Dad Entry #47

Megan still puts her shoes on the wrong feet. It should be 50 / 50, right? As in, half the time she gets it right, half the time she doesn’t. No. We’re not even close to that success rate. Okay, I’m exaggerating; it’s getting better; I no longer plan on checking her shoes before I walk her down the aisle. Whoa!!!! Did I just think that?!?! Way too early. That thought should’ve never escaped my my internal dialogue. Oh well, it’s kind of amazing and wonderful to consider… Megan as a bright and beautiful adult (who wears her shoes on the correct feet).

Michael told me recently, “I want to go to Hawaii in a Limo, that is my lifelong dream.” Well… we set the bar high in our family. Sara and I encourage our children to dream BIG! If Michael can achieve this, he’s really done something. But, on a serious note, Michael has a tremendous memory; he recalls scenes and details precisely. He told me, “Dad, in limousines they even have, like, small wine glasses.” I was astonished. Not because I’m limo-ignorant. And not because Michael noticed that champagne glasses are a little different than the wine glasses he is familiar with. Rather, I was thinking, what bachelor party have you been to lately? Michael remembered a couple years ago when a limo picked up some extended family at our house for O’hare. Grandma Bev was mentioned, she and the family left their cars at our house and went on a trip. Michael explored the limo before they left.

First Grade!!

A Stage, A Bean and A Fountain

The Edge

Sitting perilously close...leaving the possibility of tumbling into Lake Michigan wide open. Ah, the good life.

Wheels

A day downtown gave us lots of pictures to choose from. We started here, at Navy Pier with not one, but TWO thrilling wheel-based rides!

Dad Entry #46

Megan does not run like Usain Bolt. She runs more like a hockey player, or a mascot (the Philly Phanatic?), kind of lumbering, maybe like a sausage in the sausage race at Miller Park (where the Bratwurst, Hot Dog, Polish, and Italian race around the diamond every Brewers game). I’m not sure how to describe Megan’s unique form but it’s cute. And, frankly, she wipes out less than Michael does. Michael stumbled and rolled down a ramp at Navy Pier the other day. Megan? Upright the whole way. Michael was bookin’ much faster though.

We saw the famous Jessie White Tumblers. They’ve been wow’ing crowds at halftime shows and street fests in Chicago for 50 years. Megan and Michael were impressed. So was I. Of course, we had to recreate the show at home. The kids ran and jumped on (and off) the bed in the basement. And then, just like the show, I had a broomstick I raised higher and higher for them to jump over. What’s funny is Megan would instruct me to lift the stick to ridiculous heights, like waist high for her, often helping me by precisely assessing and lifting it with her own hands before retreating to get her running start. The unrealistic height meant I had to very quickly dip and sweep the stick under her as she ran and jumped ‘over’ it, otherwise she would surely have banged her shins, or tripped and executed some kind of fantastic, acrobatic face-plant.

Yesterday, I told Michael I am a 1975 model. I said Tiger Woods is also. He wasn’t impressed. And Angelina Jolie. Still not impressed. (I agree with him; there are many actresses I consider more beautiful). I told Megan that David Beckham was built in 1975. No reaction. I told her he married a Spice Girl. Still nothing. I told them we can have ice cream later. Whooping, dancing, celebration!!!! So I told Michael he is a 2003 model. I was tempted to say, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” but thank God I resisted. That is something old people say. But I almost said it; I must be on the cusp. Regardless, Michael is six, bad clichés go unrecognized, dry humor unappreciated. We don’t have enough data on 2003 models yet. Maybe they learn faster, but what’s with all the allergies? I’m curious already, though; what marks will they leave on history? I bet they do great things. Mars mission? Cures? Nanobots? Brain transplants? World peace?!?! A Cubs World Series?!?!?!?! Maybe…. All except the last one, that is.

Dad Entry #45

Last weekend, I asked Megan if I could swoop her up and whisk her across a busy street. She said, “No, I can walk, Dad. Don’t worry, I won’t even get killed at all.” Thank you, Sweetheart, that’s so reassuring. At dinner last night, Michael told me how tests work. He explained they had one at school, and it involved writing, and they were not allowed to look at anyone else’s paper. What a concept; I wish I was unfamiliar. Instead I was thinking, sorry kid, you only have a few thousand more to go. But I love that about little people with developing brains and limited experience; they explain things, often eagerly, always sincerely, and always assuming the subject is as new to their audience as it is to them. They can’t wait to tell Grandpa that the world sent a man to the moon and he walked on it! Holy shit! Well they don’t say that, my kids don’t usually, but in adult vernacular that’s the emphasis they put on these facts and stories they relay with wide-eyed enthusiasm. Nevermind that Grandpa remembers Kennedy pledging to put a man on the moon and Grandma used to make out with Buzz Aldrin at the drive-in. Or maybe they smoked a celebratory joint together at Woodstock. (Hey, you never know, Woodstock was a month after Apollo 11 in 1969). Actually, those are fictional examples, they don’t necessarily reflect the actions or memories of any of M&M’s grandparents. Except the part about making out. And the joint. Ah, bad jokes. So I kinda know what a test is, but I hung on every word of Michael’s, I try my best to be attentive, interested, even excited, because they’re excited, and I’m excited that they’re excited (to learn). Megan told me today, “When I grow up, I’m never gonna cry.” I wish. Although tears might accompany meaningful lessons, so maybe a little crying is okay. But Megan was commenting on Michael’s accusation, “Megan, you cry all the time.” Michael has a point; Megan can turn it on faster than Dick Vermeil (for the record, I love that guy, one of the greatest coaches of all time). But Megan’s are crocodile tears. Where does that expression come from anyway? Hold on, in the spirit of learning and sharing neato info, I will google it… “The allusion is to the ancient notion that crocodiles weep while devouring their prey. Crocodiles do indeed have lachrymal glands and produce tears to lubricate the eyes as humans do. They don't cry though. Whatever emotion they experience when finding and devouring prey we can be certain it isn't remorse.” Wow. Wonderful. I will never use that expression again. But now you know.

Ah, The Sit 'n Spin

Love the action shot in the middle. It's funny.

Dad Entry #44

Once upon a time, a boy was born. His father wept and his mother cried (in pain) and on his birthday he was strong enough to do push-ups in the plastic bassinet they set him in after delivery. He was markedly out of place in the newborn nursery, a giant next to the preemies there, maybe like a white shark caught in a fishing pen full of tuna. He was born with the chest of a strongman contestant and the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer. And if physique alone wasn’t enough to earn him the title of nursery brute, he had a swollen face to go with it, mostly around the eyes, like a prizefighter. His labor was arduous although he never did arrive as nature intended. Too big. But the swelling – and his mother’s severe exhaustion – were proof he went the distance before going to the scorecards for a decision to surgically intervene. As a baby, he only cried when he was hungry. But this was not infrequent really because according to the charts, at 2 months he was 10 months, and a 10-month-old eats food. Real food. Solid food. This wonder-boy only got milk. But every day he drank two or three times the number of ounces recommended by the pediatrician. Some of his clothes were never worn because he outgrew them in utero. It wasn’t long before this toddler could speak so clearly that one might, over the phone, mistake him for an eight-year-old. Dirty bibs and diapers were age giveaways in face-to-face meetings, although they emphasized the dichotomy; those who spoke to the boy were impressed. He learned every ‘Thomas the Train’ character overnight. It wasn’t long before he knew enough about marine biology to lecture at a university. And he knew less about marine biology than he did about prehistory. At the ripe age of five, the boy became a world leader in dinosaur identification (and, even more remarkable, pronunciation). Pachycephalasaurus. Say that five times. A fan of books, the boy’s private collection surpassed in number every library on the planet save two (Congress and the Vatican). And, to enhance his creativity further, in a matter of months he collected more lego sets than Kate Hudson has boyfriends. Okay, I can’t go on with this story, but hopefullly by now you’ve identified its hero. Yes, he is Michael Byard Cox (not to be confused with Papa Mike). Since I noticed I’m approaching entry #50, I’m anxious to get there… so more on Michael in #45.

A couple of my favorite things

I mentioned one of my favorite things in my 'Dad Entry' below. The resolution is poor but I actually found a picture of it.... You might be able to read what's on my favorite T-shirt, also.

Dad Entry #43

My apologies at the beginning here, this is very long. But once again I’ve let months slip away without recording a word. A while back the kids visited Kansas City for two weeks. We talked on the phone a lot but hearing Megan’s voice and not being able to smother her was tough. While she was gone I spent a few minutes trying to describe her. Here are some things I wrote down: Megan is majestically beautiful, even when she has crusties on her face. Her eyes are so big and clear. Her voice sweet. Her mini-shoes, jeans, sweaters, swimsuits, and summer dresses… so cute and small. Her tiny painted nails. Her hugs, laughter, tears. Her snot. When she wakes up and says, “I have a froat,” which means she has a ‘sore throat’ and maybe a cold brewing. When she clings to me in the close presence of strangers – well, that is inexpressible. To be so needed and trusted by something so precious (to me). I think those moments give me the strongest and rawest feeling of purpose I’ve ever experienced. ‘Fulfilling’ is a good word. Many times Sara and I have used ‘yummy’ to describe an especially satisfying, snuggly moment with Meggie. Yep, she’s yummy. She was absurdly adorable at the ages of one and two. She still is at three. I can’t believe, very soon, she’ll be four! Not as diminutive but just as exquisite. My princess. My heiress. She is compassionate, visibly moved when someone else is hurt or upset. She’s a reader and puzzle-doer, and, although to me it seems a bit paradoxical, she is also a daredevil. I mean she has an analytical, deliberate side to her (Megan the focused puzzle-doer), but also a vivacious, audacious streak (Megan the fearless, reckless jumper and climber). Peg-Peg, as Sara often calls her, is many other things, too. An artist and athlete and dancer and singer and scholar. She loves her stickers, markers, play-doh, and paint (and scissors, of course, every kid loves scissors!). She loves to play ball and ride her little pink bike wearing her ridiculously cute pink helmet. She hollers, “Louder, Daddy,” from the backseat and then, her face contorted like a rock star’s, passionately sings duets with Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi, and Boy George as “Soak up the Sun”, “Livin’ on a Prayer”, and “Karma Chameleon” are blasted out of my car speakers. And now she loves to write letters, especially M’s. And she will sit and go through deck after deck of flash cards. Way beyond any typical attention span for her age. She says which letter a word or picture on a card begins with, among other games. If I were to mention a flaw, or as we call them at work, an ‘opportunity’… well, Megan can be shamelessly dramatic. My little diva. She is gorgeous though. That fits. A daredevil diva. Megan is not a full throttle tantrum-thrower but she might indignantly sink to and sprawl on the kitchen floor as if flabbergasted by a simple order like, “Put your books away and put your shoes on Megan, we have to leave now.” Megan’s a pretty finicky eater, a bit of a manipulator (yes I am putty in her hands, but not always!), although less exploitive than Michael (maybe because of the age difference); she’s not too much of a rabble-rouser or provocateur (except occasionally when she feels like annoying Michael for some reason), sometimes moody (but who isn’t?), mostly sweet, at times spiteful, sometimes soft and whispering, sometimes petulant and clamorous (when the most miniscule of requests is denied!), and, without a doubt, Megan can be impressively stubborn. This will help her in some areas of life and hurt her in others (oh well, life is a lesson). She is vivacious, audacious, studious, vigorous, pertinacious, gorgeous, and yes, to me, precious. And – though it doesn’t fit with my silly word game above, it is VERY important – she is compassionate. I have observed a kind of genuine empathy in Megan, and I pray it isn’t taken from her by the rigors of life, drowned out by noise, or drained or dulled by her own striving and struggles, of which we all have plenty. I don’t want her to be desensitized, and yet I don’t want her to be too sensitive; I want her to be tough. Oh geez, welcome to life and the challenges of balance and harmony and competing ideas and conflicting goals (not to mention difficult people and hard situations, although those two are our best teachers). Regarding this empathy many little girls seem to possess (and one or two boys, also), there is so much activity and noise around them, so many ups and downs accumulate, maybe they quit noticing when someone else is crying. Sorry, I digressed. This is already too long. But mostly I have described Megan today. I love her. Next entry: Michael.

Thank You, Ralph. Thank You Very Much.

All these years I have avoided kids music on the grounds that it might make me tear my hair out...or worse. My kids have grown up listening to (and learning all the lyrics for) Bob Dylan, Rhianna (who Michael has a MAD crush on), Gwen Stefani, Led Zeppelin, Britney Spears, Bon Jovi and pretty much anything I like listening to. From time to time there is language or content that is maybe not totally appropriate, but at least I skip tracks like 'Gold Digger' and anything with a recognizable f-bomb. However, Justin Timberlakes' 'Sexy Back' is completely acceptable, just to give you a frame of reference. They have never used inappropriate language (besides saying 'penis' a lot, which I think is developmental) or even questioned anything they have heard while listening.

So a few weeks ago, Meg and I went with friends to see Ralph's World. We had seen him before, but never listen to his music at home and my friends were surprised to find that Meg was so unfamiliar with such a staple. Last week, I thought, you know, that music wasn't hair-rip-out worthy, so maybe I could get some. Give in to the kids music craze, as it were. I ordered two of his disks up off of Amazon and stuck one right in when they arrived. The first one was 'Happy Lemons' or something like that which has a song called 'What's New Pussycat.' Almost immediately, the kids CRACKED up and said, "Why is he saying PUSSYcat?!" They don't know at ALL the connotations of that word, and yet they found it hilarious. So for the past 24 hours, I have been hearing the following terms constantly: PUSSYcat, PUSSYmegan, PUSSYmommy, PUSSYmichael, PUSSY.

So Ralph Covert successfully corrupted my children's vocabulary with just one song. I no longer feel the need to defend my choice to allow my kids to sing Johnny Cash songs about cocaine and prison. Turn it up, Michael.

Comin' Atcha

The quality of these sucks, but it's a cute sequence of a cute CUTE girl.

Livin' Large at Goose Poop Beach

Michael the Fish. And Megan the Mermaid Who Won't Leave Land.

Retirement Plans

Day at the Races

Singin' boy

And with Sam. Sammie. Sam-a-Lam. She has a fun name.




And Michaels end of the year music program.

Singin' Girl

Meggies end of the year music program. Yes, I am months behind.