Another Halloween Pic: Megan's Candy List

Halloween 2011

The Face That Launched a Thousand Nicknames

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


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

Dad Entry #113

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

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

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

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

Dad Entry #112

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

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

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

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

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

Dad Entry #111

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

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

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

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

And Her Sixth Year Arrives

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

Take THAT, Floppy Tooth

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

Dad Entry #110

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

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

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

Dad Entry #109

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad Entry #108

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

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

First Day of School 2011

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


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

Wild Ride

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

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

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

Good times all around.

Dad Entry #107

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

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

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

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

Dad Entry #106

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

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

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

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

Quotables

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

Inspection

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

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


-------------------------


After an attempt to explain something to me and Meg:

Michael: DUH, people!

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

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

Dad Entry #105

Michael and I were talking baseball.
Michael: "Who's your favorite first baseman right now?"
Me: "Joey Votto. But he's not gonna win NL MVP again this year. Seems like a nice, humble guy though, and a hard worker."
Michael: "Favorite catcher?"
Me: "Mauer."
Michael: "Yeah, mine too. Second base?"
Me: "Dustin Pedroia. But my goodness is Dan Uggla scorching hot right now after a slow start."
Michael: "Hmm, I like Robbie Cano. Shortstop?"
Me: "Easy. Starlin Castro. The kid's batting over 300 and he's practically your age. And he's a Cubbie!"
And so on. Eventually Michael asked Megan - thankfully she'd been working on a DQ double chocolate cone so was okay with all the baseball talk - "Who's your favorite player?" Megan, my precious little sweetheart said, "Daddy!" Clearly that didn't work for Michael though; he said, "No, really Megan, who's your favorite major league player?" Megan said happily, "I like all the good players!" Michael, smelling weakness, kept going. Maybe he'll be a litigator some day. He said, "Great Megan, you can't even name a favorite player." This crossed the line - or maybe he did when he ridiculed Megan's 'Daddy' answer - so I shut it down, "Michael, back off, she's not a baseball super-fan, an expert, she doesn't have hundreds of cards like you, if we're talking about favorite Barbies, can she jump all over you if you don't have a perfect answer?" So Michael, from his heels, in a kind of parrying move, said, "I know Barbies." To which I mumbled, "I wouldn't brag about that, Kid." And then, sure-footed now, he'd clearly thought of something, he added, "In fact, I'd say my favorite Barbie is Ken." He was kinda smug when he said it, chin raised slightly. And yet he knew it was a silly comeback, a silly argument; he smiled just a little. Even so, I was impressed; he'd held his position beyond the point I would've acquiesced. Although, of course, I would've never held his position in the first place because he was WRONG! My stance on this important matter: Ken is Ken, not Barbie, not a Barbie you can choose from as your favorite. Barbies include Barbie Mariposa, Barbie Fairytopia, Mermaid Barbie; there's Rocker-, Fashion-, Malibu-, Holiday-, Wedding-, Denim- and Corvette-Barbie. Sign Language Barbie. Castle Barbie. Good lord. Farrah-Fawcett-in-that-red-swimsuit Barbie. No shit. I just googled it. And Barbie has about a hundred friends with different names, hair and skin color, etc. See, I'm a good Dad. And she thinks I only like baseball.

Speaking of baseball... we were watching the Cubs and Meggie said, "Dad, the baseball players spit on their court. It's crazy, right? You can't spit on your court!" I didn't have the heart to tell her I'd spit on baseball 'courts' a million times in my life, sometimes with tobacco in my mouth. Don't tell Grandma Barb. When I was a kid playing ball she said, "I don't ever want to see you spit." So I had to make sure she wasn't looking when I spit. Thankfully, Megan didn't comment on all the adjusting of cups and private parts that goes on in baseball. Grandma Barb did though, over the years.

Megan is pigeon-toed. And skinny.

I like it when I see something shiny in the carpet, tiny but noticeable. Sure, I'm a man: "Ooh, look! Shiny!" Anyway, I notice it and lean down and see that it's a single sequin. Another reminder I have a daughter. Debris from one of her crazy glam outfits. The woman at Crate & Barrel yesterday called Megan a 'little fashionista!' And two other women applauded her shoes which are slip-on heels with white feathery boa material on the toes, along with a single pink ribbon rose. And she slipped and nearly fell down the concrete condo stairs in those damn shoes; but I grabbed her arm to keep her upright before I even processed what was going on, luckily I was right next to her. And then all I could think was, this is not good.

Michael grabbed a bag of 'Flamin' Hot' Cheetos at Subway. I said, "You aren't gonna like 'em." He said, "No, I like them, I had them already with Nahum (pronounced Nigh-ome, rhymes with home, his friend and classmate)." I said, "You won't finish 'em and you're gonna be hungry for other chips and you're not gonna get any." To Michael's credit, he ate the whole bag. But it took him three days. I didn't force him. He just kept them and had a few with each of the next several meals.

Dad Entry #104

Megan likes to make her bed. She organizes and props up her 'pets' - her stuffed animals - and straightens her sheets. She's so cute it's crazy. But she's irritated with me right now; She said, "Dad, how come you just wanna play baseball with Michael all the time?" This broke my heart a little. I said, "That's not true, Lover-Dove, I like to play with you too." Wanna go hit some balls off the tee?

Megan asks to do dishes now. No kidding. "Daddy, put some water in the sink please so I can do dishes." First of all, everything goes in the dishwasher, Sweetheart. I don't care if it melts. And second, my daughter ain't gonna do no dishes. That's what your husband'll be for. I suppose that's not funny.

I like to fold Megan's laundry. It reminds me that I have a daughter. And that she's small.

I'm afraid that every time I take out Megan's pigtail rubber-bands I pull out clumps of her hair. I don't hurt her; I know how to avoid that, and she doesn't wince or complain, and she's not developing any bald spots, but somehow despite excruciating care I end up with strands of hair entangled in my fingers, along with the rubber-band. It's a pain in the butt; how do chicks deal with this everyday? My current strategy for my own hair: let it fall out. It's working. I take out Megan's hairbands before bath-time. During her bath, I have a new habit of encouraging a quick rinse of the conditioner. Megan always responds by saying, "No Dad, you have to wait a few minutes, you have to give the conditioner time to condish." Condish? Whatever, it sounds cute and I haven't heard it enough yet to quit provoking her to say it.

Michael is so into baseball. I'll be in the middle of a bedtime story, an improv' one, to both Megan and Michael (sidenote: this is challenging as my audience is diverse, and, as I've whined here before, telling stories fluidly, creatively, vividly, like it's depicted in bedtime or campfire scenes in the movies is not so easy), so I'll be weaving something pretty silly but it's working; the kids are listening; I can tell because they're attentive, they add commentary here and there, and provide direction (e.g. I'll ask, "Should the Pirate ship fire canons at the Viking boats or make a run for the sea cave?" and the kids will answer). So I'll be describing how the warrior (who we'll have named something like Killabrew, Turkalew, Servo, Shen, Jimenez, or The Monk, The Blacksmith, The Joiner... all characters we've told stories about), anyway, I'll be telling how the warrior jumps off the castle rampart and lands right on the guard, but this sends them both sprawling, and they crash into the glass tank where they're keeping the mermaid, this is very bad of course cause the tank shatters, and mermaids need water - duh! - and they're miles from the sea - but we can dip her in the castle moat! - and the silence in the castle is broken now, more guards are streaming in, and dogs are barking suddenly, big ones like the Lindgrens' German Shepherds, but aren't dogs friendly to mermaids, can't they read each other's thoughts, and communicate telepathically; will the dogs help the mermaid and the outnumbered warrior?! And I'm getting kind of excited because here I've gotten the story to a crescendo of sorts, and as I said earlier, it's not easy to do this on a semi-regular basis, and then, and then, Michael will blurt, "Dad, is Matt Holliday having a good season?" You know how a balloon deflates, looping and twisting and shrinking. And the sound. Maybe I'm a lousy storyteller. But I know he was listening too, because he'd spoken up a few times about the story, but if there was a PC 'Task Manager' that I could open to see what applications are running inside Michael's head, right there next to 'Bedtime Story Program' I would see 'Baseball Card Appraiser'. It's pretty much a background app these days, always running alongside 'Eat', 'Drink', 'Be Condescending to Megan' and all the others, often interrupting them in fact with an urgent question or concern. I love it, and here's why: I remember being the same way. Obsessed with the value of my cards, which is driven by player performance, of course. We have a lot of OCD in the family already though, not sure I wanna provide or support perfect vehicles for its expression and remarkable development. But who doesn't love baseball cards? So I answer Michael, "Matt Holliday's production is down a little this year, Bud, in general I'd say, but Berkman has really picked up the slack for the Cards, and you've got Pujols to worry about too if you're a pitcher, so Holliday's gonna see good pitches, and I think he's been heating up lately; he's still Matt Holliday. Anyway, so the mermaid's beautiful shiny tail is starting to dry...."

Dad Entry #103

Michael received rave reviews from friends and family in Clear Lake. He's bright, happy, fun, energetic, polite, easy-going. He eats a lot; he laughs a lot. He goes with the flow, or can be persuaded to do so after minimal grumbling. My friends Sharon and Todd agreed, "We're just really impressed with Michael; he's cool, nice, smart. He's awesome." And he's crazy about baseball right now. I'm adding that part, not Todd and Sharon :) Michael will provoke Megan occasionally, and be condescending to her - which I have zero tolerance for even if he's right and she's wrong - but I'll say here what I tell him regularly: I feel very lucky to have him for a son. I don't mention this next part to him, as we are father and son right now, first and foremost, but I look forward to the times we'll have together, out there in the future, as just adults, friends, peers, men. We'll always be father and son of course, but looking at the world together, and our family, as equals during the highs and lows we'll experience... I think it'll be great to have Michael in my corner, and to be there for him, also.

I believe most five-year-olds can grasp the basics of earning and spending (even if the federal government can't). When you earn, you get money; when you spend, you lose it. And the latter can't exceed the former (unless you're the federal government, in which case it can do so by 14 trillion). But Megan gets confused - and angry! - when dealing with more abstract and delayed monetary concepts like saving, change (money left after a purchase), currency (she thinks five ones are worth more than one five), loans ('pay me back from your piggy bank when we get home'), and decisions like 'should I buy one big thing or three small ones?!' Yes, also problems analogous to our mismanaged federal government, and I haven't even mentioned how Megan struggles with freebies yet, when I buy her a little something, my concerns about her future expectations and dependencies; more fodder for partisan pundits if the topic was politics and not my sweetheart. It's so much nicer to talk about Megan. So Sara had a garage sale. Megan sold more of her old toys than Michael; she made $21 to Michael's $14. But Sara doled Megan's out in 3 bills (a little math problem for ya!), whereas Michael got 5. A meltdown ensued. Megan insisted she was getting less, and she can be so impressively stubborn, even when dead wrong, that attempts to explain or persuade are simply hopeless. Meltdowns are rare, and then only 'Category 1' I'd say, you know, the kind that blow shingles off the roof and knock over trees, nothing serious like tossing cars and homes around. I wouldn't say my Sweetheart is super-volatile, just super-stubborn. We're working on it, but life happens and there's no better teacher.

Megan asked me, "Does Grandma love me and Michael more than you?" Funny how kids - and too many adults - like to keep score, or try to put things or understand them in this kind of order. I thought, Of course not! My mommy loves me the most! Kidding. Sort of. I should've given her the canned 'Grandma loves her kids and grandkids all the same' response. Instead, I said, "I don't know, what do you think?" Megan said, in a quieter, more compassionate tone, as if she felt sorry for me, "Yeah, I think she loves us more."