We had a skirmish at home recently, maybe classified as a territorial dispute or border conflict by the appropriate agencies, like in Kashmir, or Gaza, or the Korean DMZ. I mean no disrespect to the real issues in those places; but this was serious too. Michael threw the first stone. A modest volley to kick things off, he posted a 'No Girls Allowed!' sign on his bedroom door. But then he appended it with 'Crimes, seen crimes here!' or something to that effect, as, I can only assume, a threat of militancy if posted warnings were ignored. Or maybe it was an accusation of trespassing already perpetrated. Upon seeing the part about crime 'seen' / scene, I was mostly making a mental note to ensure Michael isn't sneaking glimpses of the nearly ubiquitous CSI flavors and episodes running 24/7 on cable. Michael also appended his sign with "Except for Mommy, Sam, Grammy and Grandma". (Samantha - aka Sam - is Michael's best female friend.) In need of a rapid response, Megan assembled her advisers (Daddy is Chairman of her Joint Chiefs). I convinced Megan it wasn't an act of war, but, indeed, a quick and decisive reaction was warranted. So Megan returned fire. Per her instructions, I told her how to spell out "No Boys Allowed!", and since getting that part down was kind of a slow process, I penciled in myself, "Only Daddy". Megan's 'L's' were upside-down but we left it; it seemed to add a sort menacing insanity to her message. Megan's sign was posted on her bedroom door under cover of darkness at around 19:30 hours that same day. She did not encounter the enemy, although she used way too much tape. Megan was pleased. And Michael felt good about flexing his muscles a bit too. I don't blame him. He needs his space.
Megan was telling me how Michael doesn't let her play his DS. He let Alissa play it, and Sam, and that irked her a little. She mentioned the girls specifically, maybe for that reason, because Michael lets Michael Sylvestri play his DS and he wasn't similarly implicated. Megan said, "We need to send Michael to sharing school. He needs to go to a class to learn how to share. He only shares with Alissa. He shares none stuff with me. Michael needs to go to class to learn how to be nice to me, right Dad?" We talked about it for awhile. Among other things, I assured her Michael loves her dearly, and, "A lot of people could do better at sharing." And yes, we need to work on Megan's use of the word 'none'.
Michael grows an inch a month. He's going to be a physical force. And he claims to be 11-0 on Papa's Nintendo Wii boxing. I told him, "Don't even talk to me until you've knocked down Mike Tyson in Punch-Out." No, that's not like Pong or Atari; it's Nintendo also, just an older version. And maybe it takes more skill to fire a musket than an AR-15. When Michael's around 20, and I'm a spry 40-something, I'm gonna so take him to school. Batting cages. Golf course. Shooting range. The bar. The bball court. I'll be like, "Are you even trying? Are you gonna guard me at all? And your jock strap is still over there." At that point I might have to pray he doesn't just tackle me and work a little UFC-style ground and pound. I missed him last week.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Dad Entry #68
When I read to Megan at night, she leans in and sometimes lays her head on my shoulder. Yes, it’s a slice of heaven. Although last night, while I was reading, I sensed her eyes were no longer on the pages, and I felt her breath on my ear. She was closely inspecting the side of my head. She said, “Daddy, your hairs are turning white.” I cringed. Sure, I’m still youngish, but I’m 30 years to the month older than Megan. Three decades. That’s a bit lengthy in terms of life experiences, movies, music, politics, fashion. We are on opposite slopes of the hill called youth. I recovered and said, “Yes, but with every white hair I get a little wiser.” She didn’t bother to ask me what that meant.
Michael is off to Minneapolis this week. All by himself. Actually, with grandparents; he’s only about halfway in years to hot-roddin’ alone. Halfway?! To 16?! Time flies. Yes, this is Michael’s second year without Mom, Dad, or Meg for an entire week. We miss him – Meggie does especially – but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate. At least one homesick call would be nice; I know he’s kept busy and entertained but one night of troubled sleep? One impulse to ask for an earlier return? Nope. He wants to stay longer. This year I think Michael is a nice distraction for Grandma and Papa, also. Because we have very sad news: Beller Feller has passed. Michael really struggled with this. But in a bedtime prayer he asked God and Aunt Maxine to take care of Beller. Cool. Megan, however, hasn’t grasped the permanency of it. Spoken like a four-year-old, very matter-of-fact, Megan told me, “Belle is dead.” I know, Baby. But only seconds later she asked, “Can we see Beller next time we’re in Minnesota?” Umm, no Sweetheart. How do we explain this to you? This confusion was maybe a blessing, as Sara reported that Megan took the news without tears and consoled Michael, “Don’t cry, Michael.” Michael cried anyway. But Papa clarified that, truthfully, it’s not permanent after all; Belle is only gone until we see her again in heaven.
Megan doesn’t eat much at dinnertime. We don’t allow her a bedtime snack if she only picks at her dinner. Rarely does she even ask for one. But then she’ll wake Sara or me at 6AM begging for breakfast. When we give her something an hour or more later – we aren’t going to commence or reinforce a practice of eating, even a snack, at sunrise – she will eat a ton. If we let her, she might inhale 2 bagels, with some fresh fruit, and a yogurt, and then she'll take interest in what I'm eating and steal half of that. And this all before she asks for waffles. No kidding. Our Skinny-Minnie can fit a lot in her tummy. But then she’s pretty satiated for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and the cycle repeats itself. We’re working on it.
Megan collects leaves. She notices them, admires them, picks them up and hands them to me. Even the lushest, greenest ones will dry and disintegrate in my pocket, or on the counter. So I toss them back in the yard when Meg isn't looking. But let's hear it for nature; there's a lot of wonderful stuff out there. A toad in the grass? To Michael there's nothing more interesting. A turtle by the pond? Megan is astounded. Cicada shells, seashells, Merle the Squirrel, Fat-Bee? A swarm of ants in a sidewalk crack? Dinosaurs, sharks, volcanoes and so on. When do we become desensitized? Even speaking this way comes off as preachy or cheesy to anyone older than Michael. Oh well. My kids have reframed, enlivened, reanimated these things for me. For the moment anyway. But I'd still rather watch ESPN than National Geographic. And I hope M&M agree with me.
Michael is off to Minneapolis this week. All by himself. Actually, with grandparents; he’s only about halfway in years to hot-roddin’ alone. Halfway?! To 16?! Time flies. Yes, this is Michael’s second year without Mom, Dad, or Meg for an entire week. We miss him – Meggie does especially – but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate. At least one homesick call would be nice; I know he’s kept busy and entertained but one night of troubled sleep? One impulse to ask for an earlier return? Nope. He wants to stay longer. This year I think Michael is a nice distraction for Grandma and Papa, also. Because we have very sad news: Beller Feller has passed. Michael really struggled with this. But in a bedtime prayer he asked God and Aunt Maxine to take care of Beller. Cool. Megan, however, hasn’t grasped the permanency of it. Spoken like a four-year-old, very matter-of-fact, Megan told me, “Belle is dead.” I know, Baby. But only seconds later she asked, “Can we see Beller next time we’re in Minnesota?” Umm, no Sweetheart. How do we explain this to you? This confusion was maybe a blessing, as Sara reported that Megan took the news without tears and consoled Michael, “Don’t cry, Michael.” Michael cried anyway. But Papa clarified that, truthfully, it’s not permanent after all; Belle is only gone until we see her again in heaven.
Megan doesn’t eat much at dinnertime. We don’t allow her a bedtime snack if she only picks at her dinner. Rarely does she even ask for one. But then she’ll wake Sara or me at 6AM begging for breakfast. When we give her something an hour or more later – we aren’t going to commence or reinforce a practice of eating, even a snack, at sunrise – she will eat a ton. If we let her, she might inhale 2 bagels, with some fresh fruit, and a yogurt, and then she'll take interest in what I'm eating and steal half of that. And this all before she asks for waffles. No kidding. Our Skinny-Minnie can fit a lot in her tummy. But then she’s pretty satiated for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and the cycle repeats itself. We’re working on it.
Megan collects leaves. She notices them, admires them, picks them up and hands them to me. Even the lushest, greenest ones will dry and disintegrate in my pocket, or on the counter. So I toss them back in the yard when Meg isn't looking. But let's hear it for nature; there's a lot of wonderful stuff out there. A toad in the grass? To Michael there's nothing more interesting. A turtle by the pond? Megan is astounded. Cicada shells, seashells, Merle the Squirrel, Fat-Bee? A swarm of ants in a sidewalk crack? Dinosaurs, sharks, volcanoes and so on. When do we become desensitized? Even speaking this way comes off as preachy or cheesy to anyone older than Michael. Oh well. My kids have reframed, enlivened, reanimated these things for me. For the moment anyway. But I'd still rather watch ESPN than National Geographic. And I hope M&M agree with me.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
The Land of Oz
What is better than having a pool at your disposal? We are all brownberries after spending every day in the water at Grammie and Papa's house.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Dad Entry #67
Meggie told me she wants to go on another ‘Daddy Date’. Just the two of us. Aw shucks, what a sweetheart. Although, seriously, when she mentioned it, my heart leapt. I love her. And, naturally, she will not date anyone else until she's 30. After which I will surrender to established family wisdom. Actually, law. It’s family law. Legislated, sans gavel or vote but spoken with incontestable authority by my grandfather, the Honorable Byard Cox, to his daughters Denise and Diane. He told them, “You can date when you’re 30, but only if your husband says it’s ok.”
Honestly, I might loosen up and let Megan date before she's 30 years old. But her Godfather, Josiah - formerly a bouncer and undefeated professional MMA cage fighter - will chaperone.
And Greg will be sitting in the next booth. And Jim outside with 500 horsepower idling. And Dave flying air support. Yeah, I know. It's a bad cliche. A dead horse. "Answer the door with your shotgun," and, "Make sure you're oiling your guns when he stops by." Silly. Should I tell Dave we won't need air support?
There is really nothing cuter in the world than Meggie asleep in the car. But it’s a bit scary too. Her head tilts at extreme angles, occasionally rolling from shoulder to shoulder, chin on chest. I drive carefully to prevent what I’m sure will be upper spinal cord or disc injuries if I even change lanes. Of course, driving carefully on the interstate outside of Chicago is difficult. The cars and trucks around me accelerate, then slow down, then toss the finger at me and everybody else, then angrily race and chase each other while otherwise weaving all over the place.
So watching Meggie sleep in her bed is cute too. I know Sara and I are both fond of this ritual. We just check on her, maybe straighten a blanket or contorted limb, or remove whatever is directly obstructing her open-mouthed breathing. I swear sometimes she’s inhaling a corner of a blanket with every breath. For at least a tiny instant I think, Good God, she’s suffocating! Then I think, Relax, she’s fine, zillions of people sleep every night with pillows or blankets near their mouths. And then I move the pillow or blanket anyway.
Megan and Michael are both terrific swimmers. Especially Michael. Scholarship? Navy SEALs? He’s very comfortable in the water. No surprise, given his pedigree. Both kids are fine in the deep end. Michael prefers it. More room to dive. Megan is ok with it, although maybe I’m not (see the paragraph above). But Megan stays close to the edge of the pool. Or to me. She can jump in and paddle right back to the edge by herself. No assistance. Then she climbs out and does it again. And again. Same with Michael. They will do this forever. And sleep very good that night. I remember never refusing an offer to swim. And never wanting to stop, even as our lips turned blue, as the temperature and sun both dropped. Michael will dive down and swim around the bottom, and grab at my legs. I don’t mind, even when he scrapes me with a nail or pulls out leg hairs on accident. What I mind is when he surfaces nearby and starts swimming away and kicks me square in the trunks.
I learned something at Alissa’s First Communion. It was a longer service than Megan is used to, and she got crabby and restless. She wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t listen to whispered admonitions. She pushed my hand away when I placed it on her – gently but firmly (I’m destined for politics) – to counter some squirming and let her know I meant business. In summary: a storm was brewing. I wouldn’t say Megan has public outbursts, but on rare occasions her antics have escalated to removal from the premises for a more focused talking-to. Well… I noticed that nothing quells a threatening naughty spell from your own four-year-old like a tantrum by somebody else’s. The little girl in front of us melted down and was carried out kicking and screaming and taking swings at her mother. It was an impressive display. Most of us around the girl, including Megan, watched in awe, alarmed, or relieved we weren’t involved, or something. Megan was pretty subdued for the remainder of the ceremony.
Honestly, I might loosen up and let Megan date before she's 30 years old. But her Godfather, Josiah - formerly a bouncer and undefeated professional MMA cage fighter - will chaperone.
And Greg will be sitting in the next booth. And Jim outside with 500 horsepower idling. And Dave flying air support. Yeah, I know. It's a bad cliche. A dead horse. "Answer the door with your shotgun," and, "Make sure you're oiling your guns when he stops by." Silly. Should I tell Dave we won't need air support?
There is really nothing cuter in the world than Meggie asleep in the car. But it’s a bit scary too. Her head tilts at extreme angles, occasionally rolling from shoulder to shoulder, chin on chest. I drive carefully to prevent what I’m sure will be upper spinal cord or disc injuries if I even change lanes. Of course, driving carefully on the interstate outside of Chicago is difficult. The cars and trucks around me accelerate, then slow down, then toss the finger at me and everybody else, then angrily race and chase each other while otherwise weaving all over the place.
So watching Meggie sleep in her bed is cute too. I know Sara and I are both fond of this ritual. We just check on her, maybe straighten a blanket or contorted limb, or remove whatever is directly obstructing her open-mouthed breathing. I swear sometimes she’s inhaling a corner of a blanket with every breath. For at least a tiny instant I think, Good God, she’s suffocating! Then I think, Relax, she’s fine, zillions of people sleep every night with pillows or blankets near their mouths. And then I move the pillow or blanket anyway.
Megan and Michael are both terrific swimmers. Especially Michael. Scholarship? Navy SEALs? He’s very comfortable in the water. No surprise, given his pedigree. Both kids are fine in the deep end. Michael prefers it. More room to dive. Megan is ok with it, although maybe I’m not (see the paragraph above). But Megan stays close to the edge of the pool. Or to me. She can jump in and paddle right back to the edge by herself. No assistance. Then she climbs out and does it again. And again. Same with Michael. They will do this forever. And sleep very good that night. I remember never refusing an offer to swim. And never wanting to stop, even as our lips turned blue, as the temperature and sun both dropped. Michael will dive down and swim around the bottom, and grab at my legs. I don’t mind, even when he scrapes me with a nail or pulls out leg hairs on accident. What I mind is when he surfaces nearby and starts swimming away and kicks me square in the trunks.
I learned something at Alissa’s First Communion. It was a longer service than Megan is used to, and she got crabby and restless. She wouldn’t sit still, wouldn’t listen to whispered admonitions. She pushed my hand away when I placed it on her – gently but firmly (I’m destined for politics) – to counter some squirming and let her know I meant business. In summary: a storm was brewing. I wouldn’t say Megan has public outbursts, but on rare occasions her antics have escalated to removal from the premises for a more focused talking-to. Well… I noticed that nothing quells a threatening naughty spell from your own four-year-old like a tantrum by somebody else’s. The little girl in front of us melted down and was carried out kicking and screaming and taking swings at her mother. It was an impressive display. Most of us around the girl, including Megan, watched in awe, alarmed, or relieved we weren’t involved, or something. Megan was pretty subdued for the remainder of the ceremony.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Dad Entry #66
I took Megan to school and must’ve deviated from the usual route. She said, “Daddy, you’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Oh, okay, can you show me how to get to your school?” She said, “Yes, I will show you when I see it.” And she did. I kept driving and she was quiet until she could see her school about a block away. Then she said, “Turn here,” at the corner in front of her school, and then, “Turn here,” at the entrance to her school. Gee, thanks. She’s cuter than a GPS screen, I’ll give her that.
Michael is a thinker. Quite often when I ask him something… crickets. Nothing. I don’t think he’s ignoring me; he’s deep in thought. When I finally get his attention, he cheerfully answers me.
Shoes-on-the-wrong-feet sightings are way down. I think Megan finally has it. Even with her pair of slip-on-tennies that are pretty close to indistinguishable. Identical twins we might call them. Although not really. The left shoe is noticeably left. And right, right. It was mildly concerned that Mego was still mixing them up only weeks ago. But I know it’s only because she’s in a hurry to get outside and have fun! Even if it’s a pair of sandals she has wrong and her feet are screaming, “Ouch! Whoa!” with every step.
I’ve mentioned this before; I’m feeling the crush of the ‘Megan Countdown’. The time to extinction of common things like a snotty nose and crumb-covered face. Coloring books, cartoon-covered pajamas, little shoes. Poorly painted nails. Princess dresses and costume jewelry. Band-Aids on every nick, every blemish. Not-very-serious tears. Bath toys. Small baseball gloves. Pink baseball gloves. A little person who clings to me – literally, with her arms around my leg – when strangers get too close. A sweet voice that says, “Daddy.” A little body that doesn’t fill the seat at the movie theater. Or on an airplane. Mini-legs dangling from chairs that suddenly look oversized, like thrones.
I am in China again. While I’m here, M&M are going to visit aunt Gretchen in Houston. Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Texas?!” No Sweetheart. I wish!
Michael is a thinker. Quite often when I ask him something… crickets. Nothing. I don’t think he’s ignoring me; he’s deep in thought. When I finally get his attention, he cheerfully answers me.
Shoes-on-the-wrong-feet sightings are way down. I think Megan finally has it. Even with her pair of slip-on-tennies that are pretty close to indistinguishable. Identical twins we might call them. Although not really. The left shoe is noticeably left. And right, right. It was mildly concerned that Mego was still mixing them up only weeks ago. But I know it’s only because she’s in a hurry to get outside and have fun! Even if it’s a pair of sandals she has wrong and her feet are screaming, “Ouch! Whoa!” with every step.
I’ve mentioned this before; I’m feeling the crush of the ‘Megan Countdown’. The time to extinction of common things like a snotty nose and crumb-covered face. Coloring books, cartoon-covered pajamas, little shoes. Poorly painted nails. Princess dresses and costume jewelry. Band-Aids on every nick, every blemish. Not-very-serious tears. Bath toys. Small baseball gloves. Pink baseball gloves. A little person who clings to me – literally, with her arms around my leg – when strangers get too close. A sweet voice that says, “Daddy.” A little body that doesn’t fill the seat at the movie theater. Or on an airplane. Mini-legs dangling from chairs that suddenly look oversized, like thrones.
I am in China again. While I’m here, M&M are going to visit aunt Gretchen in Houston. Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Texas?!” No Sweetheart. I wish!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Dad Entry #65
One of my fondest memories of being Megan's dad will always be the scene in the truck stop bathroom. No, I'm not after cheap laughs here with bathroom jokes. I simply find it funny - and touching - when I have to bring my itty-bitty, cute-as-a-button little girl into the truck stop men's restroom. It still happens - we drove to Minnesota last weekend - since Megan can't 'hold it' for 7 hours and I can't go into the ladies room. (It'll be a while before I let Megan go anywhere, even the women's restroom, by herself.) The experience is a bit different these days, but early on, over a year ago, it was Megan and I in a stall, me holding her over the toilet, trying to make sure she didn't pee on her little undies or pants that were pulled down, or somehow on her shoes. Megan would gleefully try to look between her legs - in the beginning it was a novelty to go on the 'big potty' like a 'big girl' - which made it hard for me to hold her back far enough over the seat. I learned that too far forward meant she'd need a change of clothes. Now that Megan's a seasoned four-year-old, she goes into the stall alone, but only after I select the cleanest one, inspect it thoroughly, wipe it down, and advise her not to touch ANYTHING... as I've always done. And although it's very cute, it wouldn't be so memorable if not for the sudden clash, the striking incongruity, that registers with me the moment Megan speaks. That sweet little voice in the otherwise quiet truck stop bathroom. "Look Daddy, I did it," she might've said a year and a half ago, loud enough for everyone to hear. Of course I had to respond, also, "Yes you did! Good job, Baby!" And truthfully, early on, I was delighted she was out of diapers. Now I take it for granted. The truck drivers are always a bit grisly; nothing against truck drivers, but they are usually bearded, hatted, tired, and disheveled or shuffling around in a daze after countless hours on the road. And this bright, sweet voice kind of pierces the quiet fog hanging over the men's room, "Daddy, I can't reach the toilet paper." You are bonded forever with the beautiful, dainty creature you escort into this place.
Michael is there too, and that's cute also, we had moments like our first time using the urinal, but it never seemed so funny, or out-of-place, as it does with Megan. Soaping, rinsing and drying hands - and not obstructing the path of a driver who needs to go badly after 10 hours of driving - are also part of it with both kids. But Megan's loud, sweet voice there is quite a memory-maker for me.
It's an old cliche, but Megan is truly a 'good little helper'. She is eager to help cook, water the plants indoors, pot flowers and vetables outdoors, and so on. She wants to be a doctor or a nurse (some of you may recall her ongoing fascination with 'body books' about human anatomy). She told me that doctors wear gloves. I asked her what other things doctors wear (I was maybe looking for white coat, surgical mask, or stethoscope) but Megan said, "Nothing. They just wear gloves."
We play T-ball in the front yard. The kids were alternating, one would hit and the other would help field, then they'd switch. Finally Michael said, "We should let Daddy hit some too." Megan said, "Oh, no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa." I'm not sure why Africa was on her mind, but she's been to some of my softball games; she knows I can hit it pretty far I guess. Like out of the park and into the trees. A lot of guys in my league can do that. But it made me feel good when she said it! Of course, Megan 'giveth, then taketh away', because later that night she was brushing my hair - something she likes to do now - and she started giggling and said, "Daddy, you have a bald spot back here." Thank you, Darling. Did you notice all the grey, too?
Michael is there too, and that's cute also, we had moments like our first time using the urinal, but it never seemed so funny, or out-of-place, as it does with Megan. Soaping, rinsing and drying hands - and not obstructing the path of a driver who needs to go badly after 10 hours of driving - are also part of it with both kids. But Megan's loud, sweet voice there is quite a memory-maker for me.
It's an old cliche, but Megan is truly a 'good little helper'. She is eager to help cook, water the plants indoors, pot flowers and vetables outdoors, and so on. She wants to be a doctor or a nurse (some of you may recall her ongoing fascination with 'body books' about human anatomy). She told me that doctors wear gloves. I asked her what other things doctors wear (I was maybe looking for white coat, surgical mask, or stethoscope) but Megan said, "Nothing. They just wear gloves."
We play T-ball in the front yard. The kids were alternating, one would hit and the other would help field, then they'd switch. Finally Michael said, "We should let Daddy hit some too." Megan said, "Oh, no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa." I'm not sure why Africa was on her mind, but she's been to some of my softball games; she knows I can hit it pretty far I guess. Like out of the park and into the trees. A lot of guys in my league can do that. But it made me feel good when she said it! Of course, Megan 'giveth, then taketh away', because later that night she was brushing my hair - something she likes to do now - and she started giggling and said, "Daddy, you have a bald spot back here." Thank you, Darling. Did you notice all the grey, too?
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Dad Entry #64
Michael was a little irritated that I traveled to China again for over 2 weeks. He wasn’t very talkative on Skype; I could tell he was bummed. And I love him for it. I missed him like crazy. Maybe I’m flattering myself; maybe he didn’t miss me tons and was only preoccupied with Star Wars Legos or his Nintendo DS when I called. But I remember, when I was a little older than Michael, missing my Dad when he traveled for work; Papa Mike was a traveling salesman, still is, albeit at executive levels now. He probably doesn't fly coach anymore like I have to.
I bought Michael a Nintendo DS game from the Silk Market in Beijing. I bartered and got a good price for it. Then I prayed it would work. It is notoriously risky to purchase electronics, movies, and games there. Countless salespeople agressively hawk everything under the sun in aisle upon narrow aisle of shops, stalls, and glass counters. When something works, it's a great deal (if you bartered well, which is a contest I think most sellers respect and enjoy as much as the buyers). And usually it works. But sometimes, no. Michael's game worked. Phew. And he really liked the one I picked (Star Wars: The Clone Wars). Cool.
Sara told me what Michael said from the top of the Sears Tower. Looking out from the skydeck over Chicago, he said, “I cannot believe that God has all this under control.” Awesome. He said it as an affirmative statement. The same sentence could mean otherwise; but by his inflection – Sara confirmed there was a kind of awe or appreciation in his tone – he meant God has things under control, it’s just hard to fathom when you’re looking out over one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world. What a deep thinker. Unfortunately, he’s going to give himself a headache, and a heartache, and a soul- or spirit-ache too, thinking so deeply. But Michael must agree with Socrates. “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I look forward to growing old with Michael and talking about these things. Hopefully we inspire each other, rather than become grumpy, old cynics. We will. Inspire each other.
Megan made a sort of deep observation too. See told me via Skype, “I can count in my brain.” Then she added some clarification with, “I can count inside my brain.” I knew what she meant the first time. In a way, she has identified her inner voice. She can count, and speak, inside her brain. Words don’t have to escape her lips. Words can just stop, or stay, inside her head. Very good. It’s important to learn this. (Some people never do!) This brings to mind all kinds of thoughts about our inner dialogues, our compassionate or critical inner voices – hopefully the latter – and our explanatory styles for life events as it relates to our levels of optimism (the quality positive psychologists are now saying is most revelatory or indicative of the amount of success and fulfillment a person experiences). How optimism, success, and fulfillment are determined objectively, I don’t know. But it sure sounds good! Let's hear it for optimism! I hope M & M are optimists.
During a Skype call, Megan said, “Daddy, I wish I could pull you through the computer!” Me too! Why haven’t we figured that out yet? Teleportation. Didn't Star Trek pioneer this travel method decades ago? Video calls are like so 2007. Although, seriously, I bet there are scientists out there really looking into 'beaming' people around. I think I read somewhere they can teleport electrons now. Maybe atoms. There's no way engineers will figure it out for humans, will they? I volunteer Uncle Scott and Uncle Jake for the first human trials of this amazing technology.
Megan cut her finger the day I left for China. It bled like crazy; blood was running down here fingers past her wrist. She cut her finger with what she later indicted as 'naughty scissors'. She said, “They are some naughty scissors, they snipped off the pad on my finger.” Indeed, they cut off a perfect circle of tissue, rather deep, from the end of her finger. Sara took her to the ER where they used some kind of synthetic skin, that adhered but later fell off, to patch her up. Megan officially hates the ER now since they also gave her a tetanus shot during her visit. “They stuck it in my shoulder,” she told me. I know. Ouch.
While Skyping from China, I panned my webcam so the kids could see out my hotel room window. I was on the 15th floor. Looking down at the traffic zooming by outside, and the distant people and bikes below, Megan asked, “Daddy, how do you get to the bottom in China?” I told her I use an elevator. But the perspectives and questions about new things from kids are always interesting. Hey, it was a good, practical question. I didn't take the stairs. I didn't scale down the building like a rock climber; I didn't use crampons and ice axes, a rope, suction cups, or a ladder; I didn't jump, parachute, hang glide, water slide, or fly. She used the word ‘bottom’ again a little later when she blurted, “Daddy, I have to scratch my bottom.” Okay, Sweetheart, sometimes it’s best to go ahead and do something like that without calling attention to it.
I bought Michael a Nintendo DS game from the Silk Market in Beijing. I bartered and got a good price for it. Then I prayed it would work. It is notoriously risky to purchase electronics, movies, and games there. Countless salespeople agressively hawk everything under the sun in aisle upon narrow aisle of shops, stalls, and glass counters. When something works, it's a great deal (if you bartered well, which is a contest I think most sellers respect and enjoy as much as the buyers). And usually it works. But sometimes, no. Michael's game worked. Phew. And he really liked the one I picked (Star Wars: The Clone Wars). Cool.
Sara told me what Michael said from the top of the Sears Tower. Looking out from the skydeck over Chicago, he said, “I cannot believe that God has all this under control.” Awesome. He said it as an affirmative statement. The same sentence could mean otherwise; but by his inflection – Sara confirmed there was a kind of awe or appreciation in his tone – he meant God has things under control, it’s just hard to fathom when you’re looking out over one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world. What a deep thinker. Unfortunately, he’s going to give himself a headache, and a heartache, and a soul- or spirit-ache too, thinking so deeply. But Michael must agree with Socrates. “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I look forward to growing old with Michael and talking about these things. Hopefully we inspire each other, rather than become grumpy, old cynics. We will. Inspire each other.
Megan made a sort of deep observation too. See told me via Skype, “I can count in my brain.” Then she added some clarification with, “I can count inside my brain.” I knew what she meant the first time. In a way, she has identified her inner voice. She can count, and speak, inside her brain. Words don’t have to escape her lips. Words can just stop, or stay, inside her head. Very good. It’s important to learn this. (Some people never do!) This brings to mind all kinds of thoughts about our inner dialogues, our compassionate or critical inner voices – hopefully the latter – and our explanatory styles for life events as it relates to our levels of optimism (the quality positive psychologists are now saying is most revelatory or indicative of the amount of success and fulfillment a person experiences). How optimism, success, and fulfillment are determined objectively, I don’t know. But it sure sounds good! Let's hear it for optimism! I hope M & M are optimists.
During a Skype call, Megan said, “Daddy, I wish I could pull you through the computer!” Me too! Why haven’t we figured that out yet? Teleportation. Didn't Star Trek pioneer this travel method decades ago? Video calls are like so 2007. Although, seriously, I bet there are scientists out there really looking into 'beaming' people around. I think I read somewhere they can teleport electrons now. Maybe atoms. There's no way engineers will figure it out for humans, will they? I volunteer Uncle Scott and Uncle Jake for the first human trials of this amazing technology.
Megan cut her finger the day I left for China. It bled like crazy; blood was running down here fingers past her wrist. She cut her finger with what she later indicted as 'naughty scissors'. She said, “They are some naughty scissors, they snipped off the pad on my finger.” Indeed, they cut off a perfect circle of tissue, rather deep, from the end of her finger. Sara took her to the ER where they used some kind of synthetic skin, that adhered but later fell off, to patch her up. Megan officially hates the ER now since they also gave her a tetanus shot during her visit. “They stuck it in my shoulder,” she told me. I know. Ouch.
While Skyping from China, I panned my webcam so the kids could see out my hotel room window. I was on the 15th floor. Looking down at the traffic zooming by outside, and the distant people and bikes below, Megan asked, “Daddy, how do you get to the bottom in China?” I told her I use an elevator. But the perspectives and questions about new things from kids are always interesting. Hey, it was a good, practical question. I didn't take the stairs. I didn't scale down the building like a rock climber; I didn't use crampons and ice axes, a rope, suction cups, or a ladder; I didn't jump, parachute, hang glide, water slide, or fly. She used the word ‘bottom’ again a little later when she blurted, “Daddy, I have to scratch my bottom.” Okay, Sweetheart, sometimes it’s best to go ahead and do something like that without calling attention to it.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Dad Entry #63
Megan loves giraffes. We were at ‘Reptile-Fest’ surrounded by snakes and lizards, and Megan said, “I wonder if they have baby giraffes here.” Sweet thing. It was a serious inquiry so I gave it a sincere answer. “No Baby, just reptiles. Turtles, frogs, gators and snakes. But this is a big gym, the ceiling is high enough for giraffes.” We were in the UIC PE building (University of Illinois at Chicago Physical Education). Meggie knows what a reptile is, and therefore knows that a giraffe is not one; I think she simply, while surrounded by animals, succumbed to a moment of hopeful delight.
Michael started T-ball again. I am in China so I missed the first practice, but Sara told me he is by far the tallest kid on the team. He’s a big dude. But a sensitive one. I think that’s a good combo.
Sometimes when I plop myself down on the couch next to Meg she says, “No Daddy, you’ll sit on my dress.” And I think, where was this concern for your princess dress when you dripped waffle syrup on it at breakfast, and wiped Cheeto cheese on it at lunch?
I mentioned this already, but Meggie can’t wait to be 6 years old. I think her observations of Michael indicate the big ‘6’ is a breakthrough year. A real milestone. I’m smiling, but I also realize the difference between 4 and 6 is a 50% increase in lifespan. That’s nothing to sneeze at. It’s the same, by that measure, as the difference between 20 and 30. Would you like me to tell you about that?! And the ripe age of 6 really did mean big things for Michael; he started 1st grade, learned to read (even ‘chapter books’!), and is at school for a full day now (Meggie misses him in the afternoons). Michael also played on a T-ball team (Meggie loves to play ball too), went to Minnesota by himself for several days with Gramma and Papa, and possibly has other unique privileges or status I just can’t perceive or understand, even when I try to think like a 4-year-old. You bet, easy for me. But whatever the hierarchy or progression – or giant chasm! – that separates a 4- and 6-year-old, Meggie is feeling the gravity of it; she wants badly to cross, to leap! She says, “I want to be 6.” I know, Sweetheart, I want to be 25. When does it change, anyway; when do we go from wanting more years to wanting less?
Michael started T-ball again. I am in China so I missed the first practice, but Sara told me he is by far the tallest kid on the team. He’s a big dude. But a sensitive one. I think that’s a good combo.
Sometimes when I plop myself down on the couch next to Meg she says, “No Daddy, you’ll sit on my dress.” And I think, where was this concern for your princess dress when you dripped waffle syrup on it at breakfast, and wiped Cheeto cheese on it at lunch?
I mentioned this already, but Meggie can’t wait to be 6 years old. I think her observations of Michael indicate the big ‘6’ is a breakthrough year. A real milestone. I’m smiling, but I also realize the difference between 4 and 6 is a 50% increase in lifespan. That’s nothing to sneeze at. It’s the same, by that measure, as the difference between 20 and 30. Would you like me to tell you about that?! And the ripe age of 6 really did mean big things for Michael; he started 1st grade, learned to read (even ‘chapter books’!), and is at school for a full day now (Meggie misses him in the afternoons). Michael also played on a T-ball team (Meggie loves to play ball too), went to Minnesota by himself for several days with Gramma and Papa, and possibly has other unique privileges or status I just can’t perceive or understand, even when I try to think like a 4-year-old. You bet, easy for me. But whatever the hierarchy or progression – or giant chasm! – that separates a 4- and 6-year-old, Meggie is feeling the gravity of it; she wants badly to cross, to leap! She says, “I want to be 6.” I know, Sweetheart, I want to be 25. When does it change, anyway; when do we go from wanting more years to wanting less?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Dad Entry #62
Recently, in a cookies induced euphoria, Megan announced, “I don’t like to be naughty anymore. I like to follow your guys’s rules.” Excellent. Meggie’s not really that naughty, but I assured her I support the new policy.
Sara mentioned Megan’s inquiry about ‘buggers’. That was the cutest part. Not boogers. Buggers. She consulted Mommy before approaching me. So she wasn’t asking anymore; she was teaching. It seems kids go fast from ‘asking’ to ‘knowing’, from unaware to expert; and then they teach. They share. Especially important stuff like the origin of buggers. ”Daddy, did you know that God put a machine in your nose that makes buggers? It has the special power to make buggers and drop them down your nose.” Sara rightly told her that our bodies make them, but Meggie wanted a more spectacular answer, one with direct divine involvement. I love that about her, she likes to reference God when discussing how things are created. Even buggers.
Megan is pretty tech savvy for a 4-year-old. She puts puzzles together and plays games on my Motorola / Google phone (did I just make a plug for my company?), which requires finesse with the touch screen and menus. She can navigate back to a game if she hits a wrong key. This is good, as I don’t want her calling, texting or emailing gibberish to a high level manager at work.
"Daddy, look at me!" These are fun words from Megan, followed by some goofy or inventive display, acrobatics or contortions or some breathtaking adornment of princess jewels around her neck, wrists and head.
I love it when the kids talk about Christmas in February. And not the one that just happened. Michael started his 2010 list. And he’s a good writer. It’s a detailed list. I guess there’s no harm in documenting your favorite toys in March; the list can be edited in December. Megan tells me she'd write a list but, as she very deliberately explains, “I’m only 4 and don’t how to write yet, but when I’m 6 like Michael I’ll know how to write, so I’ll write a list then, but right now I’m only 4, so I can’t write one.” I know, Sweetheart, some day you’ll be a terrific writer, just like Michael. For now, we help Megan, but she can write letters, so really we only have to spell for her. As for other holidays, we talk about Halloween in March, too. Only days ago Michael said he’s going to be Harry Potter this year and Megan plans to be Ahsoka from Star Wars. Woo-hoo! And Megan talks about her birthday – only 6 months away – almost daily now, albeit as a threat to anyone she takes issue with. She’ll say, “Daddy, can I play Bubble Burst on your phone?” And when I say no because it’s bedtime, she frowns and says, “If you don’t let me play, then you can’t come to my birthday party.” Then I tell her, “Oh, darn, I was going to bring you the biggest, greatest present in the whole wide world, but if I’m not invited….” So Megan withdraws her threat. Until the next day when she uses it on me again for telling her she has to wear something warmer because it’s chilly outside.
Sara mentioned Megan’s inquiry about ‘buggers’. That was the cutest part. Not boogers. Buggers. She consulted Mommy before approaching me. So she wasn’t asking anymore; she was teaching. It seems kids go fast from ‘asking’ to ‘knowing’, from unaware to expert; and then they teach. They share. Especially important stuff like the origin of buggers. ”Daddy, did you know that God put a machine in your nose that makes buggers? It has the special power to make buggers and drop them down your nose.” Sara rightly told her that our bodies make them, but Meggie wanted a more spectacular answer, one with direct divine involvement. I love that about her, she likes to reference God when discussing how things are created. Even buggers.
Megan is pretty tech savvy for a 4-year-old. She puts puzzles together and plays games on my Motorola / Google phone (did I just make a plug for my company?), which requires finesse with the touch screen and menus. She can navigate back to a game if she hits a wrong key. This is good, as I don’t want her calling, texting or emailing gibberish to a high level manager at work.
"Daddy, look at me!" These are fun words from Megan, followed by some goofy or inventive display, acrobatics or contortions or some breathtaking adornment of princess jewels around her neck, wrists and head.
I love it when the kids talk about Christmas in February. And not the one that just happened. Michael started his 2010 list. And he’s a good writer. It’s a detailed list. I guess there’s no harm in documenting your favorite toys in March; the list can be edited in December. Megan tells me she'd write a list but, as she very deliberately explains, “I’m only 4 and don’t how to write yet, but when I’m 6 like Michael I’ll know how to write, so I’ll write a list then, but right now I’m only 4, so I can’t write one.” I know, Sweetheart, some day you’ll be a terrific writer, just like Michael. For now, we help Megan, but she can write letters, so really we only have to spell for her. As for other holidays, we talk about Halloween in March, too. Only days ago Michael said he’s going to be Harry Potter this year and Megan plans to be Ahsoka from Star Wars. Woo-hoo! And Megan talks about her birthday – only 6 months away – almost daily now, albeit as a threat to anyone she takes issue with. She’ll say, “Daddy, can I play Bubble Burst on your phone?” And when I say no because it’s bedtime, she frowns and says, “If you don’t let me play, then you can’t come to my birthday party.” Then I tell her, “Oh, darn, I was going to bring you the biggest, greatest present in the whole wide world, but if I’m not invited….” So Megan withdraws her threat. Until the next day when she uses it on me again for telling her she has to wear something warmer because it’s chilly outside.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Reptile Fest
Whoever thought I'd be down with this? They loved it. That yellow one? An enormous albino burmese reticulated python. Why not?!
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)