The kids and I flew to Texas for spring break. Grandma, Papa, and Uncle Bill scooped us up at the airport and we all sobbed a little over Iowa State's last second NCAA tourney loss to Ohio State. The game ended only minutes before we landed and – a frustrating thing in many sports – the outcome hinged on a controversial referee decision, a charging / blocking call. Charles Barkley was livid and insisted, in post-game TV commentary, that Iowa State was robbed. I'm not one to disagree with Charles Barkley. So we shook off disappointment and headed straight for the Fort Worth Stockyards, a place that looks and feels – and smells – like a real cowtown. Real cowboys and cowgirls ride up and down the streets – they ride horses, I mean, not Harley's or in cars, although those were mixed into passing traffic also. The horse-riders appeared very capable and authentic, with all the proper accessories and tools; they had worn and dusty boots and hats, spurs, chaps, ropes, and Wranglers. They had humongous belt buckles. Yosemite Sam comes to mind, and not as a caricature or exaggeration. And many had holstered guns, which really consummated the image until I noticed they also had holstered cell phones. The area gets its name from cattle drives that still pass through the town and into nearby sale barns and pens, aka stockyards. We saw wagons and steers and several mustaches. We heard twangy voices and sounds – I'm pretty sure they aren't words – like y'all, reckin', fixin', and pardner. People were very nice. And I was relieved to see exactly zero cowboys squinting at Google Maps on saddle-mounted Android devices. Yee-haw!
I am Megan's sherpa. If we go for a walk, or to a store, or a restaurant, or anywhere at all, Megan will say, "Dad, will you hold my chapstick?" Sure. Then, "Dad, will you carry my scarf, please?" I guess, followed by, "Dad, I'm hot; will you take my coat," and "Dad, can you carry my sweater?" and "Dad, here's my hat." We go through everything after that – purse, book, water bottle, paint chips, stupid pamphlets she picks up, (which I discard immediately) – until finally, "Dad, will you carry me?" I oblige, because I won't be able to do it forever, and I don't get to snuggle and sniff her much otherwise. And it's good exercise. And, I don't know, shit, do I need more excuses not to sound like putty?
At dinner last night, Michael said, "Do we ever vacuum the kitchen floor?" I said, "As a matter of fact, Michael, we do not ever vacuum the kitchen floor, but I do." Sometimes. Maybe not super-often. Maybe not often enough. Okay, I get it. Although, in my defense, I just vacuumed last weekend (after a minor, month-long hiatus) and I am definitely not one of the two people who leave mountains of crumbs every time a cracker, cookie, or chip is consumed, or a slice, piece, or bite of anything whatsoever is handled, or, rather, mishandled. And, for the record, Michael has never complained about the toilets. I clean those often. Maybe it's time he clean those often. I still have the dishes, laundry, sinks, counters, tables, mirrors, tub, and shower to keep me busy. And the floors! Don't forget the floors!
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Just a Little Bedtime World-Saving
A few nights ago, as I snuggled each of the kids before bedtime, I reminded them that they are always welcome with me to air grievances, express concerns, ask questions, tell me worries, etc. I told them that I (and their dad) am a safe place for them where they can come to solve problems. It seems like a good idea to to reassure them of those facts once in awhile, to tell them that I am open and willing to share in their troubles and to be a listening ear for them.
Michael listened to me as I told him this and then was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, "So what's the deal with slaughterhouses?"
I admit I was thoroughly unprepared for that question, but I feel like I handled it the best I could.
----------
Me: Now, when you say "slaughterhouse," I'm not sure we're thinking of the same thing, Michael. There are some places that could be called that, because they do kill animals, but they do it for products, like meat.
Michael: No, I mean SLAUGHTERHOUSES, like where illegal immigrants just KILL animals.
Me: I'm not sure...
Michael: And you know the crazy thing? Barack Obama SUPPORTS those places.
Me: Michael, I'm pretty sure places where immigrants kill animals don't exist, and if they did, I am CERTAIN that President Obama is not a fan.
Michael: Hmpf.
Me: You know, animal rights seems like something you're really passionate about. Maybe that's something you could make a career of someday.
Michael: Mom, I'm not even FAMOUS. No one even knows I FEEL this way.
Me: Well, bud, you're only nine. Give yourself some time, maybe.
Michael: Like maybe I could be Martin Luther King Jr. for animals.
Me: Yeah, maybe you could. Martin Luther King Jr. wasn't fighting for racial equality when he was nine, though. He was a grown up. I am sure he FELT equal rights were important when he was young, but he didn't really change things until he was much older.
Michael: Okay. I could be Michael Byard Cox Jr.!
Me: Yes, yes you could.
----------
Some more immediate worries were then aired, but none that I couldn't take on after THAT.
Michael listened to me as I told him this and then was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, "So what's the deal with slaughterhouses?"
I admit I was thoroughly unprepared for that question, but I feel like I handled it the best I could.
----------
Me: Now, when you say "slaughterhouse," I'm not sure we're thinking of the same thing, Michael. There are some places that could be called that, because they do kill animals, but they do it for products, like meat.
Michael: No, I mean SLAUGHTERHOUSES, like where illegal immigrants just KILL animals.
Me: I'm not sure...
Michael: And you know the crazy thing? Barack Obama SUPPORTS those places.
Me: Michael, I'm pretty sure places where immigrants kill animals don't exist, and if they did, I am CERTAIN that President Obama is not a fan.
Michael: Hmpf.
Me: You know, animal rights seems like something you're really passionate about. Maybe that's something you could make a career of someday.
Michael: Mom, I'm not even FAMOUS. No one even knows I FEEL this way.
Me: Well, bud, you're only nine. Give yourself some time, maybe.
Michael: Like maybe I could be Martin Luther King Jr. for animals.
Me: Yeah, maybe you could. Martin Luther King Jr. wasn't fighting for racial equality when he was nine, though. He was a grown up. I am sure he FELT equal rights were important when he was young, but he didn't really change things until he was much older.
Michael: Okay. I could be Michael Byard Cox Jr.!
Me: Yes, yes you could.
----------
Some more immediate worries were then aired, but none that I couldn't take on after THAT.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
An Easter for the Books
This Easter felt different than Easters gone by, for a number of reasons. The biggest being that Michael found out. He FOUND OUT. I could tell he had been suspecting things for some time and this year, the night before Easter morning, he finally flat out asked me. And I lied. "No, I don't hide eggs." I couldn't bear to make the next morning feel hollow and less exciting for him, but I also felt a panic rise when I realized that this was a huge, momentous shift inside of him, from little boy to just boy. I am not kidding when I say I felt my stomach turn over.
His response to my untruth was agreement. He said, "Yeah, I didn't think so. We're all too sleepy to do that." Meaning I couldn't possibly handle staying up late enough to pull something like that off! If only he really understood the discomforts that are involved in parenting. So the next morning was full of glorious and oblivious egg-hunting, church and a day spent with good friends. That night, when I was snuggling with Michael, I asked him if he remembered the question he had asked the night before, the one about the bunny "rumor." He said, "Yeeeesss...do you do that?" And with a pit in my stomach, I said, "Yes." I explained how parents have this tradition on Easter to make it extra special and exciting for kids. He was floored.
I told him that now he was on our team, and his job was to protect the secret for those kids that were too young to have sorted it out, and that he would get to help pack and hide eggs in the future. And that as long as Megan did not find out from him, the Easter bunny would continue to come to both of them. He was pretty excited about the idea of getting to participate in the big cover-up. Then he looked at me gravely and said, "Do you do that at Christmas, too?" I felt tears threaten my composure.
I told him that a long time ago, there was a Santa Claus and he began a tradition of this magical experience for children. That now parents all over the world are on that team and we work together to make Christmas magic happen every Christmas morning. When I said, "And that Santa is....", Michael filled in, "...retired?" And I realized he wasn't quite getting it. So I told him I thought that the real Santa had died, that he was a special man that had lived a long long time ago. But that Christmas magic is very real, that if we believe in it, we will feel it – it is about Jesus' birth, giving and loving and friends and family. He was like, "So wait, YOU got me a lizard?! YOU filled my stocking? YOU ate all those cookies! You pig!" I laughed and told him that we didn't always eat all the cookies, but that yes, his dad and I are responsible for all the wonderful and too-expensive gifts he has received. He struggled to wrap his head around the spoiling that had occurred on all those Christmas mornings, when he knows that we don't normally buy such extravagant things. I was pleased that he was more grateful than disappointed.
The next morning, he sidled up to me and whispered, "Are you the tooth fairy, too?" I said, "Yes." He hugged me tight and said, "Thank you so much! I love you so much!" It made my heart swell and break all at the same time as I watched my boy change right before my eyes.
His response to my untruth was agreement. He said, "Yeah, I didn't think so. We're all too sleepy to do that." Meaning I couldn't possibly handle staying up late enough to pull something like that off! If only he really understood the discomforts that are involved in parenting. So the next morning was full of glorious and oblivious egg-hunting, church and a day spent with good friends. That night, when I was snuggling with Michael, I asked him if he remembered the question he had asked the night before, the one about the bunny "rumor." He said, "Yeeeesss...do you do that?" And with a pit in my stomach, I said, "Yes." I explained how parents have this tradition on Easter to make it extra special and exciting for kids. He was floored.
I told him that now he was on our team, and his job was to protect the secret for those kids that were too young to have sorted it out, and that he would get to help pack and hide eggs in the future. And that as long as Megan did not find out from him, the Easter bunny would continue to come to both of them. He was pretty excited about the idea of getting to participate in the big cover-up. Then he looked at me gravely and said, "Do you do that at Christmas, too?" I felt tears threaten my composure.
I told him that a long time ago, there was a Santa Claus and he began a tradition of this magical experience for children. That now parents all over the world are on that team and we work together to make Christmas magic happen every Christmas morning. When I said, "And that Santa is....", Michael filled in, "...retired?" And I realized he wasn't quite getting it. So I told him I thought that the real Santa had died, that he was a special man that had lived a long long time ago. But that Christmas magic is very real, that if we believe in it, we will feel it – it is about Jesus' birth, giving and loving and friends and family. He was like, "So wait, YOU got me a lizard?! YOU filled my stocking? YOU ate all those cookies! You pig!" I laughed and told him that we didn't always eat all the cookies, but that yes, his dad and I are responsible for all the wonderful and too-expensive gifts he has received. He struggled to wrap his head around the spoiling that had occurred on all those Christmas mornings, when he knows that we don't normally buy such extravagant things. I was pleased that he was more grateful than disappointed.
The next morning, he sidled up to me and whispered, "Are you the tooth fairy, too?" I said, "Yes." He hugged me tight and said, "Thank you so much! I love you so much!" It made my heart swell and break all at the same time as I watched my boy change right before my eyes.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Dad Entry #158
It's been a long time since I recorded any lies about my children. Or, rather, any lies about my patience and unwavering optimism as consistent response to all they do. Maybe that sentiment is fictionalized the most here, in over-glowing commentary. Because I'm pretty certain – my favorite oxymoron – that everything I've written about the kids is true. Have I embellished? Maybe a smidgen. Have I selectively remembered and edited? Sure. Will Iowa State go to the Final Four this year? Hell yeah!
Megan has not received more notes from her admirer named Will. Accordingly, I've taken some staff off of retainer. No longer on the payroll are the private investigator, for example, and Megan's two bodyguards. Speaking of money, Michael is very clear and adamant he'll be lavishly-heeled someday, richer than a pharaoh. I was probably adamant – and self-assured – about that also, at Michael's age. Then life happened. Now I tell myself money's not important. Did I mention 'lies' above? Michael is already making plans, though. He'll find and examine some long-forgotten toy or knick-knack on his shelf. He'll squint his eyes or tilt his head (whatever mannerisms indicate that he's ruminating, plotting), and he'll say, "I bet I can sell this online for tons of money."
Meg has an American Girl diary. She writes in it, and sometimes wants to share what she's written. I know the feeling.
I drafted Michael's baseball team last Saturday. It was difficult; I tried to get a team of nine-year-old Jeter's (he's a good clubhouse guy, has great baseball skills, and only dates A-list movie stars and models). We'll see. Maybe I got a Cabrera. If so, I get a triple-crown-capable prodigy, but I gotta keep him from partying all night. I can't wait to coach again; they are good kids, and decent ballplayers, too.
Recently, Michael's attention was caught by a black-and-white photo of the Greek restaurant we were eating at. The picture showed the place when it opened. Michael studied it. It was dated 1989. Michael said, "Oh, back in the 80's everything must've been in black-and-white. And there were probably no TVs." The second part of this revelation, especially, was uttered with an absolute sadness for the poor souls who endured this decade. I didn't respond; I didn't even know where to begin. I think we each pitied the other for a moment. No one commemorates the 80's for fashion, or hairstyles involving bangs, but it might go down as the last great decade, the perfect blend of humanity and technology.
Megan has not received more notes from her admirer named Will. Accordingly, I've taken some staff off of retainer. No longer on the payroll are the private investigator, for example, and Megan's two bodyguards. Speaking of money, Michael is very clear and adamant he'll be lavishly-heeled someday, richer than a pharaoh. I was probably adamant – and self-assured – about that also, at Michael's age. Then life happened. Now I tell myself money's not important. Did I mention 'lies' above? Michael is already making plans, though. He'll find and examine some long-forgotten toy or knick-knack on his shelf. He'll squint his eyes or tilt his head (whatever mannerisms indicate that he's ruminating, plotting), and he'll say, "I bet I can sell this online for tons of money."
Meg has an American Girl diary. She writes in it, and sometimes wants to share what she's written. I know the feeling.
I drafted Michael's baseball team last Saturday. It was difficult; I tried to get a team of nine-year-old Jeter's (he's a good clubhouse guy, has great baseball skills, and only dates A-list movie stars and models). We'll see. Maybe I got a Cabrera. If so, I get a triple-crown-capable prodigy, but I gotta keep him from partying all night. I can't wait to coach again; they are good kids, and decent ballplayers, too.
Recently, Michael's attention was caught by a black-and-white photo of the Greek restaurant we were eating at. The picture showed the place when it opened. Michael studied it. It was dated 1989. Michael said, "Oh, back in the 80's everything must've been in black-and-white. And there were probably no TVs." The second part of this revelation, especially, was uttered with an absolute sadness for the poor souls who endured this decade. I didn't respond; I didn't even know where to begin. I think we each pitied the other for a moment. No one commemorates the 80's for fashion, or hairstyles involving bangs, but it might go down as the last great decade, the perfect blend of humanity and technology.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
The Beauty is in the Details
These are some beautiful faces. I sometimes sit, thinking about them and wonder: who are you? Who are you going to be? I long for my babies to stay small(ish) and yet I also yearn to know what their futures will bring. What successes and struggles, what stories and companions. I mark their ever-rising heights on the 2x4 stud in the basement with fake excitement and the realization that time slides by so quickly. A few days ago a friend mentioned the old adage, "The days are long, but the years are short." I am working fervently to appreciate the length of the days I have with Michael and Megan – to be the best mom I can be. The kind that they need, in all of their youthful issues and concerns, their playtime and scholarly efforts. I pray that some day they might say that I was good at momming and that they felt my love always, even when we struggled. And struggle we sometimes do! I sometimes find myself thinking, "Oh my gosh, I have screwed them up royally this time." (or "Oh my gosh, is he/she SERIOUS?!") And then later, there will be a hug or a snuggle that shows me that I was wrong. Blessings!
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Dad Entry #157
A few weeks ago, Megan wiped out on a snow hill and sledded on her
face for a distance, or so it seemed according to her wounds, which
included a big scab over cheekbone and temple, and some black-and-blue
around her eye. The damage was impermanent; all signs have vanished
already. Kids heal fast. I wasn't there for the accident, but Megan
cried out for me, Sara said, which makes me both happy and sad.
Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.
Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?
Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.
Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
Dad Entry #156
Michael is pretty tidy when it comes to schoolwork. I'm most aware of
things that require my involvement, of course, things like his reading
log which I bless with my autograph. Not so valuable, my autograph, but
it's nice to give it. Michael puts papers I need to sign (his reading
tracker, yes, but also stuff like permission slips and notes about
curriculum) in front of me like an attorney at a closing, neatly
ordering, stacking, and sliding them across the table. "Oh, and here's a
good pen, Dad," he'll say, clicking one to arm it and handing it over
with a smile, pleasantly, expectantly, ready to sweep away each paper
once signed. He's a pro. Instead of asking him appropriate questions
about the upcoming field trip, or school subjects, I pretend I'm Lebron
or Verlander with a Sharpee signing posters. (I wonder if my son
realizes how juvenile most adults are. Probably not. I didn't realize
this until I was about 35.) Well, it seems logical, or chronological, to
talk about Megan next, in this context, but I'm unenthusiastic. Oh,
Meggie. Unlike her brother, Megan will ask me if I've signed her stuff
before she's even taken anything out of her backpack. And sometimes her
backpack is still in the car. "Umm, Honey, I'm not going to dig your
papers out for you, if I can even find them. Get your binder, and bring
it over here, and we'll review things together, please and thank you."
We're working on it. But, this part is equally true; Meg practices her
spelling words over and over again, and she asks for math problems to do
on her whiteboard. She's a good student, also.
Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.
Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Dad Entry #155
Before Christmas, Megan received a note from a classmate: "Dear Megan (with at least one letter partially scribbled out and rewritten), Here's my phone number (omitted for security reasons) Call me over break, Love, (we'll call him Richard)" Aunt
Gretchen was highly critical of everything about Megan's suitor,
including Richard's choice of paper. Aunt Gretchen's response: "Dear
Richard, a. Get her name right. b. Equipment rental stationary, really?
c. You've just ruined any chance you had in high school. Her dad
considers you a predator. Move on." God bless Aunt Gretchen! My
response, if I gave one, would've been simple and kind: "Richard, I
trust this was an accident. You are forgiven. Once." Others in the
family, like Uncle Scott, while not approving of Richard whatsoever,
were still impressed by his boldness. It's hard to discount; I was in my
third decade before closing letters to women (who weren't members of my
family) with "Love, Dan."
The baby fish in our tank died. We had several, actually, that didn't make it. They are born so tiny it's common practice to sequester them for a spell (so they won't be snacked on). We did this, but something went wrong. Obviously. Megan coined a word describing what happened; she said the little ones, in their isolation, died from "unloveness." That sounds like a terrible affliction (and reminiscent of the very real and documented "failure to thrive" syndrome). My kids are lucky to have an incredibly loving array of family and friends. We have other concerns and challenges, but I'm not worried about unloveness right now.
Michael discovered Youtube a while back. There are great things on Youtube (fishing clips, tutorials, science videos, sports highlights, sharks!) and some things not so great (angry people, cutting commentaries, rambling nonsense, occasional lewdness). Michael knows there's a monster called the media, powerful and many-tentacled, and he knows it's impressive as both a service and disservice; it's a lavish furnisher of information - and Michael loves information - but it tends to be clownish and to hyperventilate in its insatiable eagerness to caricaturize, sensationalize, and profit from everything. Even the weather. But we like entertainment. Everyone does. The media may seem far-reaching and omnipresent, but there are places to hide from it. And we will hide from it. Often, I hope. I don't want my children to live the media's values. I want my children to live their own values.
We still sing Christmas carols at bedtime, cheerfully but softly. We are far from raucaus. It will be February soon, after all. Michael will tell you the Earth has to rotate over 300 times before we get Christmas again. Bummer. But carols are familiar songs, and Megan has a sweet voice. It's not uncommon for her to lose the melody reading lesser-known verses (from pages of lyrics) but she sings on unvexed. It might be painful if she wasn't so earnest and cute, and snug in her bed with her stuffed animals, fleece blanket, and bowling pin picture frame.
The baby fish in our tank died. We had several, actually, that didn't make it. They are born so tiny it's common practice to sequester them for a spell (so they won't be snacked on). We did this, but something went wrong. Obviously. Megan coined a word describing what happened; she said the little ones, in their isolation, died from "unloveness." That sounds like a terrible affliction (and reminiscent of the very real and documented "failure to thrive" syndrome). My kids are lucky to have an incredibly loving array of family and friends. We have other concerns and challenges, but I'm not worried about unloveness right now.
Michael discovered Youtube a while back. There are great things on Youtube (fishing clips, tutorials, science videos, sports highlights, sharks!) and some things not so great (angry people, cutting commentaries, rambling nonsense, occasional lewdness). Michael knows there's a monster called the media, powerful and many-tentacled, and he knows it's impressive as both a service and disservice; it's a lavish furnisher of information - and Michael loves information - but it tends to be clownish and to hyperventilate in its insatiable eagerness to caricaturize, sensationalize, and profit from everything. Even the weather. But we like entertainment. Everyone does. The media may seem far-reaching and omnipresent, but there are places to hide from it. And we will hide from it. Often, I hope. I don't want my children to live the media's values. I want my children to live their own values.
We still sing Christmas carols at bedtime, cheerfully but softly. We are far from raucaus. It will be February soon, after all. Michael will tell you the Earth has to rotate over 300 times before we get Christmas again. Bummer. But carols are familiar songs, and Megan has a sweet voice. It's not uncommon for her to lose the melody reading lesser-known verses (from pages of lyrics) but she sings on unvexed. It might be painful if she wasn't so earnest and cute, and snug in her bed with her stuffed animals, fleece blanket, and bowling pin picture frame.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Dad Entry #154
Michael is a bit averse to chivalrous concepts like "ladies first."
Of course, the lady in question is very often his little sister,
gorgeous and sweet, unless she isn't, which can happen, and nearly every
offending episode - an unladylike lapse into name-calling, for example,
or farting - is witnessed by her brother. So I understand Michael's
confusion, frustration, often exasperation, when I instruct him to get
the door for Megan, simply and only because of her femininity, even if
she's just acted blatantly impolite or inelegant. "Be a gentleman,
Michael," I tell him. And then I add, because self-interest is a great
motivator, especially for nine-year-olds, "You won't regret it; it will
pay you back tenfold." He really doesn't understand that part.
I often wonder what Michael "will be when he grows up." I wonder the same about Megan. I don't think about it as a demanding, expectant, or prideful parent. Life can be so full, so much comedy, tragedy, and romance, whether we are pothole-fillers or brain surgeons, both very necessary jobs. Potholes wreak havoc on tires, axles, and alignment. And brains are useful. We are not defined by our occupations, in my opinion, or our habits, hobbies, and other pursuits, or even our friends, families, or bodies. We are something deeper, something, somehow, ethereal and yet more real than the material, the physical. Blah, blah. I've digressed. Megan is really cute in skinny jeans.
A few times in my life, very serious and anxious times, my father has said something like, "Don't worry about that," or "That will not be a problem for you," or "That will never happen." Such pronouncements from him carry impressive weight for me, following an accident, a scare, a moment of error or embarrassment (they happen to us all), a teaching moment or impetus for growth (nicer ways to put it). I believe him when he says, "You'll be fine," with a finality, authority, and confidence that remarkably allay some of my worst doubts, and bolster me in the face of these rare, severe scenarios. And this despite his notoriety for embellishment (insert smile). My father has resources, influence, and presence in these moments; I want to possess these for my children, also. I hope they view their father the way I do mine.
I often wonder what Michael "will be when he grows up." I wonder the same about Megan. I don't think about it as a demanding, expectant, or prideful parent. Life can be so full, so much comedy, tragedy, and romance, whether we are pothole-fillers or brain surgeons, both very necessary jobs. Potholes wreak havoc on tires, axles, and alignment. And brains are useful. We are not defined by our occupations, in my opinion, or our habits, hobbies, and other pursuits, or even our friends, families, or bodies. We are something deeper, something, somehow, ethereal and yet more real than the material, the physical. Blah, blah. I've digressed. Megan is really cute in skinny jeans.
A few times in my life, very serious and anxious times, my father has said something like, "Don't worry about that," or "That will not be a problem for you," or "That will never happen." Such pronouncements from him carry impressive weight for me, following an accident, a scare, a moment of error or embarrassment (they happen to us all), a teaching moment or impetus for growth (nicer ways to put it). I believe him when he says, "You'll be fine," with a finality, authority, and confidence that remarkably allay some of my worst doubts, and bolster me in the face of these rare, severe scenarios. And this despite his notoriety for embellishment (insert smile). My father has resources, influence, and presence in these moments; I want to possess these for my children, also. I hope they view their father the way I do mine.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Dad Entry #153
Michael asked for a glimpse inside Papa Mike’s gun safe. This is a
touchy subject, always, and especially following the unspeakable horror
in Newtown. It’s too early to show him, but someday I’ll ask Papa to
open ‘er up and have a moment with his grandson. We hunt and handle
guns. Some awareness of them – and their use by militaries, hunters, our
pioneering ancestors, and, frankly, criminals, gangs, and terrorists –
is entirely appropriate for my children, in my humble opinion. I will
teach them how to use guns, with extreme safety and not even the tiniest
speck of glorification.
Michael and I listen to AC/DC to get fired up for his basketball games. "Back in Black" and "Thunderstruck" both trigger the urge to metamorphose into the Incredible Hulk, a little bit impossible for me, but a potent feeling nonetheless, and one Michael agrees is repeatable and powerful, when the guitars kick off, and the sound and energy lift us. I struggle with the impossibility of the Hulk’s pants (shredded perfectly into shorts that still fit), but I love the associated invincibility, the feeling I can run through brick walls, like high school athletes through decorated paper hoops held by cheerleaders. I wonder if high schools still do these silly – but memorable and important – things. Michael, possessing the heart of a young artist, likes the thought of being green-skinned more than tough-skinned (and able to plow through masonry and pound it to dust). To each his own.
Listening to Megan sound out words, and learn to read, is one of the great pleasures of my life. I appreciate the recitation and rhythm of sentences, their construction and variety; I like sentences that are blunt and crisp, and sentences that wander. And I like Megan.
Megan will stop in the middle of something - tying shoes perhaps, or eating – and just stare ahead, peacefully. Apparently I do this too (impossible for me to believe because I feel self-harried and riddled with anxiety so often), and if noticed in this state, I’m accused of going to “Planet Dan.” Megan spaced-out last night, and when she finally came back to us, she credited a voyage to “Planet Megan” for her absence. I can’t decide if Planet Megan, which I proudly announced must orbit Planet Dan, is a healthy and safe place, and not inhospitable or barren, entirely gaseous, volcano-covered, radiation-blasted, 800 degrees, and hammered by asteroids. Or frozen and grey. No, I think Planet Megan is restful and welcoming; I think it's a happy place.
Michael and I listen to AC/DC to get fired up for his basketball games. "Back in Black" and "Thunderstruck" both trigger the urge to metamorphose into the Incredible Hulk, a little bit impossible for me, but a potent feeling nonetheless, and one Michael agrees is repeatable and powerful, when the guitars kick off, and the sound and energy lift us. I struggle with the impossibility of the Hulk’s pants (shredded perfectly into shorts that still fit), but I love the associated invincibility, the feeling I can run through brick walls, like high school athletes through decorated paper hoops held by cheerleaders. I wonder if high schools still do these silly – but memorable and important – things. Michael, possessing the heart of a young artist, likes the thought of being green-skinned more than tough-skinned (and able to plow through masonry and pound it to dust). To each his own.
Listening to Megan sound out words, and learn to read, is one of the great pleasures of my life. I appreciate the recitation and rhythm of sentences, their construction and variety; I like sentences that are blunt and crisp, and sentences that wander. And I like Megan.
Megan will stop in the middle of something - tying shoes perhaps, or eating – and just stare ahead, peacefully. Apparently I do this too (impossible for me to believe because I feel self-harried and riddled with anxiety so often), and if noticed in this state, I’m accused of going to “Planet Dan.” Megan spaced-out last night, and when she finally came back to us, she credited a voyage to “Planet Megan” for her absence. I can’t decide if Planet Megan, which I proudly announced must orbit Planet Dan, is a healthy and safe place, and not inhospitable or barren, entirely gaseous, volcano-covered, radiation-blasted, 800 degrees, and hammered by asteroids. Or frozen and grey. No, I think Planet Megan is restful and welcoming; I think it's a happy place.
Friday, January 04, 2013
Dad Entry #152
Santa brought Michael a gecko. An Eyelash Crested Gecko, to be exact
(Michael is often annoyed by imprecision, no doubt signaling a budding -
but hopefully mild - case of OCD, not uncommon in his extended family).
The gecko is called Nick; named by Michael in honor of the giver. I like
Nick. He has mottled, earthy coloring and watchful eyes and five-toed
feet so much like human hands I wonder if he can dribble and shoot a
little basketball. Maybe I've seen too many Geico commercials. We all
have. But lizards are cool. Kids are right after all; running with
dinosaurs would be amazing (until they ate you, or crapped, or exhaled a
big plume of moist, rotten breath in your face). Nick’s a jumper. He
will leap from a shoulder all the way to the ground without injury. At
least we think he’s okay; no bones are sticking out; everything appears
connected at appropriate angles, unlike, for example, Joe Theisman’s
leg.
I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the news, an after-midnight missed call from my mom and a voicemail she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, consistently, confidently; he became a tough out. From then on, he was comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fought and fouled off tough pitches and made good contact on meaty ones. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War.
There has been some discussion among my family (never initiated by me!) about my longish – and dwindling – hair. Megan has been listening, apparently; the other day, out of nowhere, she blurted, “I like your mullet, Daddy.” Yes, it was spoken sweetly, believe it or not, with a kind of compassionate assurance; I think she knew hers was a differing opinion, a positive one. But clearly she missed the term’s previous connotation, the mean-spirited, injurious, poisonous, hateful – okay, that will do :) - way it was used to denigrate my hair before. Of course, I burst out laughing, even as the accused; the word possesses a delightfully enormous amount of comedic power. It simply cannot, however, be used in a compliment. But Megan tried.
I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the news, an after-midnight missed call from my mom and a voicemail she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, consistently, confidently; he became a tough out. From then on, he was comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fought and fouled off tough pitches and made good contact on meaty ones. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War.
There has been some discussion among my family (never initiated by me!) about my longish – and dwindling – hair. Megan has been listening, apparently; the other day, out of nowhere, she blurted, “I like your mullet, Daddy.” Yes, it was spoken sweetly, believe it or not, with a kind of compassionate assurance; I think she knew hers was a differing opinion, a positive one. But clearly she missed the term’s previous connotation, the mean-spirited, injurious, poisonous, hateful – okay, that will do :) - way it was used to denigrate my hair before. Of course, I burst out laughing, even as the accused; the word possesses a delightfully enormous amount of comedic power. It simply cannot, however, be used in a compliment. But Megan tried.
Thursday, January 03, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)