Megan spiked a 105 degree fever yesterday. I imagined her brain cells simmering, as if in a sauce pan. I was concerned. Someone - who loves Megan dearly, believe it or not - suggested that, with luck, her 'crazy brain cells' would be accordingly affected (meaning, I assume, boiled away and destroyed), and the rest of her lovely grey matter spared. (At least this alleged loving relative added that part, the bit about some of her brain surviving). Megan is okay, and therefore we can jest. But we'll know soon enough if her crazy brain cells.... kidding. Megan isn't any crazier than the rest of us. She is, however, very energetic and excitable, and beautiful, and occasionally, if not often, moody. In a word, she's a woman.
I
saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a
hypocrite." Maybe. But another quote comes to mind: "Hindsight is 20/20." We have the benefit of retrospect and replay. Even college football uses replay now, despite a foolish tournament-less system to crown a national champ. So does hindsight excuse hypocrisy? Absolutely! We parents have been there! Intoxicants, lies, laziness, love triangles, betrayals as both perpetrator and victim, broken laws, brain-killing substances and behaviors and television shows on networks like the CW and the WB... the more we've experienced, the better! Okay, that's not exactly right, but as parents we wear a different hat now, and hypocrisy is the least of our worries.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Friday, December 07, 2012
Dad Entry #147
Megan is a crumb factory. The most prolific and industrious of its kind. EVER! At meals, crumbs fall and drift like snowflakes under her chair. Other crumbs are captured in the folds of her clothes, to be incubated and generously sprinkled about. Still others take up residence on her face, only to be rudely dusted off and sent to the tile, the carpet, the couch, her bed, in between cushions, swept this way and that, under appliances, beneath pillows, and stuck to socks. Awesome.
Megan got her 'magical old men with white beards' mixed up yesterday. During a prayer, Meg said, "And God, I hope you eat all the cookies when you come down the chimney." She hesitated, about halfway through the statement; I think she knew she was off. Michael sought immediately to correct her, a favorite pastime of his. I was more gentle and playful in straightening out the two celebrities who, I pointed out, "Probably know each other!" It occurred to me that my fundamentalist friends - who perpetuate, more perfectly than anyone, the woefully inadequate and unbecoming image of God as an old, white-bearded human male who makes lists - might be concerned by this mix-up. Not me. Little bits of happiness, gratitude, and love just tumble out sometimes, when Megan prays. I think that's a good start for a seven-year-old. She never gets scornful and never asks for cash (things many professionals do). Thinking of Megan, and the unconditional love I feel for her, excites my belief that God loves us the same way, and is a very creative and generous maker of things besides. Toys included? Sure. Definitely children included; I'm so very happy He made my children. And their mother helped an awful lot too; thank you, Sara.
I feel pleasure, and a pang of something else - dignity? - when I put a decent meal in front of the kids. It has nothing to do with 'bringing home the bacon' or 'putting food on the table,' because one phrase uses the word 'bacon' and the other is boring - and I'm not chest-pounding (which sounds funny to me in the context of cooking even if some chefs are ass-kickers) as in, I made a very nice white wine reduction with shallots that I drizzled over Megan's chicken nuggets. No, it's just that baking chicken, boiling noodles, concocting sauces, setting a table, chopping and steaming vegetables - AND making sure each thing is ready within a TV show of the others - is just not easy enough to be inappreciable to my sensibilities. I'm aware it hints at the possibility that "putting a decent meal in front of my kids" is the exception, and not the rule. I wouldn't go that far. No need for snickering, Mothers. But do the kids and I still hit the drive-thru a lot? Hell yeah.
Megan got her 'magical old men with white beards' mixed up yesterday. During a prayer, Meg said, "And God, I hope you eat all the cookies when you come down the chimney." She hesitated, about halfway through the statement; I think she knew she was off. Michael sought immediately to correct her, a favorite pastime of his. I was more gentle and playful in straightening out the two celebrities who, I pointed out, "Probably know each other!" It occurred to me that my fundamentalist friends - who perpetuate, more perfectly than anyone, the woefully inadequate and unbecoming image of God as an old, white-bearded human male who makes lists - might be concerned by this mix-up. Not me. Little bits of happiness, gratitude, and love just tumble out sometimes, when Megan prays. I think that's a good start for a seven-year-old. She never gets scornful and never asks for cash (things many professionals do). Thinking of Megan, and the unconditional love I feel for her, excites my belief that God loves us the same way, and is a very creative and generous maker of things besides. Toys included? Sure. Definitely children included; I'm so very happy He made my children. And their mother helped an awful lot too; thank you, Sara.
I feel pleasure, and a pang of something else - dignity? - when I put a decent meal in front of the kids. It has nothing to do with 'bringing home the bacon' or 'putting food on the table,' because one phrase uses the word 'bacon' and the other is boring - and I'm not chest-pounding (which sounds funny to me in the context of cooking even if some chefs are ass-kickers) as in, I made a very nice white wine reduction with shallots that I drizzled over Megan's chicken nuggets. No, it's just that baking chicken, boiling noodles, concocting sauces, setting a table, chopping and steaming vegetables - AND making sure each thing is ready within a TV show of the others - is just not easy enough to be inappreciable to my sensibilities. I'm aware it hints at the possibility that "putting a decent meal in front of my kids" is the exception, and not the rule. I wouldn't go that far. No need for snickering, Mothers. But do the kids and I still hit the drive-thru a lot? Hell yeah.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
One Day
As I lay with Megan tonight, and she rattled off her prayer, I starting getting a little nostalgic. Our daily routine, at least some parts, are so predictable. I know I will forget the little every day things that fade away as they grow. Here is an attempt to capture the mundane.
My day often starts with Megan waking me to do her work. She is my first alarm. My actual alarm usually goes off about 30 minutes later. After getting myself mostly ready, I almost always have to go wake Michael, who almost always holds up a hand from beneath his burrow, indicating he'd like "five more minutes." I then get Megan out of her bed, which has morphed into a library by now and hustle her through her morning routine, which typically ends with her rejecting the shoo-in-for-a-fashion-magazine outfit I have chosen and pulling on something really just pretty ridiculous instead. I then go re-wake Michael, lay out his clothes (because he would maybe be a little confused if I laid out a paper bag for him to wear, but would shrug and put it on anyway) and pull off his covers to make him actually move.
I then head down to start the school prep. I fill four water bottles, one for the classroom and one for the lunch bag for each kid and grab a snack for them to have mid-morning. I lay out lunch bags and try to figure out what the heck to put in them, at which point one of the two has come either stumbling or bouncing, depending on which one, into the kitchen. Megan wants one of two breakfasts: a bagel or a breakfast sundae. Michael nearly always wants a crumpet with jelly. I get them eating and then get back to the worst part of my day: lunches. I pack 'em up, get them into backpacks and make sure all the right books, binders and required signatures are where they should be. At some point, I start the shoe warnings, "12 minutes to shoes!" so they know what they are looking at in terms of hustle. I get a glass of water and a comb to tame Michael's insane bedhead.
At 8:25, it is shoe time. I have typically given about three warnings by now, and most days, Megan finds something wrong with her outfit or hair at this moment. If there is nothing wrong, then she has a meltdown about not having the perfect shoes for her slipshod get-up. Michael and I step over her and head out to the car and she ends up following after a few minutes – sometimes super mad, sometimes already oblivious to the issue she just had. We rock out on the way to school and pray that we turn out of the neighborhood ahead of the bus so we don't get stuck behind it loading children with it's little stop sign sticking out.
Drop off is one of my favorite things. I drive to the far parking lot near Michael's classroom, where he hops out and has to walk about 50 yards to the door. He turns to wave at us an average of 6 times during this walk, so I wait and wave back until he rounds the corner to the door. I leave this parking lot and go to the opposite end of school, where Megan's classroom is (very convenient). I pull into a parking spot here, because it takes Megan about 5 full minutes to get herself out of the car and to situate the backpack that she will remove in 2 minutes. I open the passenger window as she walks past and tell her something I love about her (ie you are so cool/beautiful/funny/bright) to which she always responds, "I know." She heads to the door and never looks back at me, where I wait, just in case.
After school pickup is almost always the same, I wait by the first grade door where Megan comes out, more often zombie-like than not. She runs off to the playground to play with friends while I wait for Michael to make the long trek from the fourth grade door. Michael immediately wants to go home, almost without exception, and I have to put him off for as many minutes as I can to allow Megan some girl time. When I absolutely can no longer stop his whine, I tell him to go gather Meg up and tell her it's time to go. We have to extract her from the group of girls like a deep splinter, painful all the way to the car.
At home: a snack, homework, cleaning out lunch bags, whatever sport practice there is that night, then dinner and finally time to wind down. The routine is the same...up to the shower, pee, wash hands, brush teeth and get on jammies, aka undies. I start with Megan while Michael does his own reading. Meg and I read two books and these days, she reads them to me as often as I read to her, which is both adorable and awesome and patience-testing. She applies Aquafor to her desert lips and I turn off her light. She then nearly chants: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. Then some form of this comes out: God, please help me think of good things. Please, when I ask, come into my heart. I will open the door to my heart as wide as I can so you can come in. Please keep anything bad or scary away from me, and if it gets close, please come take it away, even if I have to see your powers. Thank you, God. Mom, do you want to say anything? [insert moms plea for a peaceful night] God, please do what my mom said. Amen.
90% of the time these days she wants me to sing Guten Naben, a German lullaby made popular by Grammie. I do that and then we snuggle for a few minutes. When I get up to go to Michael, I have to help her move to the middle of her bed, which involves moving pets (Foofoo [mommy's childhood bunny], IKEA bunny and a dog named Scrufty) and pillow and blanket rearranging. I kiss her and promise to come "check on her." I flip on her nightlight as I leave.
I come into Michael's room with a "It's time, buddy." He wraps up the page he's reading and leans over to record his reading time for his school reading log on a small post-it on the desk next to his bed. He hands me the book to put on his bedstand (on my side) and I turn on his "noise." We get all of the pets arranged (snakesy, makesy, pakesy, crabsie, scorpion, Hedwig the owl and Wyatt the horse) and I turn out the light. He immediately prays: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. For mommy, daddy and Megsie. For Grandma and Papa Mike, Grammie and Papa John, Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake, Alissa and Ellie, Aunt Jenny and Uncle Scott; Annabelle, Miles, Zeke and Audra, and Aunt Gretchen's baby Andrew and Leah. Amen.
We usually have a pretty good chat after that, and snuggle up together for quite awhile since that's the only time he really still acts like my little boy. He is a closet snuggler these days, being all grown up and in fourth grade. And I looooove it. Eventually, I give him kisses, tell him he is a prince among men and take my leave. I always go back in to check on Meg at this point, and 9 nights out of ten, she is passed out. I love the nights that she isn't asleep yet, or almost asleep, because then I get credit for the check and she can rest assured I am not lying when I say I will.
Sometimes, when I am busy with work, the amount of time this bedtime routine takes irritates me, but most of the time, I relish it, knowing I won't get these moments forever.
Then I go down and pour a glass of wine. Ahhhh.
My day often starts with Megan waking me to do her work. She is my first alarm. My actual alarm usually goes off about 30 minutes later. After getting myself mostly ready, I almost always have to go wake Michael, who almost always holds up a hand from beneath his burrow, indicating he'd like "five more minutes." I then get Megan out of her bed, which has morphed into a library by now and hustle her through her morning routine, which typically ends with her rejecting the shoo-in-for-a-fashion-magazine outfit I have chosen and pulling on something really just pretty ridiculous instead. I then go re-wake Michael, lay out his clothes (because he would maybe be a little confused if I laid out a paper bag for him to wear, but would shrug and put it on anyway) and pull off his covers to make him actually move.
I then head down to start the school prep. I fill four water bottles, one for the classroom and one for the lunch bag for each kid and grab a snack for them to have mid-morning. I lay out lunch bags and try to figure out what the heck to put in them, at which point one of the two has come either stumbling or bouncing, depending on which one, into the kitchen. Megan wants one of two breakfasts: a bagel or a breakfast sundae. Michael nearly always wants a crumpet with jelly. I get them eating and then get back to the worst part of my day: lunches. I pack 'em up, get them into backpacks and make sure all the right books, binders and required signatures are where they should be. At some point, I start the shoe warnings, "12 minutes to shoes!" so they know what they are looking at in terms of hustle. I get a glass of water and a comb to tame Michael's insane bedhead.
At 8:25, it is shoe time. I have typically given about three warnings by now, and most days, Megan finds something wrong with her outfit or hair at this moment. If there is nothing wrong, then she has a meltdown about not having the perfect shoes for her slipshod get-up. Michael and I step over her and head out to the car and she ends up following after a few minutes – sometimes super mad, sometimes already oblivious to the issue she just had. We rock out on the way to school and pray that we turn out of the neighborhood ahead of the bus so we don't get stuck behind it loading children with it's little stop sign sticking out.
Drop off is one of my favorite things. I drive to the far parking lot near Michael's classroom, where he hops out and has to walk about 50 yards to the door. He turns to wave at us an average of 6 times during this walk, so I wait and wave back until he rounds the corner to the door. I leave this parking lot and go to the opposite end of school, where Megan's classroom is (very convenient). I pull into a parking spot here, because it takes Megan about 5 full minutes to get herself out of the car and to situate the backpack that she will remove in 2 minutes. I open the passenger window as she walks past and tell her something I love about her (ie you are so cool/beautiful/funny/bright) to which she always responds, "I know." She heads to the door and never looks back at me, where I wait, just in case.
After school pickup is almost always the same, I wait by the first grade door where Megan comes out, more often zombie-like than not. She runs off to the playground to play with friends while I wait for Michael to make the long trek from the fourth grade door. Michael immediately wants to go home, almost without exception, and I have to put him off for as many minutes as I can to allow Megan some girl time. When I absolutely can no longer stop his whine, I tell him to go gather Meg up and tell her it's time to go. We have to extract her from the group of girls like a deep splinter, painful all the way to the car.
At home: a snack, homework, cleaning out lunch bags, whatever sport practice there is that night, then dinner and finally time to wind down. The routine is the same...up to the shower, pee, wash hands, brush teeth and get on jammies, aka undies. I start with Megan while Michael does his own reading. Meg and I read two books and these days, she reads them to me as often as I read to her, which is both adorable and awesome and patience-testing. She applies Aquafor to her desert lips and I turn off her light. She then nearly chants: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. Then some form of this comes out: God, please help me think of good things. Please, when I ask, come into my heart. I will open the door to my heart as wide as I can so you can come in. Please keep anything bad or scary away from me, and if it gets close, please come take it away, even if I have to see your powers. Thank you, God. Mom, do you want to say anything? [insert moms plea for a peaceful night] God, please do what my mom said. Amen.
90% of the time these days she wants me to sing Guten Naben, a German lullaby made popular by Grammie. I do that and then we snuggle for a few minutes. When I get up to go to Michael, I have to help her move to the middle of her bed, which involves moving pets (Foofoo [mommy's childhood bunny], IKEA bunny and a dog named Scrufty) and pillow and blanket rearranging. I kiss her and promise to come "check on her." I flip on her nightlight as I leave.
I come into Michael's room with a "It's time, buddy." He wraps up the page he's reading and leans over to record his reading time for his school reading log on a small post-it on the desk next to his bed. He hands me the book to put on his bedstand (on my side) and I turn on his "noise." We get all of the pets arranged (snakesy, makesy, pakesy, crabsie, scorpion, Hedwig the owl and Wyatt the horse) and I turn out the light. He immediately prays: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Guard and guide me through the night and wake me with the morning light. For mommy, daddy and Megsie. For Grandma and Papa Mike, Grammie and Papa John, Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake, Alissa and Ellie, Aunt Jenny and Uncle Scott; Annabelle, Miles, Zeke and Audra, and Aunt Gretchen's baby Andrew and Leah. Amen.
We usually have a pretty good chat after that, and snuggle up together for quite awhile since that's the only time he really still acts like my little boy. He is a closet snuggler these days, being all grown up and in fourth grade. And I looooove it. Eventually, I give him kisses, tell him he is a prince among men and take my leave. I always go back in to check on Meg at this point, and 9 nights out of ten, she is passed out. I love the nights that she isn't asleep yet, or almost asleep, because then I get credit for the check and she can rest assured I am not lying when I say I will.
Sometimes, when I am busy with work, the amount of time this bedtime routine takes irritates me, but most of the time, I relish it, knowing I won't get these moments forever.
Then I go down and pour a glass of wine. Ahhhh.
Tuesday, December 04, 2012
Dad Entry #146
I'm helping coach Michael's basketball team. I'm not the head coach, just a bumbling assistant. But it's a start, and I love it. I want badly for all the boys to succeed. It's like parenting, in that respect, elation, frustration, suggestion, correction, observation, exasperation, reflection; all circling, colorfully, in a big carousel. Coaching, like parenting, exposes nerves that at any moment can be struck - stomped on, in fact - and sent ringing, producing exquisite sensations not unlike those encountered in Soviet dentist chairs only 30 years ago (I'm told by my Russian and Ukrainian coworkers), in gray, spartan medical offices, made suddenly and spastically very brilliant with color, when the drill was applied without novocaine. Well, coaching isn't that bad, or good (consider the relief when one escaped that Soviet dentist chair), but it really gets me fired up! Since I have spent many months of my life, in aggregate over the entire span, on a basketball court, I fancy myself somewhat knowledgeable. Of course, there's a lot of know-it-all parents out there too, many of whom aren't even parents at all!, or whom, someday, inevitably - it happens to us all - will be humbled by events that occur when they're on the job (a job that lasts forever).
It's funny to notice the insecurities that surface while I'm coaching. As a player, I'm pretty sure I could handle with ease - all the kids in the league, of course, none being especially agile or tall or over 100lbs - but 99% of the dads and coaches too, face-to-face in the flow of a game, or one-on-one if they insisted. No sweat. (None look like former college players or in that dreaded early- to mid-twenties age-range that I can no longer own off the dribble and freely create against... I have lost a step). So despite a stubborn, soothing confidence as a player, I'm bombarded by uncertainty when trying to verbally instruct the kids, describe a fundamental, deliver a pointer, run through a play, organize a drill, obtain and maintain attention. I will get better. I'm tempted to impress the boys as a player, to get them to listen. The desire to impress is, of course, the surest sign of insecurity. I could spin the ball on my finger or dribble through both legs and around my back in a blur, show a wicked crossover to freeze my nine-year-old defender, thread a no-look pass (that would only hit a kid in the nose causing bewilderment, shooting pain, snot, and insistent tears - I hate getting hit in the schnoz) or I could drain a smooth pull-up three, but they wouldn't notice. They would only notice a dunk, and I can't do that. Shame on me. That would impress. Then they would hang on my commands and advice, and the very rim itself sometime in the future; they would be focused, hungry, eager to "set a pick," "maintain spacing," "use your left," "box out," "BE QUICK!" and so on. Go get the basketball, it's yours!!
It's funny to notice the insecurities that surface while I'm coaching. As a player, I'm pretty sure I could handle with ease - all the kids in the league, of course, none being especially agile or tall or over 100lbs - but 99% of the dads and coaches too, face-to-face in the flow of a game, or one-on-one if they insisted. No sweat. (None look like former college players or in that dreaded early- to mid-twenties age-range that I can no longer own off the dribble and freely create against... I have lost a step). So despite a stubborn, soothing confidence as a player, I'm bombarded by uncertainty when trying to verbally instruct the kids, describe a fundamental, deliver a pointer, run through a play, organize a drill, obtain and maintain attention. I will get better. I'm tempted to impress the boys as a player, to get them to listen. The desire to impress is, of course, the surest sign of insecurity. I could spin the ball on my finger or dribble through both legs and around my back in a blur, show a wicked crossover to freeze my nine-year-old defender, thread a no-look pass (that would only hit a kid in the nose causing bewilderment, shooting pain, snot, and insistent tears - I hate getting hit in the schnoz) or I could drain a smooth pull-up three, but they wouldn't notice. They would only notice a dunk, and I can't do that. Shame on me. That would impress. Then they would hang on my commands and advice, and the very rim itself sometime in the future; they would be focused, hungry, eager to "set a pick," "maintain spacing," "use your left," "box out," "BE QUICK!" and so on. Go get the basketball, it's yours!!
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Dad Entry #145
I spent about 24 hours with just Meg-Pie and my niece, E-Lo (Ellie Laurienzo). Both are seven years old. And female. Here's what I learned:
1. That annoying song - that I like now - is by Taylor Swift
2. Side ponytails are trending, and are a fashion tier above the regular variety
3. Little girls fart a lot, like way more than chili-lovers, teenage boys, frijole-fans, you name it. The demographics I formerly thought of as world-champion are likely shameful underachievers.
1. That annoying song - that I like now - is by Taylor Swift
2. Side ponytails are trending, and are a fashion tier above the regular variety
3. Little girls fart a lot, like way more than chili-lovers, teenage boys, frijole-fans, you name it. The demographics I formerly thought of as world-champion are likely shameful underachievers.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Dad Entry #144
I got to sit by Megan during Thanksgiving dinner :)
We had the rare doubleheader yesterday: Iowa State football followed by Iowa State basketball. Seven hours of glorious stress. I wonder if Michael will be a Cyclone. Or a Hawkeye, Jayhawk, Gopher, Husker. Who knows. They all sound good to me, although I'll instinctively and happily open my wallet to some institutions more than others. Iowa State has beaten all of the above recently in some, if not most, contests, so I'll likely be amenable to my son bolstering a lesser university that needs his awesomeness. At Iowa State I was taught to share; mostly things like answers to homework and tests, and beer, but the principle stuck.
Megan giggled and announced pridefully, "I've pertzed 24 times today!" I frowned. Then she betrayed the tiniest bit of exertion, revealed in a slight narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips, or straining of her organs, I'm not sure, but I knew what was happening and then she said, "25!" in the instant she exhaled and slumped her shoulders a bit, like a weightlifter after racking the bar. My lovely princess, everybody!
I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." They are probably more valuable to me than all other items of paper I possess, like Ernie Banks baseball cards, money, and the deed to my car.
We had the rare doubleheader yesterday: Iowa State football followed by Iowa State basketball. Seven hours of glorious stress. I wonder if Michael will be a Cyclone. Or a Hawkeye, Jayhawk, Gopher, Husker. Who knows. They all sound good to me, although I'll instinctively and happily open my wallet to some institutions more than others. Iowa State has beaten all of the above recently in some, if not most, contests, so I'll likely be amenable to my son bolstering a lesser university that needs his awesomeness. At Iowa State I was taught to share; mostly things like answers to homework and tests, and beer, but the principle stuck.
Megan giggled and announced pridefully, "I've pertzed 24 times today!" I frowned. Then she betrayed the tiniest bit of exertion, revealed in a slight narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips, or straining of her organs, I'm not sure, but I knew what was happening and then she said, "25!" in the instant she exhaled and slumped her shoulders a bit, like a weightlifter after racking the bar. My lovely princess, everybody!
I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." They are probably more valuable to me than all other items of paper I possess, like Ernie Banks baseball cards, money, and the deed to my car.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Dad Entry #143
Michael has a new war-cry: "I hate zits!" We're fast approaching an interesting phase. And Michael is 92 pounds now, according to Papa Mike, who proudly conducted a weigh-in last night, no doubt mimicking a sportscaster, or the ring announcer before a title fight. My son is pretty stout. I'm happy for him. And it's evenly distributed volume; he's tall, with feet that grow so fast I bet you can see them getting bigger if you just stare for a moment.
Megan told me yesterday that when she touched her right ear, it burned. That didn't sound good so I investigated. Her earring was stuck to her earlobe by an organic adhesive, I assumed, comprised of leaking, crusting, coagulating fluids. I went to work with Grandma. First, we removed the earring, which bubbled up, when dropped in peroxide, like a hot-tub when the jets kick on. Megan screamed when we touched her ear. There was blood. At one point Megan cried out, "I want Michael!" Michael joined us eventually, although I'm afraid only because he was curious about the commotion; I didn't sense compassion from him, which constantly irks me in matters between him and his little sister who unfailingly, unflinchingly, absolutely adores him. We cleaned and medicated Meg's ear, and then she shook, literally, shivering in my arms, afraid, anticipating more sharp pain which she probably felt when Grandma slipped the clean earring back in during another fit of hysteria. As I suspected, the offending accessory gets reinserted or the hole will close. For a moment, I thought, really, we're gonna put that thing back in?! Although, I know her ear won't turn gangrenous and fall off. Since I've never had any piercings, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, since I've never had a daughter with an infected piercing, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, there's just a lot of uncharted territory during fatherhood. Yeah, that one.
I was stealing veiled glimpses at Megan's grill the other day. Then I just said, "Honey, show me your teeth." Megan flashed a forced, toothy smile and I cringed. Then I kissed her forehead and lied, "Perfect and beautiful," to cover my honest reaction. Megan skipped away, light as a feather. She's still gorgeous and flawless, of course, but there's a storm brewin' and it's gonna be costly. Hurricane Orthodontia. Things aren't exactly looking like piano keys in there.
Megan told me yesterday that when she touched her right ear, it burned. That didn't sound good so I investigated. Her earring was stuck to her earlobe by an organic adhesive, I assumed, comprised of leaking, crusting, coagulating fluids. I went to work with Grandma. First, we removed the earring, which bubbled up, when dropped in peroxide, like a hot-tub when the jets kick on. Megan screamed when we touched her ear. There was blood. At one point Megan cried out, "I want Michael!" Michael joined us eventually, although I'm afraid only because he was curious about the commotion; I didn't sense compassion from him, which constantly irks me in matters between him and his little sister who unfailingly, unflinchingly, absolutely adores him. We cleaned and medicated Meg's ear, and then she shook, literally, shivering in my arms, afraid, anticipating more sharp pain which she probably felt when Grandma slipped the clean earring back in during another fit of hysteria. As I suspected, the offending accessory gets reinserted or the hole will close. For a moment, I thought, really, we're gonna put that thing back in?! Although, I know her ear won't turn gangrenous and fall off. Since I've never had any piercings, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, since I've never had a daughter with an infected piercing, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, there's just a lot of uncharted territory during fatherhood. Yeah, that one.
I was stealing veiled glimpses at Megan's grill the other day. Then I just said, "Honey, show me your teeth." Megan flashed a forced, toothy smile and I cringed. Then I kissed her forehead and lied, "Perfect and beautiful," to cover my honest reaction. Megan skipped away, light as a feather. She's still gorgeous and flawless, of course, but there's a storm brewin' and it's gonna be costly. Hurricane Orthodontia. Things aren't exactly looking like piano keys in there.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Dad Entry #142
Megan has a poncho-looking sweater that is super-cute, in a kind of elegant, old-fashioned way. I have no idea what it's called; it looks like a thick-knitted tablecloth with holes for appendages, although it's smaller, like a doily, and soft. Yep, Megan looks beautiful and chic in anything, even a tablecloth.
The outcome of board games with M and m is always good. I like to win as much as the next guy, but I can tolerate losing to them. In fact, I prefer it, but in the interests of mimicking life in general, once in a while, when the cards or dice are falling my way, I not-very-quietly-or-politely give them a drubbing, at Uno, for example, or Trouble (nothing serious). M and m, like most kids, hate losing; they see zero benefit in it. That takes a few decades to pick up as a life lesson. I want them to win every time, but I know life isn't amenable to that; they're gonna take some lumps. So be it, learn something, use it as fuel.
Megan brushes and fluffs and flaunts her golden hair - pretty common among women, I'd say - twirling and splaying it in the air, like the model in a shampoo commercial. These days, I wish I had that much hair to tousle. Which reminds me...
Papa Mike asked Megan, "Who has a bigger bald spot? Me or your daddy?" Megan, bless her heart, said, "Let me see your's, Papa," and when he leaned over and showed her, Megan concluded instantly, "Your's is way bigger, Papa! It's ginormous! You need to grow some hair, Buddy!" Good girl.
On the way to Alanna's birthday party, Megan advised, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart would've shattered into a million pieces, except I'm pretty sure she still needs me. And I really, really, really hope she always needs me, at least a little; to listen, give a little advice, or just listen!, give a little money, carve the holiday turkey!, show my grandkids how to shoot a basketball or a gun. Who knows; I just might come in handy, occasionally, all of her life. That would be swell.
The outcome of board games with M and m is always good. I like to win as much as the next guy, but I can tolerate losing to them. In fact, I prefer it, but in the interests of mimicking life in general, once in a while, when the cards or dice are falling my way, I not-very-quietly-or-politely give them a drubbing, at Uno, for example, or Trouble (nothing serious). M and m, like most kids, hate losing; they see zero benefit in it. That takes a few decades to pick up as a life lesson. I want them to win every time, but I know life isn't amenable to that; they're gonna take some lumps. So be it, learn something, use it as fuel.
Megan brushes and fluffs and flaunts her golden hair - pretty common among women, I'd say - twirling and splaying it in the air, like the model in a shampoo commercial. These days, I wish I had that much hair to tousle. Which reminds me...
Papa Mike asked Megan, "Who has a bigger bald spot? Me or your daddy?" Megan, bless her heart, said, "Let me see your's, Papa," and when he leaned over and showed her, Megan concluded instantly, "Your's is way bigger, Papa! It's ginormous! You need to grow some hair, Buddy!" Good girl.
On the way to Alanna's birthday party, Megan advised, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart would've shattered into a million pieces, except I'm pretty sure she still needs me. And I really, really, really hope she always needs me, at least a little; to listen, give a little advice, or just listen!, give a little money, carve the holiday turkey!, show my grandkids how to shoot a basketball or a gun. Who knows; I just might come in handy, occasionally, all of her life. That would be swell.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Dad Entry #141
Megan likes broccoli. She does, however, voice disgust if there's a single decaying floret mingled with the otherwise plush and perfect green. "There's a brown spot here," she says, squinting and glaring at the poor vegetable. "It's rotten," she declares, and I know a door slams in her head; she has made up her mind. I counter-declare that a touch of yellow or brown on a single, tiny, cruciferous outcropping, a little bruising perhaps, will not harm her, especially since it's all been rinsed and steamed, and since the discoloration she's referring to is barely noticeable, even under magnification. I hope she scrutinizes men like this. Then we'll agree; if we can detect - or even imagine - a flaw, a blemish, we don't discriminate between obvious and miniscule... it's rotten! All rotten! All bets are off!
Hanging out with two boys, Megan gets a heavy dose of things like football, cardboard sword fighting, Avengers cartoons, and tackle box arranging (yes, Megan has her own). Most days she doesn't seem to mind. She loves the "Iron Man: Armored Adventures" show. And "Star Wars: The Clone Wars." And fishing and adventure shows. This is good; Michael and I don't have to do any selling. And Megan is just as eager, as her juvenile father and brother, to play with action figures. We have a terrific collection, a mix of Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superhero figures like Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk (my favorite since I was their age; I had the Underoos and everything). So we divide up 'the guys' (although there are some female characters in the pile also, like "The Baroness") by conducting a sports-style draft, and then spirited weapons-hoarding, character-positioning and fighting ensues. It's good fun.
I wonder if I'm overdoing it when I say things like, "Michael, do you know what excites me when I start thinking in the morning?" Since he knows this is rhetorical, he doesn't offer any answer or comment, maybe just an eye-roll, as I continue, louder and more deliberate, with a kind of pious fervor building (I've usually had a little coffee by now), "Life with you as my son. That is what excites me." And then I drop a quote from one of my great heroes, Ferris Bueller, "The question isn't 'what are we going to do,' the question is 'what aren't we going to do?' We're going to fish, play sports, make things, fix things, hunt, woodwork, travel, debate, get straight-A's, be super-good to Megan, hang out with loved-ones, watch our families grow, and someday - someday! - watch the Cubs win the World Series." Amen.
Hanging out with two boys, Megan gets a heavy dose of things like football, cardboard sword fighting, Avengers cartoons, and tackle box arranging (yes, Megan has her own). Most days she doesn't seem to mind. She loves the "Iron Man: Armored Adventures" show. And "Star Wars: The Clone Wars." And fishing and adventure shows. This is good; Michael and I don't have to do any selling. And Megan is just as eager, as her juvenile father and brother, to play with action figures. We have a terrific collection, a mix of Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superhero figures like Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk (my favorite since I was their age; I had the Underoos and everything). So we divide up 'the guys' (although there are some female characters in the pile also, like "The Baroness") by conducting a sports-style draft, and then spirited weapons-hoarding, character-positioning and fighting ensues. It's good fun.
I wonder if I'm overdoing it when I say things like, "Michael, do you know what excites me when I start thinking in the morning?" Since he knows this is rhetorical, he doesn't offer any answer or comment, maybe just an eye-roll, as I continue, louder and more deliberate, with a kind of pious fervor building (I've usually had a little coffee by now), "Life with you as my son. That is what excites me." And then I drop a quote from one of my great heroes, Ferris Bueller, "The question isn't 'what are we going to do,' the question is 'what aren't we going to do?' We're going to fish, play sports, make things, fix things, hunt, woodwork, travel, debate, get straight-A's, be super-good to Megan, hang out with loved-ones, watch our families grow, and someday - someday! - watch the Cubs win the World Series." Amen.
Tuesday, November 06, 2012
Dad Entry #140
Michael wants to get a lizard. I think Mom wants to put this one on Santa, and then be miffed, along with Michael, at the formerly-thought-of-as-perfect paragon of gift-giving when he doesn't come through, when the lizard freezes in his sled or something, forcing Santa to leave another present, one without a heartbeat and scales and a digestive system, maybe something without a cage.
I'm pretty sure every male is a renaissance man, at least for a period. I'm referring to our early years, of course, as very few of us are Michelangelo's or Leonardo's in adulthood. The magnitude and variety of their achievements, not to mention their historical fame, render them a high bar, but we're all pretenders as kids, and none more than Michael. He does it all! On any given day, he might paint, sketch, sculpt with clay, play sports, race, swim, compete, design, diagram, build, wrestle, catch fish, catch frogs, write stories (however brief and simple), play music (even if painfully discordant and only with sticks), play with 'weapons' (which, ideally, are also just sticks), dance, act, perform, study, scribble in notebooks (Bill Gates bought one of Leonardo's for 30 million), draw comic strips, water his plants, collect and dissect insect specimens, and so on. I will encourage Michael to hang on as long as possible. And hopefully, in my efforts to 'lead by example,' he will help me do the same; tonight I will write and workout; tomorrow I will play softball; yesterday I played basketball; last week I hunted and fished and blasted targets with a variety of different caliber weapons (9mm, .357, .38, .22, .30-06 scoped rifle, and 12 gauge shotgun); Saturday I was with friends listening to live music; I practice chords and learn riffs on the guitar (thank you, Youtube); I cook, simple stuff and poorly, but still; I've built wood furniture from raw lumber; I think I fixed a toilet once, and changed a tire, and tiled a bathroom; I'm reading several books (although many won't get finished); I have way too many plants (although none right now are consumable... like vegetables, or basil, to be clear); and I appreciate theaters (albeit the kind that serve popcorn). I really should take the kids to a Broadway show sometime.
Speaking of hunting: I told the kids a week ago I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends - and their dogs! - to hunt birds. Megan asked if she could come. I told her, and reiterated for Michael, "You can't take a hunter safety class until you're 12, and you can't hunt until you take the class and learn gun safety." And I added, for good measure, "And even then I don't think it's wise to handle guns until you're older." I was thinking specifically about the kick and awkward heft of shotguns - versus handguns - but Megan had another weapon in mind; she said, "Well, I could get a bow and arrow then, and come with you, and hunt with that." Needless to say, it was an earnest appeal. Somehow I managed to say no.
Speaking of the bow and arrow: Michael still attends archery classes through the park district. He loves it, and is quite good now; bullseyes are not uncommon. Something else to add to my 'renaissance kid' list of activities above. Maybe someday he'll teach me how to bow hunt.
I'm pretty sure every male is a renaissance man, at least for a period. I'm referring to our early years, of course, as very few of us are Michelangelo's or Leonardo's in adulthood. The magnitude and variety of their achievements, not to mention their historical fame, render them a high bar, but we're all pretenders as kids, and none more than Michael. He does it all! On any given day, he might paint, sketch, sculpt with clay, play sports, race, swim, compete, design, diagram, build, wrestle, catch fish, catch frogs, write stories (however brief and simple), play music (even if painfully discordant and only with sticks), play with 'weapons' (which, ideally, are also just sticks), dance, act, perform, study, scribble in notebooks (Bill Gates bought one of Leonardo's for 30 million), draw comic strips, water his plants, collect and dissect insect specimens, and so on. I will encourage Michael to hang on as long as possible. And hopefully, in my efforts to 'lead by example,' he will help me do the same; tonight I will write and workout; tomorrow I will play softball; yesterday I played basketball; last week I hunted and fished and blasted targets with a variety of different caliber weapons (9mm, .357, .38, .22, .30-06 scoped rifle, and 12 gauge shotgun); Saturday I was with friends listening to live music; I practice chords and learn riffs on the guitar (thank you, Youtube); I cook, simple stuff and poorly, but still; I've built wood furniture from raw lumber; I think I fixed a toilet once, and changed a tire, and tiled a bathroom; I'm reading several books (although many won't get finished); I have way too many plants (although none right now are consumable... like vegetables, or basil, to be clear); and I appreciate theaters (albeit the kind that serve popcorn). I really should take the kids to a Broadway show sometime.
Speaking of hunting: I told the kids a week ago I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends - and their dogs! - to hunt birds. Megan asked if she could come. I told her, and reiterated for Michael, "You can't take a hunter safety class until you're 12, and you can't hunt until you take the class and learn gun safety." And I added, for good measure, "And even then I don't think it's wise to handle guns until you're older." I was thinking specifically about the kick and awkward heft of shotguns - versus handguns - but Megan had another weapon in mind; she said, "Well, I could get a bow and arrow then, and come with you, and hunt with that." Needless to say, it was an earnest appeal. Somehow I managed to say no.
Speaking of the bow and arrow: Michael still attends archery classes through the park district. He loves it, and is quite good now; bullseyes are not uncommon. Something else to add to my 'renaissance kid' list of activities above. Maybe someday he'll teach me how to bow hunt.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Her Work
Megan often comes to visit me early in the morning and asks me if she can do "her work." Her work consists of reading, drawing, writing, organizing, whathaveyou, as long as it is quietly in her room. If this visit is before 7 am, I personally consider it to be the middle of the night. However, if it is after 6:30, I will allow work to be done. Before that, she must go back to sleep. This drawing was done last week during her worktime. I love it. Time so well spent.
Dad Entry #139
Michael got a question wrong on his standardized math test. There were 70 questions and he missed one. Sara and I were PISSED! We screamed in unison, "This kind of carelessness is UNACCEPTABLE!" Not true, of course. He scored very high. He's a good student and we're happy for him, what he's doing for himself, learning, growing, building a big, agile hunk of gray stuff between his ears.
At the Sanborn Fall Fest dance party my sweet, sweet, sweet, little Megan was a wallflower! For a little while anyway. She was a bit shy and self-conscious watching other kids run, jump, and skip all over the dance floor. Ha! I know the feeling! I didn't push her. I said, "Do you wanna dance with the other kids, Love?" She said, "No," and stepped a little closer to me and leaned against my leg and my heart expanded and I wanted to hug her forever. It was awesome! She stuck to me like velcro while we watched and chatted with friends and listened to the music. I loved every minute of it until she finally left me. Then she was gone, never to return, dancing and laughing with friends, spinning, flailing, chasing and being chased in a throng of unpredictable silliness and confusing self-expression. Suddenly the music seemed painfully hip-hoppy and annoying. Yes, it was hugely metaphorical.
Megan enjoyed a new experience recently. She rode in the front seat of a moving automobile. For the first time EVER! Woo-hoo! What a novelty! Michael was there too – with Megan in between us – but he projected the been-there-done-that aloofness of a prideful veteran; he's ridden upfront before. But it was new for Megan, and she sat tall and bright-eyed, craning her neck over the dashboard. "I can see everything!" she said with refreshing enthusiasm. We rented a flatbed truck from Home Depot. There was no backseat. So we all buckled up – there were three seat belts in the front – and I drove very carefully as I explained how the role of 'riding shotgun' has evolved from the days of covered wagons and bandits. "If robbers tried to stop the stagecoach it would be your job to blast 'em," I said to the kids. Okay, I didn't say that. But if I'd really chronicled the history of front-seat-riding, I would've included the period when seat belts were ignored and it was legally okey-dokey for Dad to pull the kids up on his lap to steer. And the front seat would have an open, dirty ashtray and maybe a can of Old Milwaukee somewhere. Every car wreaked of cigarettes and every dad had a mustache. The good ol' days!
At the Sanborn Fall Fest dance party my sweet, sweet, sweet, little Megan was a wallflower! For a little while anyway. She was a bit shy and self-conscious watching other kids run, jump, and skip all over the dance floor. Ha! I know the feeling! I didn't push her. I said, "Do you wanna dance with the other kids, Love?" She said, "No," and stepped a little closer to me and leaned against my leg and my heart expanded and I wanted to hug her forever. It was awesome! She stuck to me like velcro while we watched and chatted with friends and listened to the music. I loved every minute of it until she finally left me. Then she was gone, never to return, dancing and laughing with friends, spinning, flailing, chasing and being chased in a throng of unpredictable silliness and confusing self-expression. Suddenly the music seemed painfully hip-hoppy and annoying. Yes, it was hugely metaphorical.
Megan enjoyed a new experience recently. She rode in the front seat of a moving automobile. For the first time EVER! Woo-hoo! What a novelty! Michael was there too – with Megan in between us – but he projected the been-there-done-that aloofness of a prideful veteran; he's ridden upfront before. But it was new for Megan, and she sat tall and bright-eyed, craning her neck over the dashboard. "I can see everything!" she said with refreshing enthusiasm. We rented a flatbed truck from Home Depot. There was no backseat. So we all buckled up – there were three seat belts in the front – and I drove very carefully as I explained how the role of 'riding shotgun' has evolved from the days of covered wagons and bandits. "If robbers tried to stop the stagecoach it would be your job to blast 'em," I said to the kids. Okay, I didn't say that. But if I'd really chronicled the history of front-seat-riding, I would've included the period when seat belts were ignored and it was legally okey-dokey for Dad to pull the kids up on his lap to steer. And the front seat would have an open, dirty ashtray and maybe a can of Old Milwaukee somewhere. Every car wreaked of cigarettes and every dad had a mustache. The good ol' days!
Monday, October 22, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Megan is Ruined
We've lost her to the good life.
This weekend, Dan and Michael went to Iowa for a fishing trip. Shockingly, they did not want to have Megan tagging along and complaining the. entire. time. So she stayed with me and Dan booked us a room for Friday night at the Marriott near our house with his 600 bajillion Marriott points, so we could have a girlie night.
We headed over after school, armed with swimsuits and crafts. When we arrived at the check in counter, Megan had hit a maximum level of excitement. The guy who checked us in asked us where we were from and I told him, "Oh, just Palatine. We're here for a little girls night." He asked me to wait for a few minutes and went to the back. When he returned, he told us that since we were only there for one night and the hotel wasn't full, he had hooked us up in a top floor suite. Little did we know he had just put us in the best suite the hotel had! Since Dan is a preferred Marriott guest (thank you, Motorola) we also got to choose a treat from a little menu to be sent to our room. The guy and I both laughed after I read the list and Megan chose fruit and pretzels over ice cream. He told me quietly, "I'll send up some ice cream, too."
When we got to the door with our number on it, I thought we were mistaken. There were two doors. I never get two doors in a hotel! When we opened them, we literally walked into an apartment. I wish there was a video of us, running around like crazy people..."A kitchen!!!" "There's another bathroom over here!" "I'm in an OFFICE!" "There are ten chairs in the dining room!" "MEGAN. GET IN HERE AND LOOK AT THE MASTER BATHROOM." We were giddy and silly and laughing like maniacs. Some time after that, there was a knock on the door. In came a guy bearing snacks: a lovely plate of whole fruits, a bowl of pretzels, a bowl of M&Ms, a bowl of Skittles, a pint of ice cream and the water Megan ordered. It was like we had been dropped into Shangri-la. Megan said, "If this was our house I would be digging it so badly!"
We made the most of it! We spent time gazing out at the lovely 16th floor view which was floor to ceiling in each room (Megan noted that "when you are on the ground, there just aren't as many trees as this!"), building Legos in the office, warming ourselves by our fireplace, doing crafts in the living room. I am bummed as I realize we didn't spend any time in the dining room or the kitchen. Missed opportunity! We swam in the pool and lounged in the hot tub. We took a hot bath in our cavernous bathtub. We ordered room service and I had a good laugh when Megan couldn't understand why I liked crabcakes...turns out she thought they were crapcakes. We watched a movie in bed and snuggled the night away. That's my nice way of saying Megan hogged the bed and basically slept on top of me most of the night.
In the morning we lounged around before heading down for a swanky breakfast buffet where Megan decided that that is where she would be getting married and our Romanian waitress took a shine to us. Then we had friends come over to our humble abode for another swimming session. The girls all got to squeeze in a quick kidwash in our unbelievable shower before we had to check out.
Megan is now damaged goods. She cried at bedtime tonight, wishing we were back at the hotel. Never again will a normal hotel room, or even a normal suite, cut it for her. This new level of maintenance may affect her wedding plans.
This weekend, Dan and Michael went to Iowa for a fishing trip. Shockingly, they did not want to have Megan tagging along and complaining the. entire. time. So she stayed with me and Dan booked us a room for Friday night at the Marriott near our house with his 600 bajillion Marriott points, so we could have a girlie night.
We headed over after school, armed with swimsuits and crafts. When we arrived at the check in counter, Megan had hit a maximum level of excitement. The guy who checked us in asked us where we were from and I told him, "Oh, just Palatine. We're here for a little girls night." He asked me to wait for a few minutes and went to the back. When he returned, he told us that since we were only there for one night and the hotel wasn't full, he had hooked us up in a top floor suite. Little did we know he had just put us in the best suite the hotel had! Since Dan is a preferred Marriott guest (thank you, Motorola) we also got to choose a treat from a little menu to be sent to our room. The guy and I both laughed after I read the list and Megan chose fruit and pretzels over ice cream. He told me quietly, "I'll send up some ice cream, too."
When we got to the door with our number on it, I thought we were mistaken. There were two doors. I never get two doors in a hotel! When we opened them, we literally walked into an apartment. I wish there was a video of us, running around like crazy people..."A kitchen!!!" "There's another bathroom over here!" "I'm in an OFFICE!" "There are ten chairs in the dining room!" "MEGAN. GET IN HERE AND LOOK AT THE MASTER BATHROOM." We were giddy and silly and laughing like maniacs. Some time after that, there was a knock on the door. In came a guy bearing snacks: a lovely plate of whole fruits, a bowl of pretzels, a bowl of M&Ms, a bowl of Skittles, a pint of ice cream and the water Megan ordered. It was like we had been dropped into Shangri-la. Megan said, "If this was our house I would be digging it so badly!"
We made the most of it! We spent time gazing out at the lovely 16th floor view which was floor to ceiling in each room (Megan noted that "when you are on the ground, there just aren't as many trees as this!"), building Legos in the office, warming ourselves by our fireplace, doing crafts in the living room. I am bummed as I realize we didn't spend any time in the dining room or the kitchen. Missed opportunity! We swam in the pool and lounged in the hot tub. We took a hot bath in our cavernous bathtub. We ordered room service and I had a good laugh when Megan couldn't understand why I liked crabcakes...turns out she thought they were crapcakes. We watched a movie in bed and snuggled the night away. That's my nice way of saying Megan hogged the bed and basically slept on top of me most of the night.
In the morning we lounged around before heading down for a swanky breakfast buffet where Megan decided that that is where she would be getting married and our Romanian waitress took a shine to us. Then we had friends come over to our humble abode for another swimming session. The girls all got to squeeze in a quick kidwash in our unbelievable shower before we had to check out.
Megan is now damaged goods. She cried at bedtime tonight, wishing we were back at the hotel. Never again will a normal hotel room, or even a normal suite, cut it for her. This new level of maintenance may affect her wedding plans.
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
Dad Entry #138
Michael has some dark hair on his legs now. So does Megan!
Sometimes I look at Megan and she is so gloriously angelic and perfect that for a kind of timeless, transcendent, wonder-filled moment nothing else matters whatsoever. Michael casts this spell on me too, on occasion, when he's doing something like writing in a notebook or standing in the batter's box. I just feel enormous gratitude. The kids hear this voiced regularly; it's how I start nearly every prayer with them. God, thank you for my children. Thank you for my son. Thank you for my daughter.
It's ridiculous how cute Megan looks in skinny jeans. They're tailor-made for her. She's pretty thin. She would eat up the whole potato chip aisle if we let her, but we don't let her.
Megan loves the board game Monopoly. She played a bunch with Grammy and Papa over the weekend. She viewed me as fresh meat, and I acted like it when we squared off yesterday. I let her explain the rules, which she did with an eager confidence and a dash of condescension. She said, "I just need to warn you, if you run out of money, you lose." She added, "And you can end up in jail, and there's lots of other weird things, and the game can last a long time." I thought, hmm, sounds like real life. Our game isn't finished but things are going as Megan planned; I'm slowly getting crushed and bled dry. While Monopoly isn't exactly analogous to real life, it is interesting to note that being responsible and generous hasn't served me very well. I didn't overextend myself financially, or buy everything in sight, or try to outmaneuver my neighbor. And yet I find myself on a downward slope, paying fees and rent wherever I land, hemorrhaging money while my covetous opponent straightens her piles of cash and – despite a sweet and gorgeous facade – seems to relish my every misfortune. Megan still throws me a look of doubt when I explain that five ten-dollar bills are not worth more than one fifty-dollar bill. And yet, I lose :)
Megan had her 7th birthday party! Ten seven-year-olds petting puppies and bunnies at Petland. Pizza, cake, presents... gluttony! It was fun. Only occasionally did I check college football and Ryder Cup scores. (Papa Mike held the Ryder Cup at the Wentworth Club in England years ago following a European victory.) Also, I should mention that Iowa State and the Bears are both 4 - 1.
Sometimes I look at Megan and she is so gloriously angelic and perfect that for a kind of timeless, transcendent, wonder-filled moment nothing else matters whatsoever. Michael casts this spell on me too, on occasion, when he's doing something like writing in a notebook or standing in the batter's box. I just feel enormous gratitude. The kids hear this voiced regularly; it's how I start nearly every prayer with them. God, thank you for my children. Thank you for my son. Thank you for my daughter.
It's ridiculous how cute Megan looks in skinny jeans. They're tailor-made for her. She's pretty thin. She would eat up the whole potato chip aisle if we let her, but we don't let her.
Megan loves the board game Monopoly. She played a bunch with Grammy and Papa over the weekend. She viewed me as fresh meat, and I acted like it when we squared off yesterday. I let her explain the rules, which she did with an eager confidence and a dash of condescension. She said, "I just need to warn you, if you run out of money, you lose." She added, "And you can end up in jail, and there's lots of other weird things, and the game can last a long time." I thought, hmm, sounds like real life. Our game isn't finished but things are going as Megan planned; I'm slowly getting crushed and bled dry. While Monopoly isn't exactly analogous to real life, it is interesting to note that being responsible and generous hasn't served me very well. I didn't overextend myself financially, or buy everything in sight, or try to outmaneuver my neighbor. And yet I find myself on a downward slope, paying fees and rent wherever I land, hemorrhaging money while my covetous opponent straightens her piles of cash and – despite a sweet and gorgeous facade – seems to relish my every misfortune. Megan still throws me a look of doubt when I explain that five ten-dollar bills are not worth more than one fifty-dollar bill. And yet, I lose :)
Megan had her 7th birthday party! Ten seven-year-olds petting puppies and bunnies at Petland. Pizza, cake, presents... gluttony! It was fun. Only occasionally did I check college football and Ryder Cup scores. (Papa Mike held the Ryder Cup at the Wentworth Club in England years ago following a European victory.) Also, I should mention that Iowa State and the Bears are both 4 - 1.
Friday, October 05, 2012
A Princess Turns Seven
Megan's party was a success! She decided on Petland as her location of choice, which was no surprise to anyone who knows her. There were puppies and bunnies...there was koi petting and live piranha feeding (this went over surprising well, considering they tossed in basically what many of the girls have for a pet)...there was pizza and strawberries and cake. What more could you ask for?!
Megan was pleased as punch and even thanked me for her party...twice! A few adoptions occurred at the party, as well, so we're happy to have helped a few animals find homes!
On another note, I am still reeling at the notion that the little girl I brought home from the hospital a few months ago turned seven YEARS old with these festivities.
Megan was pleased as punch and even thanked me for her party...twice! A few adoptions occurred at the party, as well, so we're happy to have helped a few animals find homes!
On another note, I am still reeling at the notion that the little girl I brought home from the hospital a few months ago turned seven YEARS old with these festivities.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Dad Entry #137
We’ve been busy. I’m at a Starbucks in Beijing right now. That sounds a little self-important, but that’s my intent: to impress my audience. Maybe it's the adult versions of my subjects. I hope my kids are proud of their parents the way this kid’s proud of his. Working long hours and traveling isn't easy for anyone. But Sara and I get it done; my kids have shoes. I think. They grow out of ‘em so bloomin’ fast now.
First grade is not on Megan’s list of favorite things. Yesterday she said, “I don’t wanna go to school. We can only do what Mrs. Palm says. And she tells us what to do all day.” I thought, Oh Honey, you have 15 more years of this. But Meg’s adjusting. It’s a longer day now, plus an earlier one. The longer part was all I recognized at first, because I’m slow. (Meg was only in class from 12:50 to 3:20 last year, 2.5 hours.) But the earlier part is a change too, and girls – even little ones – get all fancy-pants about hairdos, outfits, accessories, shoes! Meg has to complete this checklist by 8:30 now! Even so, I hope her complaints peter out soon. I still laugh when I think of Michael’s first grumble about school: “Mrs. Kravitz is kind of bossy.”
Michael’s pretty awesome but he’s no paragon of spotlessness (to steal a phrase I just read in Sports Illustrated). Sharing is a difficult concept for him. Destined for Wall Street? There are worse places to work. I mean if ethical pitfalls are a concern. Washington DC, for example. To be honest, I suspect Michael shares generously with everyone except Megan. But I don’t have a shirt that says, “I love everyone.” My shirt says, “I love Megan.” So we have a problem. Both kids have a scarcity mindset sometimes. They hoard and guard things like stickers and pencils, things that just seem undeserving of so much protection and accumulation. Michael will bristle when Megan reaches for one of his markers. If he complains, I say, “Dude, can’t you share your markers with Megan?” He might very matter-of-factly answer, “No.” I say, “No? Are you joking? You have a thousand of them.” He doesn’t disagree. He says, “But Megan has her own markers.” And around we go. Although sometimes, since reasoning with a mind that’s very bright and logical – and wrong! – can be so arduous, not to mention fruitless, I just give Megan all of Michael’s markers for a while and that’s the end of it. Parenting is not a license for tyranny, or some lifelong imperious regime, but it’s no democracy either. I tend to forget this. I don’t have a gold and bejeweled throne to remind me. I only have a ceramic one. Two, actually. That need frequent cleaning. It all makes sense now.
The kids did so much this summer! There was constant swimming, biking, sport-playing, movie-watching, art-creating, and pillow-fort-building! There were birthday parties, parades, fireworks, and bonfires with marshmallows. There was ice cream! And lots of fishing, boating, festival-going, and traveling (to Prior Lake, Olathe, Iowa City, Omaha, Bettendorf, Clear Lake, Battle Creek, downtown Chicago, the Wisconsin Dells… to name a few).
First grade is not on Megan’s list of favorite things. Yesterday she said, “I don’t wanna go to school. We can only do what Mrs. Palm says. And she tells us what to do all day.” I thought, Oh Honey, you have 15 more years of this. But Meg’s adjusting. It’s a longer day now, plus an earlier one. The longer part was all I recognized at first, because I’m slow. (Meg was only in class from 12:50 to 3:20 last year, 2.5 hours.) But the earlier part is a change too, and girls – even little ones – get all fancy-pants about hairdos, outfits, accessories, shoes! Meg has to complete this checklist by 8:30 now! Even so, I hope her complaints peter out soon. I still laugh when I think of Michael’s first grumble about school: “Mrs. Kravitz is kind of bossy.”
Michael’s pretty awesome but he’s no paragon of spotlessness (to steal a phrase I just read in Sports Illustrated). Sharing is a difficult concept for him. Destined for Wall Street? There are worse places to work. I mean if ethical pitfalls are a concern. Washington DC, for example. To be honest, I suspect Michael shares generously with everyone except Megan. But I don’t have a shirt that says, “I love everyone.” My shirt says, “I love Megan.” So we have a problem. Both kids have a scarcity mindset sometimes. They hoard and guard things like stickers and pencils, things that just seem undeserving of so much protection and accumulation. Michael will bristle when Megan reaches for one of his markers. If he complains, I say, “Dude, can’t you share your markers with Megan?” He might very matter-of-factly answer, “No.” I say, “No? Are you joking? You have a thousand of them.” He doesn’t disagree. He says, “But Megan has her own markers.” And around we go. Although sometimes, since reasoning with a mind that’s very bright and logical – and wrong! – can be so arduous, not to mention fruitless, I just give Megan all of Michael’s markers for a while and that’s the end of it. Parenting is not a license for tyranny, or some lifelong imperious regime, but it’s no democracy either. I tend to forget this. I don’t have a gold and bejeweled throne to remind me. I only have a ceramic one. Two, actually. That need frequent cleaning. It all makes sense now.
The kids did so much this summer! There was constant swimming, biking, sport-playing, movie-watching, art-creating, and pillow-fort-building! There were birthday parties, parades, fireworks, and bonfires with marshmallows. There was ice cream! And lots of fishing, boating, festival-going, and traveling (to Prior Lake, Olathe, Iowa City, Omaha, Bettendorf, Clear Lake, Battle Creek, downtown Chicago, the Wisconsin Dells… to name a few).
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Summer's Out for the School Year!
We are mid-way through a successful first week of school, though both kids are beyond exhausted already – thinking is tough work! Megan had no growing pains starting first grade...no tears, she didn't bat an eye at eating lunch at school and her fear of gym has miraculously disappeared (as of one gym class). Michael is stressed because his two little friends-that-are-girls from last year seem to spend all their time whispering and not playing with him the same way. He was mortified when I suggested that they were probably whispering about how CUUUUTE he is. He said 'relationships are gross.' I agreed that they probably are when you are a 9 year old boy, but he might change his mind later. Or not, whatever suits him.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Dad Entry #136
Michael has a rash. It spread quickly at first, but has abated some (kind of like reality TV addiction). It's scary if you take a closer look (also like reality TV). The skin on Michael's face is nearly reptilian in texture. It's like the bumpy leather of a good football or basketball. Although, maybe I'm exaggerating; it's not that bad. But I'm happy tonight isn't prom or homecoming or his first date with a VERY lucky girl. Other than bouts of itchiness, he doesn't seem bothered. I suspect he'll feel differently in a few years. He'll be less accepting of reptile skin. On his face. Spreading like a Colorado wildfire. He'll need some assurance these things are no big deal. Or maybe I'll take a different tack; I'll say, "Let the game come to you, Kid. When a reptile rash pops up, embrace it. Wear it. Own it! It's the new thing. You make everybody want one, you understand?" Kidding.
We go to pet stores a lot. There's a type of little animal, I think they're hamsters, with - I'm just gonna come out and say it - enormous testicles. I don't know why they appear so overgrown and disproportionate. And I'm not going to look it up for you. You have guesses, and probably one of them is correct. Imagine the comedy on Q&A forums online following this inquiry. Anyway, we passed by these rodents at Petland last night and Megan pointed and said, "I don't like those. They look like they have huge boy bottoms." I agree. My sweetheart. In Megan's world, your private areas are your bottoms, and if more specificity is required, the terms 'front bottom' and 'back bottom' can be used to differentiate. Also the terms 'boy bottom' and 'girl bottom' apparently. I think we covered this in Dad Entry #52 or something, but it was time for a refresher.
We go to pet stores a lot. There's a type of little animal, I think they're hamsters, with - I'm just gonna come out and say it - enormous testicles. I don't know why they appear so overgrown and disproportionate. And I'm not going to look it up for you. You have guesses, and probably one of them is correct. Imagine the comedy on Q&A forums online following this inquiry. Anyway, we passed by these rodents at Petland last night and Megan pointed and said, "I don't like those. They look like they have huge boy bottoms." I agree. My sweetheart. In Megan's world, your private areas are your bottoms, and if more specificity is required, the terms 'front bottom' and 'back bottom' can be used to differentiate. Also the terms 'boy bottom' and 'girl bottom' apparently. I think we covered this in Dad Entry #52 or something, but it was time for a refresher.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Dad Entry #135
You know, there is tremendous inertia around writing about my kids. When it's time for a new entry, when it's been a while since I scribbled anything about them, I struggle to get started. And then... I can't stop (trying to write the best I can for them). They are such fascinating creatures. Of course, so are the rest of us. Ideally we keep things simple, but to be human is complex, it's multi-layered, multi-dimensional, it's big and thorny, but with roses too, and interactive; yes, life is social (whether we like it or not, we are intertwined). So I think we should choose openness and depth over simplicity sometimes, depending on how much we want to peel the onion. My kids don't like onions. But I suspect they might down the road, when eating a bratwurst, for example, or Mongolian beef (I'm pretty sure Heng Wing restaurant in Palatine puts narcotics in their Mongolian beef). The kids and I ate onion rings over the weekend, although if Meg-Pie had her way she'd only eat the batter.
Megan asked me, "Have you ever been jealous of anyone?" I said, "Yes, Honey, I know exactly what that feels like. Who are you jealous of?" Megan answered, "Alissa." When I asked why - thinking we might plunge into a piercing and powerful discussion, one about self-esteem, for example - Meg said, "Because she has an American Girl doll suitcase and I don't have one." Oh. Okay. So maybe I'm over-anxious for that depth and complexity I mentioned above.
The other day, Michael mused, "I don't know how adult palates adjust to beer and coffee." I'm accustomed to impressive comprehension and eloquent phrasing from Michael, his adult-like attempts to use not-simple words. He has a nice vocabulary. But this comment just seemed especially... Michael-like. He is nine years old now. I don't think I employed the word 'palate' in conversation until my third decade, nor did I conceive of how a palate is something that 'adjusts' to given objects of consumption, objects like whiskey, a pleasing beverage to certain loved ones, but something I just can't enjoy like I do beer and coffee. It doesn't matter if it's Scotch, Irish, or Canadian whiskey. Michael would describe my palate as obstinate, intransigent, or intractable when it comes to embracing Johnnie Walker, Jameson, or Canadian Club. I love Michael. He's smart.
Megan will be in first grade soon. This means she'll eat lunch at school. Woo-hoo! Yes, apparently she's excited, and she shared one reason for this the other day, "Next year I'll get to see Michael at school lunch!" My first thought was: he better not ignore you, Megan, or be dismissive or aloof or anything other than perfectly awesome to you... or I'm gonna be pissed. Megan adores Michael. And I love her for it. I love her for a zillion other reasons, or in a zillion other ways, or with a zillion times a zillion units of force or volume or whatever the best metric. But you gotta start somewhere, and now if I list all the reasons I love Megan, I only have a zillion minus one to go.
Megan asked me, "Have you ever been jealous of anyone?" I said, "Yes, Honey, I know exactly what that feels like. Who are you jealous of?" Megan answered, "Alissa." When I asked why - thinking we might plunge into a piercing and powerful discussion, one about self-esteem, for example - Meg said, "Because she has an American Girl doll suitcase and I don't have one." Oh. Okay. So maybe I'm over-anxious for that depth and complexity I mentioned above.
The other day, Michael mused, "I don't know how adult palates adjust to beer and coffee." I'm accustomed to impressive comprehension and eloquent phrasing from Michael, his adult-like attempts to use not-simple words. He has a nice vocabulary. But this comment just seemed especially... Michael-like. He is nine years old now. I don't think I employed the word 'palate' in conversation until my third decade, nor did I conceive of how a palate is something that 'adjusts' to given objects of consumption, objects like whiskey, a pleasing beverage to certain loved ones, but something I just can't enjoy like I do beer and coffee. It doesn't matter if it's Scotch, Irish, or Canadian whiskey. Michael would describe my palate as obstinate, intransigent, or intractable when it comes to embracing Johnnie Walker, Jameson, or Canadian Club. I love Michael. He's smart.
Megan will be in first grade soon. This means she'll eat lunch at school. Woo-hoo! Yes, apparently she's excited, and she shared one reason for this the other day, "Next year I'll get to see Michael at school lunch!" My first thought was: he better not ignore you, Megan, or be dismissive or aloof or anything other than perfectly awesome to you... or I'm gonna be pissed. Megan adores Michael. And I love her for it. I love her for a zillion other reasons, or in a zillion other ways, or with a zillion times a zillion units of force or volume or whatever the best metric. But you gotta start somewhere, and now if I list all the reasons I love Megan, I only have a zillion minus one to go.
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