it was a critical first step in the process of full-on indoctrination. Michael plays football at school now with friends. I did too for many years. Life is good.

It is impossible for my children to brush their teeth without getting toothpaste all over the sink and surrounding countertop. The only uncertainty is whether it'll be a mess of old-school white paste, or globs and streaks of blue gel. We have both.

The kids came to Motorola yesterday for lunch. They were excited. Me too. They both have multiple cell phones I've given them, ones that are old or don't make calls reliably - fallout from product development and defect resolution efforts :) - but have functional cameras, camcorders, speakers, WiFi, touchscreens, sensors, and everything else, most importantly they're capable of running all the games / puzzles / apps the kids install from the Google Android Market. They know their whiz-bang devices were designed and developed where their dad works. I hang a picture over my desk that Michael colored and wrote on a few years ago, in first grade I think; he finished the sentence, "When I am older I hope to follow in the footsteps of 'Dad. He makes phones. He is nice to me.'"

And Her Sixth Year Arrives

As I flip through these photos, I am shocked that our little girl is turning six years old. How did that happen? How does she already have all these little friends? How is she old enough to need to navigate social situations that come from multiple friendships? But here we are. And she'll only keep growing. Her birthday party was at the pool...and it made her so happy! That's usually my goal. Unless she's being stubborn, and then my goal is to be more stubborn than her, regardless of how ridiculous the topic is or how miserable it makes her when I win. Did I just say that out loud?

Take THAT, Floppy Tooth

Even a tooth that wants to hang on by a thread for weeks can't survive music class, baby! My little girl lost her first tooth on the eve of her 6th birthday...awesome!

Dad Entry #110

Michael doesn't like to be wrong. He likes admitting it even less. I've never encountered this trait before. I've never seen a bear crap in the woods either. Okay, I've seen the former, but only a million times. Sarcasm aside, I should add this about Michael: he isn't wrong very often.

My kids have a shitload of books. Sorry, but that statement needed emphasis. Profanity works pretty well for that. If you've ever been to a movie, or a ballgame, or a bar, or a meeting at work, you know it's true. I don't recommend it, but nobody's perfect. So everywhere I turn now I see books, kids books, on the shelves - duh! - but also on the tables, chairs, beds, counters, ottomans, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the hallway, in my car. I love it.

When I think about the things I know my kids will go through, as they grow, it's a tiny bit heartbreaking. Michael and Megan are lucky - and I am too - compared to many. But I'm not talking about poverty and destruction, severe emotional and physical pain. At least I hope I'm not! I'm talking about other 'things', as I've precisely labeled them. Difficult things. Moments of nervousness, embarrassment, sadness, betrayal, guilt. These are painful experiences too. I don't want my teenagers to cry. But they will. Prized friendships will explode - if only temporarily. They'll be rejected by the only person they'll ever love (until, a week later, they discover the next 'only person they'll ever love'). They'll make mistakes that hurt others, too. There will be accidents and missed opportunities. They'll take speech class. And then the 'only person they'll ever love' will be sitting in the front row - not even listening but this won't register - when a notecard is fumbled or missing, when cottonmouth and clamminess attack! I don't see how it's possible, but at some point my kids will experience failure, be disrespected, mocked, wrongly accused, overlooked, ignored, under-appreciated (or over-appreciated, this can have ill effects too). These things leave marks. I think of the prayer in Gethsemane, "Father, take this cup." But we are pushed into growth and change this way, like everyone else, a part of the awesomeness - thank you, Po - of being human; we are so similar. It's all good. I guess. I read a simple quote the other day: "Kids are inherently strong, not weak." True. I also read something like, "We should remember that childhood and young-adulthood are not preparation for life, but a significant portion of life itself." Also true. I wonder if my kids will even use notecards for speeches? They probably get teleprompters now.

Dad Entry #109

Megan saw a Sikh at the grocery store yesterday. He was wearing the customary turban (also the bracelet, another trademark). Megan giggled and said, "He looks like he tells fortunes." Hmm. Not exactly PC. I couldn't help but laugh. I've worked with Sikhs at Motorola, and know they would've chuckled at her comment, also. I respect them and their spiritual devotion and discipline, and I share with them many beliefs (e.g. belief in One Almighty God, belief in the equality of all humankind, recognition of certain obstacles to spiritual growth and wellbeing). I suppose I should've explained to Megan the turban has religious significance. But I didn't. Speaking of fortune-teller costumes, Halloween is next month!

Megan is writing phonetically now and it's AWESOME! Example: DIR MOMMY WIL U GIV ME THE UMIRGN DOL BED. Translation, although none is needed: Dear Mommy, will you give me the American Doll bed. (This was a birthday present idea.)

Holy shit, Michael has hair on his legs! Like darkish, noticeable leg hair. It's really got Sara freaked out. Me too, I guess.

Megan has not outgrown messy eating. After every meal, My Gorgeousness still has food smudges on her nose and crumbs in her eyelashes. And the corners of her mouth, her cheeks, her clothes, the chair she's sitting in, the floor around her... they all bear evidence of eating, like massive amounts of eating. I think, Geez Megan, did you get any food in your mouth?!

Sometimes I feel like Megan calls for me a lot when I'm with her. I mean A LOT. "Daddy, watch me!" and "Daddy, look at this!" and "Daddy, I need you!" She'll say, "Daddy, come see this part!" when I've turned on Cartoon Network precisely so I can peel away to do some chore. Megan's good about playing alone - as is Michael - at certain times; she plays with her dolls and I can hear her narrating dramatic scenes and conversations in her play area. But I feel a bit frustrated when she seems to pepper me with constant instructions, even if they're cheerful and bracketed by 'please' and 'thank you'. I do, however, know it won't be like this forever; some day her requests - dare I say 'commands'! - will be fewer. She won't need help reaching and moving and fixing simple things, bathing, drying, brushing hair, reading, writing, preparing food, working the TV, and so on. Someone else will zip up the backs or her dresses. When that day comes... I will be sad.

There are numerous things you revisit as a parent, fascinating things, simply because your children learn about them, and it's been 25 years or whatever since you learned about them, in detail, things we've mentioned here before like ancient Egypt, giant squids, outer space, electricity, pirates and vikings, tadpoles, lightning bugs, marsupials, magicians, bows and arrows and canons... the list is long. The latest thing that fascinates me - other than the entire human body, an appreciation I got from Megan! - is the spider web. Yeah, crazy, I know, the spider web. Megan and I were in the condo hallway yesterday and a spider was dangling right in front of us. The only explanation was that it had spun a strand of web from the ceiling, straight down about 5 feet long. It was not a big spider, and I was thinking Where the hell does all this web material come from? How does it create a rope, from material it houses internal to itself, strong enough to hold its own weight, that is hundreds of times the length of its own body? Clearly it's not a very voluminous material; it's super-thin and really, really strong. I voiced my nagging incredulity to Megan. She agreed. "How is this possible?" I asked her. She didn't answer. Nature is simply amazing sometimes. For the record - I just Googled it - spider 'silk' as it's called, has the tensile strength of high-grade steel (I've heard this before) and is about half as strong as Kevlar. Not bad. Kevlar can stop a bullet. That's how hard it is to pull it apart; same as steel. Did you know spiders produce different types of silk for different uses? And who teaches them web design? I know it's a popular field these days, but still. That was a stupid play on words, but lets hear it for spiders, Megan and I think they're pretty fascinating.

Dad Entry #108

I’m in China again, just arrived, I'm in the backseat of a car leaving the airport as I type this. It’s 4:04 AM my time, 5:04 PM local. PM, just to be clear; night is day and day is night now. I’m bleary-eyed but ready for that tug-of-war with jet lag (commanding myself to 'stay awake' late in the day and then the seemingly contradictory order to 'go back to sleep' when I awake hyper-alert at 3 AM). No big deal. My driver is always able to hail me among the throng of arriving passengers departing customs, which is bordered by another mob hugging the cordoned-off exit-way. It’s pretty chaotic; I would never spot him, but he does me – every time – maybe because, like Michael and Megan, I’m tall for my age :) In China, at least, I'm a head taller than most, except for the big German dudes and UK'ers I run into, or the shady Russian 'businessmen', or the Danish oil-drillers. Nice guys, all, to be honest. It’s Monday. I spent the last five nights and every weekend minute with the kids, and in some ways our patience for each other was thinning; once or twice I felt a hint of eagerness to hand them over 100% to Sara – for two weeks – and maybe I even felt a stab of guilt, or pity for her, knowing she’s gotta do it all by herself for that extended period. Am I actually recording these thoughts? I think I'm being too honest. It’s my 6th or 7th trip to China in recent years. So I know it goes by fast, I'll be able to snuggle Megan again soon. And I should clarify about the kids over the weekend; they were mostly great and we had a blast, and, well, there are always things I could've planned and communicated better, there is always some disharmony, drama, bickering, fighting because of my decisions. Apparently I forget how much the other will protest if I let Megan pick the restaurant or Michael pick the show we'll watch. Michael's friend joined us for a while but we didn't include one of Megan's. Problem! Making trades for 'a player to be named later' never works with kids; making promises for 'next time' fall flat. Little attitudes flare, and need dousing, like the kitchen fire I, uh, experienced in the condo a few weeks ago. Anyway, next thing I know I’m getting off a plane on the other side of the world, and I see little Chinese kids - just like mine, with bright eyes and perfect skin and silly t-shirts – and that eagerness and pity I admitted earlier is turned on its head, flip-flopped, I’m eager to see my kids again asap and I pity myself now, not Sara. Of course, I should pity no one. Except for maybe everyone in our country for the recent unprecedented, unsustainable greedy nonsense perpetrated by big banks, Wall Street, politicians, the American media, realtors-and-mortgage-brokers-and-everyone-else-who-encouraged-people-with-no-money-to-'buy'-huge-homes, etc. etc. I really think we’re in uncharted territory as a country; the American dream is suddenly all about profit, possession, re-election, entertainment, instant gratification. As Americans, our freedoms are awesome and unmatched; impressively conceived and earned and protected. And that's only one of many reasons I'm grateful to be an American. But... we could use a little attitude adjustment - as a nation, in my humble opinion - when it comes to certain expectations, appetites, entitlements, excesses, distortions. Can you tell I’m sleep-deprived and crabby? I hope we can make some tough decisions and sacrifices as a country and fix things. My children are only 5 and 8 years old as I write this – their whole lives ahead of them – and I’m concerned. Sorry I digressed…. Back to the commentary about missing the kids, my mom always calls after we leave Minneapolis or they leave Chicago, and the traveling party is home safely, and my mom will say over the phone, “I miss you guys!” I know; it’s go, go, go when we’re together, and there’s a nice sigh or deep breath when we separate, but then… we miss each other!

Now on to more serious matters: in a discussion over the phone I realized Michael now places everyone into one of two buckets. It’s a very critical and revealing thing. Bucket one or bucket two? And sometimes the bucketizing process is difficult, not always clean, precise, easy to understand. Michael can be frustrated by things - statements, situations, and in this case, allegiances - that are imprecise or unclear, not to mention wavering or dispassionate. Case in point: Cassie and Georgie, Megan's twin kindergarten classmates. Michael said they're Sox fans. Gasp! How can this be?! They're so young and innocent, and precocious... and yet they're in bucket number two! But Michael's certain their dad, Chris, is a Cubs fan. Is this a family divided? Confused? Were Cassie and Georgie bamboozled by cruel or ignorant schoolmates? Who knows. And Megan, she changes buckets regularly, just to annoy Michael I’m sure. When I’m around, she's a proud Cubs fan. She doesn't eat otherwise. But Michael insists she has traitorous moments. Maybe she spouts off about how awesome Konerko is. If so, she has a point (Michael and I both respect Konerko). But there were so many Sox fans at a party Michael went to recently that he remarked, “It was a disaster.” That’s my boy!

First Day of School 2011

3rd grade!
(If you're wondering, yes, his shirt is on backwards)


Kindergarten with Mrs Kravitz!
(if you're wondering, yes, that's a bird nest on her head)

Wild Ride

2 days in the Wisconsin Dells was a fun treat for us a few days before school begins...we went with two other families that we are friends with through school, the Roes and the Storellis. We had a great time. The kids (8 total) were such great companions for one another...there was always someone wanting to do the same thing, ride the same ride. No major meltdowns or arguments made for a really good first travel-with-other-families experience. Michael rode The Hurricane (which scared ME) and yelled on the way down, "I DON'T LIIIIIKE THIIIIS!!!"

Meg was less adventurous on the slide front, but I have realized that probably that is for the best...that she is simply relying on her own water comfort. She can swim, no problem, but when the current is churning the water all around, she may just know better for now. Like one of the other little girls there told me, "I really like water slides, but my tummy doesn't always agree with me."

Here are my kids sucked into their DSs within minutes of waking up in the morning; Michael with the friend he brought (the other 6 kids were girls, so I offered some mercy); and all of the kids on the trip EXCEPT mine in front of the funny car that brought us dinner.

Good times all around.

Dad Entry #107

Michael and I went to his first Cubs game. It was awesome. The Cubs came from behind and beat the Cardinals in the 10th, 5-4. Extra innings victories by the home team are cool, of course, because the game ends abruptly when the winning run crosses and players storm the field to celebrate and congratulate whoever hit the game-winner. We saw it all! I admit I got a little misty-eyed when the game started. Wrigley is my baseball mecca; I've been going for decades, even lived nearby for a few years after college. Pujols stepped in during the top of the first. We were in the upper deck, but on an edge near home plate looking right down at him. Michael said, "He's probably the best hitter in baseball, isn't he?" I said, "Yep, maybe not this year, but at points in his career he's been more feared and pitched around than any active hitter, the best, I agree." Pujols broke his wrist this season, and his numbers are down a bit. Anyway, I encouraged Michael to watch the batters closely, watch how each digs in, gets set, rocks a little, moves the bat, then strides and gets after it. He understood my point, and each hitter's stance become a topic of discussion, along with all the other nuances of the game. There are so many games within the game. He was interested and attentive the whole 10 innings, to both the overall game and also the little things I suggested he notice, the fielders' movements before each pitch, the baserunners, the hitters on deck, pitching from the stretch, pitching from the windup, the pitchers in the bullpen, the way pitchers rubbed the baseball and maintained the mound and used sweat and rosin and dirt on their hands, how they changed speeds and located pitches and fooled hitters, and the way hitters responded by looking for certain pitches and adjusting and maybe shortening their swing to slap a pitch the other way instead of taking a bigger, nastier cut. Maybe I went overboard - do I sound insane? - but Michael took it all in; he always seemed interested. And, keep in mind, we sat there for over three hours; there was a lot of silence too, I didn't talk his ear off. Like I said, it was a perfect first Wrigley experience for my son. But as we sat watching Pujols, in his first at-bat, after he'd dug a little place for his back foot and planted it and was ready to go, I capped my instruction about watching each hitter's idiosyncrasies and habits before every pitch... I said, "When you bat, Michael, that is YOUR batter's box! You dig in, get set, take your time, get comfortable and confident and you hit it hard." Honestly - I may edit this part out - I had to consciously refrain from inserting expletives in one or two places in my little hitter's speech to Michael, the way I might've 'brightened' similar encouragement to a softball teammate, with no kids around. It does help to add emphasis sometimes :) Anyway, I felt some emotion well up when I said that to him and I had to pull the sunglasses on my head back down over my eyes. By the way, Starlin Castro is uber-talented, a hitting machine. And Michael was thrilled to see Aramis Ramirez, Alfonso Soriano, Marmol, Pena, Soto and the rest of the gang. There were home runs, stolen bases, pitching changes, pinch hitters, errors, Cubs fans throwing Cardinals' home runs back onto the field, and Soriano was hit by a pitch. It was a good sample of America's Favorite Pastime.

Megan notified me the other day, "Daddy, I will not use our bathroom anymore, it's too hairy." I said, "What?" Speaking louder this time - I guess she thought I was deaf instead of incredulous - Megan said, "The bathroom is too hairy. I'm going to brush in the other bathroom sink, or the kitchen. It's too hairy!" I checked it out, and she had a point. I hadn't cleaned up my beard stubble enough after my last shave. I will not make that mistake again.

Sara took the kids to the Wisconsin Dells yesterday for a Sunday / Monday good time before school starts on Wednesday. Megan called and said, "I just wanted to say 'hi' Daddy." I said, "Honey, thank you so much, do you promise to do this every day of your life, even when you're in college, or with your own family, or on Mars or wherever, do you promise to call me lots and lots, every day, just to say hi?" I think I confused her; she didn't really answer the question. Then I asked her about the waterslides and the conversation got back on track.

Megan's favorite song in my car's CD player right now is 'The Foggy Dew' by The Young Dubliners. Check it out on iTunes. Honestly, I didn't push it on her at all, she likes my 'Irish Music' but I never thought she'd want this one played over and over.

Dad Entry #106

All those times I've described Michael as easy-going.... not so sure anymore. He has a real nice competitive streak in him. He's furious right now cause he's losing in Wii bowling. I mean, who gives a crap about Wii bowling. But, BUT, I understand; I don't like losing either, unless it's to someone who could really use a boost, and, well, the prestige of beating me at something. But my opponents in golf, or on opposing softball or basketball teams... they don't need a boost, another win. So, generally speaking, I agree with Michael. Stomp on 'em! Grind 'em into dust!

Michael is the king of saying his plate or snack cup or dessert bowl is empty, so he wants more, when - hello! - it's not empty at all! Example: he will have a medium sized taco salad on his plate and then ask for one last taco. Dude, eat the 2.5 servings of food still on your plate. Please. Then we'll talk. Last night, we had chicken pot pies that Michael picked out, and I baked one for each of us and Michael said he was done and wanted more, which I was concerned about because I'd already wolfed mine and half of Megan's, but I looked into Michael's bowl and he had like five bites left! I said, "Michael, I see chicken and carrots in there still. And a big piece of crust! CRUST for crying out loud, Michael! That's the best part!" Does this sound silly and petty. Of course it does. But ask Sara, I think she'd agree it's annoying. Maybe his only flaw.

Megan choked on an orange wedge yesterday, peeled but apparently still pulpy or pithy enough to get stuck in her throat. Her eyes widened a bit and she gagged and my heart went, very suddenly, from 60 beats per minute to about 560. It's funny, we've all had scary and sudden moments and it's during these instants that the situation, our activities and surroundings, do appear to slow, or at least our thoughts quicken. Would you agree? Have you ever heard of the 'Third Man Factor' or phenomenon? Google it. A calming presence sets in; it's not enough to relax me or anything, but maybe it takes my heart rate from 560 down to 160. So I watched her closely, gagging, and had a few thoughts, mainly, she's only been choking for about 3 seconds now, she can try to get it out naturally for a few more seconds, e.g. throw-up or gag it out, before you really have to worry about her breath, but if it gets to that you're gonna very deliberately and forcefully lift her still-pretty-little-body out of that chair and give her a reasonably violent Heimlich, because at that point, you don't care about sore tummies or ribs, you care about dislodging that (insert your go-to expletive here) piece of food out of her airway. Believe it or not, that entire thought string only took about half a second. She gagged it up and out on the second or third try. No barfing or anything. But it was better than a Starbucks triple espresso for my excitement level.

In the car this morning, Michael said, "I had a dream last night. The police were there. They were, like, looking for us, me and Nahum and Alex." After that intro, I was listening. Closely! Michael continued, "Then we were talking with them. And I think we, like, had to go to jail maybe, for like 24 hours or something." I managed to say, "Really?" Then Michael asked, "How much does it cost to get someone out of jail?" I told him it depends on the crime, it's very expensive for serious crimes and then you're only out until your trial to determine if you're guilty or not. I think Megan sensed we were both rattled by the discussion. She said, "Don't worry Michael, the police don't take little kids to jail, only teenagers for speeding. Right, Dad?" Yes, Sweetheart. Exactly right.

Quotables

Me: Michael, you have FUR on your teeth. You need to brush them better! Meg, let me see yours.

Inspection

Me: They look great! Good brushing! How do you get em so clean? Tell your brother.

Megan: I just brush them til they're sobbing with toothpaste.


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After an attempt to explain something to me and Meg:

Michael: DUH, people!

Me: Michael...that's not super nice.

Michael: What? I said 'da PEOPLE. Like da people of the United States.'

Dad Entry #105

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.

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...."

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."