Dad Entry #129

We enjoyed a severe thunderstorm today. Before the downpour, we watched a wall of clouds approach. They looked thick and dark. Since I fancy myself smart and eloquent, I said, "Those clouds look thick and dark." Michael said, "Yeah, they're cumulonimbus clouds." I said, "Oh, sure, rain clouds." Michael said, "Well, no, you can't call them rain clouds because cumulonimbus also produce hail, sleet, and snow. And tornadoes. And lightning. Did you know lightening is hotter than the sun, Dad?" No, I didn't know that. How the hell did scientists figure that out, anyway? And what the hell is a coolio-whatsit cloud again?

I'm super-happy Michael's such a curious and bright kid. He's ebullient about learning! And effusive about sharing it! There are hints here, of course, but I absolutely never mock him. The more intellectual, learned, scholarly, sponge-y, the better, as far as I'm concerned. Let's be honest; I'm a nerd too. But I will always encourage physical pursuits and challenges, also. For example, I don't think Leonardo Da Vinci was much of an athlete. What does this have to do with anything? Well, to me it has to do with everything, literally, as in the definition of a Renaissance man. Da Vinci was a stunning artist, painter, sculptor, musician, mathematician, scientist, engineer, architect, botanist, inventor, anatomist, geologist, and writer. Great. But could he play ball? Did he step away from the easel, from the Mona Lisa or Last Supper, and go jump in a ball game? If not, frankly, this egregious deficiency calls into question his universally accepted status as a Renaissance man. Not cool, Leo! Historians might disagree with me, but they probably aren't obsessed with sports either; they're flawed, also. Anyway, Michael's smart and I love discussing things with him; I love hearing about his latest interests and reading material. Megan picks up on the vibe, too. Like me, I think she'll benefit from having a whiz for an older sibling. Michael crosses the 'showing off threshold' on occasion (e.g. cumulonimbus), but it doesn't bother me. Although, following our exchange about the clouds, I couldn't help but think of a scene in "The Breakfast Club"...

Johnson / Michael: "Did you know without Trigonometry there'd be no engineering?"
Bender / me: "Yeah, well without lamps, there'd be no light!"

Megan and I played Hangman the other day. Hangman is a Wheel-of-Fortune-like word-guessing game in case you grew up on Mars, or under strict Sharia law or something. Keep in mind, Megan's just learning to read and spell. So she carefully counted out and drew three spaces for letters, before zealously drawing the gallows. She looked pretty bloodthirsty. She smiled and said, "Ready, Dad!" I said, "You're a little too excited to hang me, I think, Sweetheart." I decided I was up against a three-lettered noun, so I guessed A. There was, indeed, an A, right about where I expected it, in the middle. I figured it wasn't too early to sandbag, so I asked for a Q, U, I and whatever else didn't feel right. Megan merrily went about drawing my hanging corpse. Then I threw a T at her. She sucked air through her teeth and grimaced, confirming my hunch the word was almost certainly a common pet, furry and feline. She wrote in the T, after the A, but then looked up, still bright-eyed and hoping for victory! Awesome. I picked more incorrect letters until I lost. "It was cat, Dad," you missed it! Megan was genuinely pleased she had 'stumped' me.

Dad Entry #128

Megan has a terrific high-pitched staccato laugh. If evoked spontaneaouly, it is perhaps the greatest thing the world has ever known.

Megan asked me, "Dad, what does meditation do to your body?" I thought I misheard her at first; the question struck me as too weighty and abstract for a kindergartner. I answered flatly, "It can calm and relax your body, it can clear your head, it can oppose and deflate pushy emotions like anger, fear, and impulsiveness." I think Megan was a little overwhelmed by my answer :) But she tried to process it, because she furrowed her perfect little brow and was quiet for a moment. I said, "Why do you ask, Lover-Dove? Why are you asking about meditation?" Megan said, "Oh, it's something I've done in my life." Oh, gee, that makes it sound awful important. I smiled. And from there I just assured Megan that meditation is a healthy, positive thing. I hope someday Mego and I have a longer discussion about it, about the mind and the breath and self-control and how, if we're lucky, we can just maybe stay light and composed despite all the crazy moments and emotions we'll encounter as we age, the amazement, bewilderment, resentment, sorrow. I'll say, "Yes, it's all part of life, Sweetheart. And it's good."

Speaking of amazement and bewilderment: Michael's first baseball game this year was pretty momentous. Sara and I knew a good start to the season would do wonders; we also knew, conversely.... well, you get it. I would say Michael seemed the least nervous of the three of us. Hopefully he didn't notice his parents fidgeting as he put on a helmet, selected a bat, swung it a few times to warm up, and eventually exited the dugout for the batter's box. I told him before the game, as I've always told him, a good at-bat is to put good swings on good pitches, to see the baseball well, to have a little spring and optimism and intention in his movements. In short, I told him to look like a ballplayer. When good hitters strike out, and we all do, we shake it off, maybe learn something, consider an adjustment, but we stay confident, and plan on hitting the shit out of the ball in our next AB. Maybe I didn't say all of that, exactly that way, but there's a mindset I'd like him to settle into. So let me just say Michael had a great game! In his first at-bat, he took some bad pitches for balls, then swung and missed at a good pitch (I was thrilled, remember, the goals is to put good swings on good pitches) and then, THEN, after working the count to full, Michael punched a grounder through the infield! A nice hit up the middle for an RBI single! He batted 2nd, and his teammate in the leadoff spot also reached, and advanced to third on passed balls. Yes, the kids can steal bases this year when pitches get away from the catcher. It's real baseball! Woo-hoo!! Mom and Dad (psycho sports parents after all, I guess) were thrilled! And so was Michael. I should reiterate, though, that we know what's important. Kicking ass and taking names!! Hell yeah!! No. Not that. We'll continue to encourage Michael - who is still only an eight-year-old - to have fun and stay positive, regardless of hits, wins, strikeouts when he pitches, or strikeouts when he bats.

Yes, I just mentioned pitching. Michael pitched the last inning. I warmed him up since both coaches were busy. He threw strikes to me, and I had a sense he would do fine in the game. He did. He was elated when he struck out a batter. Two other hitters were retired by his defense. Three runners were left on base. He pitched out of a jam! He was VERY happy.

If a sleeping Megan turns or sprawls and tilts her head just so, her eyes might open, ever so slightly. This morning I awoke and went to check on my two favorite things. Michael was in the bathroom. Typical guy :) Megan, my precious angel, was still sleeping, and her right eye was so open I could see her pupil. This wasn't alarming at first glance since I do the same thing on occasion, or so I'm told; somehow I sleep with my eyelids partially cracked and open. So I assumed Megan was alive, and as I paused for a moment, admiring her cuteness, a crazy thought got a finger inside my mind's door. Funny how that happens, and funny to observe it, mindfully, for an instant at least, before the door is pried open and maybe flung off its hinges. I abruptly and suddenly focused on my baby's chest! Was it rising and falling?!?! Yes. Yes it was. Have I mentioned bewilderment? I could see Megan's blanket moving the tiniest bit. This little story may sound morbid. I know. I'm only reporting what happened. And then, of course, I put my face a little closer to sleeping Megan's, so I could, for just a minute before our lives raced on again, feel her soft rhythmic exhalations brush my cheek.

Amour de Jeunesse

Michael got a love letter. This was not your garden variety third grade love letter, one that says, "I think you're cute. Do you like me? Mark yes or no." Which, by the way, shouldn't even happen until fifth grade, at least. THIS letter was laced with heart and explanations of how he had earned the adoration. How many things they have in common (actually she says, "We're in common." Which is cute.)

This is the real deal: "I, I, I, I, I, I don't just have a crush on you like Gillian I have TRUE, GREAT, REAL love on you." She also requests that he PLEASE (8 please's actually) NOT pass this around or tell anyone about it. She did not, however, request that his mother also keep it on the down low. Though Michael doesn't need to know I posted this for the entire world to know until he is an adult, since I promised him it was just between us. Work with me, people.

Michael came home from school two days ago and told me he had something to show me that was not "for public." I thought he probably had something going on DOWN THERE. But no. He handed me the letter of love. He didn't seem to have much reaction to it, so I told him that it was quite a letter and asked how he felt about it. He shrugged. Poor girl.

A Beach Not At All Like the Tropics

...but fun nonetheless. The kids and I decided to spend our Good Friday off at the beach. It was cold and windy, but the sun warmed us and we had a great time! The kids don't seem to notice how lousy (I think) Chicago is, for which I am very grateful. It really was a lovely day, ending with pad thai at Penny's and a great first baseball practice of the season!

Dad Entry #127

Megan read to me tonight. "Go, Dog. Go!'" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want." I said, "No, Sweetheart, don't read fast. Don't hurry. Please don't hurry. You don't have to grow up, I mean read fast."

We went fishing in Minnesota. Papa Mike, Michael, and I drove to our friend Paul's near Deluth. Paul lives on a big lake, complete with two docks, boats, a four-wheeler, two boxers (dogs, not pugilists, although that would've been cool too), a bonfire, remarkably bright stars, bunk beds, a slingshot, waders, and a garage full of fishing gear. And lots of beverages. Michael had a blast. So did the rest of us.

While we were at Paul's, Grandma and Meg dined at the American Girl Doll store. I have yet to visit one of these fabulous shops, thanks to Megan's grandmas, aunts, and Mommy who always take her without me. Michael and I enjoyed fishing so much we threw our lines in Prior Lake, also. Megan joined us and it was biblical, we landed so many largemouth bass. Megan used her new pink fishing gear. Michael was happy with a lightweight setup of mine, which I officially gave him along with all my tackle. Megan was quite the animated, cheerful fisher-woman. Michael was more focused and moody; dour one minute, elated the next, depending on his cast length and accuracy, the presence of any line tangles, and time elapsed between catches. I mostly helped Megan, who occasionally missed her cues; "Hey Sugar-Bean, I think you've got one," I'd say, as I saw flashes of her pink and purple bobber under the surface moving sharply one way or the other.

Michael noticed a condom dispenser on the wall of a truck stop bathroom during our trip. I watched as he studied it, bracing myself. I didn't interject awkwardly with an attempt to distract or draw him away. I assumed he was reading the descriptions of his four choices, each with its own receptacle for payment via quarters above an opening where the handy item, once purchased, can be retrieved. Thankfully, he didn't ask me what it was, not to mention inquire about brightly colored product slogans like 'extra safe' and 'maximum pleasure'. I would've only piqued his interest further with clumsily fibbed and fumbled answers. We'll have this discussion soon enough, I'm afraid. Megan's not the only one - alluded to above - growing up too fast.

Megan, despite her petiteness - and her immaculate cuteness, of course - can let loose terrific farts. I mean real doozies, the kind any man's man would proudly call his own. It's all fun and games now; I just hope she never does it at the prom, or on a date sometime. Wait a minute, I take that back....

Fishing in Minnesota

One Less Tooth in the World to Worry About

Yay, Meggie!!

Dad Entry #126

We are nearing 500 posts on the blog. We've lost a little steam, perhaps, but Meg-Pie won't be one of those youngest-in-the-family siblings whose childhood goes undocumented, compared to the oldest kid at least, the firstborn for which the parents compile a tome of photos, notes, nail-clippings, and everything else, totally burning themselves out in the process. No, we are recording and saving roughly an equal amount for both kids, in case they need evidence someday of their lives as infants, toddlers, and little-school-goers. Of course, if they're like me, they'll only look at these pieces of their history every decade or so.

I have two great friends at work named Limei and Maggie. The three of us lunch together sometimes. They are both from China and can flawlessly switch between English and Mandarin. There are many other wonderful and impressive things about them. For example, they get my jokes. And, even better, they both think Megan is gorgeous. Of course they do; they're brilliant and beautiful, also. It takes one to know one. They were studying the picture I posted of Megan standing on the stool looking at books. Limei said, "She is so skinny!" and Maggie said, "She's going to be a supermodel, a European-looking supermodel." I didn't ask her if she meant pouty and sophisticated. Or ferocious. Or just skinny. Whatever. I'm only praying for 'happy and healthy' right now.

Regarding Megan's skinniness: I mentioned many posts ago that Megan has a Nelson butt. This is, in fact, a misnomer. A Nelson butt - a physical characteristic distinctly present in descendants of the Nelson family, Megan's paternal grandmother's line - is really the absence of a butt; it's a non-butt. Those of us afflicted might prefer the description 'flat butt' but I'm not sure that's accurate. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.

I hope Michael doesn't read his own press because I'm going to say this about him: his origami is sometimes hurried and imprecise. I was tempted to say 'shoddy' even. His folds and creases can be soft and ever-so-slightly misaligned. For shame! Where's that obsessive-compulsiveness I see in most other members of our family?! Will it appear someday in a meticulously arranged sock drawer? Will it lead to umpteen unnecessary shoe and watch purchases? Will he worry all vacation that he left the garage door open? We'll see. It'll be something. And that's good; I think if you don't have a 'something' then you're not pushing yourself hard enough.

Some pics from Dad's phone

Siesta with Papa Mike


Meg, Godfather Corleone I mean Josiah, and Casey


We love used bookstores


Meg's 'favorite color is pink' and her 'favorite animal is a puppy'

Dad Entry #125

Iowa State beat Connecticut. Then lost to Kentucky. Not a bad showing in the NCAA tourney, really. I washed Megan's Iowa State t-shirt with pride.

Michael's friend Nahum was with us yesterday. They get pretty wild together. We were at Dick's Sporting Goods when Megan asked me, "Dad, why do boys run around being crazy all the time?" I said, "Oh Honey, we could spend the rest of our lives talking about that."

The fart jokes are pretty nonstop lately. It's a running comedy, a stand-up script that never ends. There are songs. There are poems. And yes, there are celebrated moments of olfactory disruption, discomfort, disgust. Oh well, we'd have a pot / kettle scenario if I cracked down too much. And I suppose it's better than a lot of things we joke about in life.

We were reading Megan's 'National Geographic Kids' magazine last night. There was a story about a baby ostrich named Madoc who was abandoned by his mother. The article was really about how a toy ostrich, a stuffed animal, was set in his habitat and now he follows it and sleeps by it. It comforts him. Plus, it shows Madoc he's an ostrich; baby birds learn what kind of creature they are by watching family members. (That happens with many humans too, I'd say, for better or worse.) The story used the word 'orphan' which Megan was unfamiliar with. I said, "Well, it means without parents; it says little Madoc's mom left him." The enormity of this gripped Megan. She said, "Oh, he doesn't have a mommy?" I thought this would bum her out, sort of kill the mood of our pleasant bedtime reading, but Megan cheerfully continued, "Well, he'll get new parents at the zoo, right? He'll be happy there, maybe get into a new family, right Dad?" They were leading questions for sure, but I liked her positivity about it. Meg's an optimist! And I agreed with her. "Yes," I said, "Fuzzy little Madoc is probably growing up and doing super-great right now." Optimism, by the way, is strongly correlated with happiness in scientific research.

I mentioned art and creativity in my previous post. It's interesting to me; I believe it takes courage to pump out art. Or - not so positively phrased - it takes a sufficient lack of self-consciousness. Kids have such creativity and curiosity. Of course they do, you might say, they're new to a world overflowing with sensory delight. As a toddler, Michael would move his fingers and stare at his hand in wonderment. I would say, "I know, Buddy, it's fascinating!" So much to see and do, so much to try. Despite my own issues, I still view the world this way; there are many places I haven't been, and many things I haven't tried, scuba diving, oil painting, rock climbing, fly fishing, big game hunting, surfing, snowboarding, sailing. And many things I've done that I want my kids to try, snow skiing, water skiing, deep sea fishing, bird hunting, traveling, rafting, camping, hiking, golfing an immaculate course, shooting a 50 caliber rifle, piloting an airplane (I only played with the yoke and throttle briefly and had nothing to do with the real flying, the take-off and landing). Both lists go on if I do more thinking and research. My point? This creative-kid-mentality inspires me, I guess. They make things with gusto. I know some kids are shy and some adults are prolific generators of art and work and excitement. Are my ruminations here unsubstantive then, or pointless? No. I'm certain too many adults allow the scales to tip; their doubts outweigh the creative energy they once possessed. I hope this doesn't happen to Michael and Megan. And we leak something else, I'm afraid... although kids can be mean, I've observed mostly an undampened sense of compassion in the littlest of their kind (sadly it can be corrupted or tempered quickly in our world). But Megan and Michael both have reflexive moments of deep concern for each other (I know, crazy, right?) and even for strangers. For a time it seems innate. I love these pure moments. They're instinctual. I'll admit it happens less and less every year. M and m's compassion for each other, and strangers, is flagging. Ha. Actually, I hope only the rawness of it is less. I hope the empathy and awareness is still there; they've only introduced more thinking, since they can better assess severity and consequences. I read this quote over the weekend and it resonated hugely with me, "Self-actualizing people have a deep feeling of identification, sympathy, and affection for human beings in general. They feel kinship and connection, as if all people were members of a single family." So what does it all mean? Hell if I know; I'm rambling. Although, I will say one more thing: I believe it's related to this scrap of wisdom, "Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it."

Dad Entry #124

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

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

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

Dad Entry #123

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

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

Dad Entry #122

I make a bad-ass Hamburger Helper.

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

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

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

Slips of Paper

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


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

Megan: Is there a cat in the home?

me: No, why?

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


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


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January 2011

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


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

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


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June 17, 2010?

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

me: Yes, I know, I heard you.

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

me: Why?

Michael: I dunno. Tears of joy?


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June 13, 2010?

Michael: Am I ever in your dreams?

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

Michael: REALLY?!

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

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

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

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

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


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February 2012

Megan: It would be wierd to be you.

me: It would be wierd to be you.

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


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Dad Entry #121

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

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

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

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

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

Bedtime Anecdotes

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

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

Revealing signage in the kids' bathroom