Michael has a mop like Laird Hamilton's. I should take him surfing. I'm talking about his hair, of course. It's streaked with natural blond highlights and it spills over his ears, not unlike the haircut of an English page boy. Actually, that's not fair; Michael's hair looks way cooler than that, but the fact I even notice, the fact I'm even commenting on it means, I guess, that I'm mildly old-fashioned. Oh well. My grandpas were baseball players and soldiers. They had short hair. Period. But my dad, aka Papa Mike, says, with great pride in fact, that he had longish hair when he was younger and he was quick to remind the critics in his family that... so did Jesus. Whatever, Michael looks great. And he feels great. And he's big. He's tall. Good for him. And back to the hair: I'm the first to point out there are lots of guys with crazy hair who are good at what they do - athletes, artists, adventurers - and that's all that matters. I would think dreadlocks are a burden with all the sweating and helmet-wearing athletes do, and I would think a low-maintenance, never-in-the-way cut would be best for, say, a rock climber, or even a rockstar. But I know it's quite absurd to suggest a guitarist not have long, wild, or very stylish, hair. How our heads look is an important part of our image, and who among us isn't vain? At least a little? My beloved son is no different. He claims to have an effect on women after all (see his quote below). Chip off the old block. Did I mention, however, that he's only seven years old?!
Michael might be tall, and his hair might be cool, but Sara recently noted a physical flaw. She says he can get pretty 'smelly'. His feet in particular, although at bedtime the other day I leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and a little BO wafted up from his armpits. It didn't make my eyes water or anything, but it's true; our little guy is turning into a big guy, and despite regular scrubbings, big guys can get stinky pretty quickly when they're active. Yes, Sara bought him some deoderant. Deoderant? Already? Yeah, kids grow up fast. But it's awesome.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Dad Entry #73
Megan asked Sara recently, “Mommy, do teacher’s have birthdays?” Interesting question. The logic and reasoning framework inside a 4-year-old’s head is still rickety, or under construction, and I love to see its flimsiness exposed. This is not an indictment of my children. My kids are brilliant. For their age. So back to Megan's question: do teacher’s have birthdays? Well, teachers are strikingly human – which would imply a birthday – but they’re also figures of authority. Are they too rigid, too stuffy, to party? Are they somehow immune to the attraction of presents and fun, unlike children who are drawn like moths to light? Could a normal person ever forget or ignore their own birthday, or - gasp! - refuse the attention and gluttonous gift-giving? No way! A single step down that thought path would short-circuit a young brain. It's inconceivable. Mommy and Daddy have birthdays, so it isn't taboo or against the law or anything for adults. Was Megan's question triggered by an incomplete understanding of biology, birth, or age. No, it was more about parties and presents. But Megan loves her teachers; I don’t think it’s a reflection of whether she sees them as fun. They are kinda serious, though; would they throw a party for themselves with cake and balloons, candles and pointy hats with painful elastic chin-strings? Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake are teachers. And she knows they are really nice and fun and they celebrate birthdays. They party. So maybe this is one of the connections, one of the joists or beams, still missing from her basic logic structure, from this analogous edifice I guess I'm referring to here, the brick and mortar of which is a child's experiences, ruminations, and conclusions.
Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”
I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.
I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.
Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”
I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.
I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Late Post: Fourth of July
At Clear Lake. The kids had a great time tubing and chillin' with the Nelsons.
Ladies
Megan and Mia had quite an afternoon with buckets and a sprinkler. I wish I could be all witty remembering the crazy games they came up with, but I am tired and usually am, so I don't actually remember them. But they were cute, mark my words.
Butterfly Girl
Michael got an invitation from a friend to help her carry the Pet Parade Banner at Palatine Street Fest. He, of course, balked at the idea of doing anything in front of people...or just doing anything at all. Megan was thrilled to pick up his slack and proudly helped Amelia carry the banner in front of a hundred pets through the Fest. Right before the parade began, she had to get her little angel face painted like a hot pink butterfly. She lo-o-o-oved the result. As did I. I mean, please.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Dad Entry #72
The kids are obsessed with dogs right now. We made it clear they're not getting one. But Grandma and Papa bought a little girl from the litter below. Little girls are sweet. Mine is. So dogs are the rage right now, slightly ahead of Pokemon cards on the attention/mention scale. I told the kids, “Grandma and Papa aren’t sure which baby girl they’ll get, they get third pick of the litter, but they’re going to name her Annabelle, kind of after Belle, and they’ll call her Anna.” Megan liked that. She did NOT, however, like it when I said they won’t get Anna for another month or so. She asked, “A month? How many minutes is that, Daddy? How many minutes until Grandma and Papa get a new puppy?” I told her, “That’s a lot of minutes, Honey. Anna is too little to come home with them now, she still needs her mommy.” We're all very eager to meet Annabelle.
This morning, Megan didn’t want any of her 25 breakfast choices. Yogurt, oatmeal, waffle, bagel, granola bar, PB toast, cinnamon toast, 8 cereal choices, fresh berries, apples, bananas, melon, dried fruit, etc. And any combination thereof? "No, I'm tired of those things," Megan said. And I thought, Seriously? Struggling with the monotony of repetition already? You’re four years old! Disappointed by the limited choices provided by the American standard of living? The modern grocery super-store? The Earth? Fruit picked in the other hemisphere that’s still fresh when I cut it open and serve it to you? Time for a chat about abundance and gratitude. Although, at 34 I see her point. I’ve eaten those things thousands of times; I’m tired of them too.
Sara said Megan spiked a 104.9 degree fever a few nights ago. I know kids can go higher than adults. Without frying their brains. But 104.9 made me wonder if her head steamed, if the sweat on her forehead evaporated in visible wisps. I think a temp over 106 or 107 is when you start the ice bath. Whatever, she was totally fine the next day.
Megan has glommed onto 'battery acid' as a cause for all kinds of issues, glitches, malfunctions around the house. I asked her where she first heard about it and she said, "Mommy found some in Michael’s car toy.” Sure, a battery went bad and leaked. It happens. But now if a cell phone acts up or the TV remote responds slowly or a light bulb burns out, Megan says, "Maybe it's battery acid." Michael finally got tired of it and told her, “Just because you're so smart about battery acid, doesn't mean that's what happened to everything.” I agree.
This morning, Megan didn’t want any of her 25 breakfast choices. Yogurt, oatmeal, waffle, bagel, granola bar, PB toast, cinnamon toast, 8 cereal choices, fresh berries, apples, bananas, melon, dried fruit, etc. And any combination thereof? "No, I'm tired of those things," Megan said. And I thought, Seriously? Struggling with the monotony of repetition already? You’re four years old! Disappointed by the limited choices provided by the American standard of living? The modern grocery super-store? The Earth? Fruit picked in the other hemisphere that’s still fresh when I cut it open and serve it to you? Time for a chat about abundance and gratitude. Although, at 34 I see her point. I’ve eaten those things thousands of times; I’m tired of them too.
Sara said Megan spiked a 104.9 degree fever a few nights ago. I know kids can go higher than adults. Without frying their brains. But 104.9 made me wonder if her head steamed, if the sweat on her forehead evaporated in visible wisps. I think a temp over 106 or 107 is when you start the ice bath. Whatever, she was totally fine the next day.
Megan has glommed onto 'battery acid' as a cause for all kinds of issues, glitches, malfunctions around the house. I asked her where she first heard about it and she said, "Mommy found some in Michael’s car toy.” Sure, a battery went bad and leaked. It happens. But now if a cell phone acts up or the TV remote responds slowly or a light bulb burns out, Megan says, "Maybe it's battery acid." Michael finally got tired of it and told her, “Just because you're so smart about battery acid, doesn't mean that's what happened to everything.” I agree.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Dad Entry #71
Megan has a front bottom and a back bottom. Yep, it's that simple. It's what Daddy calls them anyway. For now. During her bath, she knows what I mean when I hand her a washcloth and say, "Wash your front bottom now, Honey," and I think, gently, but she knows that already, and then I add, "Daddy will help you wash your back bottom." Her back bottom is kinda hard for her to reach and clean appropriately. No need for any fancy terms she hasn't asked for yet. Ok then, good thing we’ve got that covered.
Second grade starts this week for Michael. I can’t believe it. He likes to learn and create and think. He’s awesome. He doesn’t complain about school; he enjoys it. Although I'll never forget what he said after his first day of kindergarten, “My teacher is kinda bossy.” Funny. Yeah, teachers are kinda bossy. Bosses are kinda bossy too.
Megan still has a huge interest in anatomy. Future doctor? Not if I’m paying. Megan loves her ‘body books’, books with pictures and diagrams of human tissues and organs and systems. The other day before running out, I poked my head into her room to say goodbye. She was sitting on her bed reading. She held up the book, pointed at an image and said, “Look, Daddy, a blood cell.” I laughed, but not until I'd raised my eyebrows, said, "Wow, that is so interesting!" and pulled my head back out of her room.
Megan likes to look for 'treasures'. Treasures are anything of perceived value spotted on the ground, or anywhere in public, and unclaimed, i.e. available to pick up and keep. Super. Typically this means lost hair-bands, pins, clips, nuts / bolts, bottle-tops, ordinary paper litter… who knows. Nothing too poisonous. But the one that makes even Daddy cringe goes like this…. I hear my sweetheart say, "Hey, it's Dora!" I look and yep, it's Dora the Explorer alright, but her cute animated face is on a spent, dirty Band-Aid. Megan has proudly mined it from the pool filter nearest us.
Michael has about a million Pokémon cards now. And he knows everything about every one of them. He even bought one on eBay yesterday. Woo-hoo. Now if we can get him to sell some cards on eBay. And put the money in his 529.
Megan is a total kiss wiper-offer. I give her a nice, clean, dry, good-breath, goodnight peck and she immediately throws the back of her hand to her face and wipes it off. Yeah, I'm kind of annoyed. When Jenny and I were Megan's age and gave Papa Mike a goodnight kiss, it was like a sip of Miller Lite and a drag of a Marlboro. Right, Aunt Jenny? And Papa Mike had a mustache then. Enough said about that. No offense, Dad. Megan gives the best hugs though. Nice long ones, head-on-shoulder. They're amazing.
Second grade starts this week for Michael. I can’t believe it. He likes to learn and create and think. He’s awesome. He doesn’t complain about school; he enjoys it. Although I'll never forget what he said after his first day of kindergarten, “My teacher is kinda bossy.” Funny. Yeah, teachers are kinda bossy. Bosses are kinda bossy too.
Megan still has a huge interest in anatomy. Future doctor? Not if I’m paying. Megan loves her ‘body books’, books with pictures and diagrams of human tissues and organs and systems. The other day before running out, I poked my head into her room to say goodbye. She was sitting on her bed reading. She held up the book, pointed at an image and said, “Look, Daddy, a blood cell.” I laughed, but not until I'd raised my eyebrows, said, "Wow, that is so interesting!" and pulled my head back out of her room.
Megan likes to look for 'treasures'. Treasures are anything of perceived value spotted on the ground, or anywhere in public, and unclaimed, i.e. available to pick up and keep. Super. Typically this means lost hair-bands, pins, clips, nuts / bolts, bottle-tops, ordinary paper litter… who knows. Nothing too poisonous. But the one that makes even Daddy cringe goes like this…. I hear my sweetheart say, "Hey, it's Dora!" I look and yep, it's Dora the Explorer alright, but her cute animated face is on a spent, dirty Band-Aid. Megan has proudly mined it from the pool filter nearest us.
Michael has about a million Pokémon cards now. And he knows everything about every one of them. He even bought one on eBay yesterday. Woo-hoo. Now if we can get him to sell some cards on eBay. And put the money in his 529.
Megan is a total kiss wiper-offer. I give her a nice, clean, dry, good-breath, goodnight peck and she immediately throws the back of her hand to her face and wipes it off. Yeah, I'm kind of annoyed. When Jenny and I were Megan's age and gave Papa Mike a goodnight kiss, it was like a sip of Miller Lite and a drag of a Marlboro. Right, Aunt Jenny? And Papa Mike had a mustache then. Enough said about that. No offense, Dad. Megan gives the best hugs though. Nice long ones, head-on-shoulder. They're amazing.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Dad Entry #70
Megan likes a little storytelling now at bedtime. For years I've done my best with stories for Michael. Sometimes they're awfully boring or repetitive; creativity doesn't always spill out. Storytelling's a little different with Meg. Here's an example of how it goes down:
Meg: "Daddy, will you tell me a story tonight?"
Dad: "I'd love to, Baby."
Meg: "No, three stories."
Dad: "Umm, let's just do one and we'll make it a nice long one!"
M: "Two stories?"
D: "Once upon a time, there was a princess named Tina Fey, she was a beautiful-"
M: (interrupts) "How old is she, Daddy?"
D: "Oh, let's say she's almost five like you, Sweetheart!"
M: "No Daddy, she has to be grown-up age to get married."
D: "Oh. Okay, we'll say she's 25 then. Or 55. Anyway, Princess Tina Fey loved the forest. She loved-"
M: "Let's just say she's mommy-size, okay? She's mommy-size, right?"
D: "Yes, Baby, perfect, she's mommy-size, and she loved the forest, and she loved trees, big tall ones, and leaves. She loved to-"
M: "And then she met a prince, right?"
D: "Uh, sure, you bet, Princess Tina Fey met a prince one day in the forest, Prince Jimmy Fallon was his name and he-"
M: "And then they got married, right Dad?"
Megan really cuts to the chase when given editorial liberties. And apparently we can't tell stories about little princesses. Or ones without boys.
I love how often the kids tell me stuff I already know. It's cute. The subject is always brand new for them I guess. And they don't fully understand age and the accumulation of only marginally useful knowledge over decades of scholastic and media brainwashing. So it's not crazy for Meggie to assume, for example, that she's teaching me something when she says, "Daddy, these are called Pixy Stix! But they're just sugar." Yes, Baby, it's called marketing. Ice cubes to Eskimos. But the most important thing to remember about marketing? How to market yourself. Things like scholarships come to mind, Honey. ... Only kidding. Sort of.
Michael writes a lot. Right now he's listing all the Star Wars characters he can think of and find in books. Let me tell you: there are hundreds of Star Wars characters, Jedi's, Sith's, monsters, creatures, bounty hunters, droids, troopers, aliens, Hutts, Ewoks, Wookies, Mandalorians, Gungans, and so on (Michael would be so proud of me for that list right there). The movies only scrape the surface. So Michael's literally filling a notebook, page after page. I saw it. Impressive. But I hate to admit I actually flashed on the scene in 'The Shining' when they show you the manuscript Jack Nicholson's character has been laboring over for weeks, and it's like a hundred pages of the same phrase. Something else to admit: I remember doing lots of things like Michael's doing now, drawing characters, listing them, page after page, etc. I'm a little worried, of course; I don't want him to have any of the OCD issues suffered by the rest of his family.
Meg: "Daddy, will you tell me a story tonight?"
Dad: "I'd love to, Baby."
Meg: "No, three stories."
Dad: "Umm, let's just do one and we'll make it a nice long one!"
M: "Two stories?"
D: "Once upon a time, there was a princess named Tina Fey, she was a beautiful-"
M: (interrupts) "How old is she, Daddy?"
D: "Oh, let's say she's almost five like you, Sweetheart!"
M: "No Daddy, she has to be grown-up age to get married."
D: "Oh. Okay, we'll say she's 25 then. Or 55. Anyway, Princess Tina Fey loved the forest. She loved-"
M: "Let's just say she's mommy-size, okay? She's mommy-size, right?"
D: "Yes, Baby, perfect, she's mommy-size, and she loved the forest, and she loved trees, big tall ones, and leaves. She loved to-"
M: "And then she met a prince, right?"
D: "Uh, sure, you bet, Princess Tina Fey met a prince one day in the forest, Prince Jimmy Fallon was his name and he-"
M: "And then they got married, right Dad?"
Megan really cuts to the chase when given editorial liberties. And apparently we can't tell stories about little princesses. Or ones without boys.
I love how often the kids tell me stuff I already know. It's cute. The subject is always brand new for them I guess. And they don't fully understand age and the accumulation of only marginally useful knowledge over decades of scholastic and media brainwashing. So it's not crazy for Meggie to assume, for example, that she's teaching me something when she says, "Daddy, these are called Pixy Stix! But they're just sugar." Yes, Baby, it's called marketing. Ice cubes to Eskimos. But the most important thing to remember about marketing? How to market yourself. Things like scholarships come to mind, Honey. ... Only kidding. Sort of.
Michael writes a lot. Right now he's listing all the Star Wars characters he can think of and find in books. Let me tell you: there are hundreds of Star Wars characters, Jedi's, Sith's, monsters, creatures, bounty hunters, droids, troopers, aliens, Hutts, Ewoks, Wookies, Mandalorians, Gungans, and so on (Michael would be so proud of me for that list right there). The movies only scrape the surface. So Michael's literally filling a notebook, page after page. I saw it. Impressive. But I hate to admit I actually flashed on the scene in 'The Shining' when they show you the manuscript Jack Nicholson's character has been laboring over for weeks, and it's like a hundred pages of the same phrase. Something else to admit: I remember doing lots of things like Michael's doing now, drawing characters, listing them, page after page, etc. I'm a little worried, of course; I don't want him to have any of the OCD issues suffered by the rest of his family.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Dad Entry #69
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.
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.
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!
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