Ah, The Sit 'n Spin

Love the action shot in the middle. It's funny.

Dad Entry #44

Once upon a time, a boy was born. His father wept and his mother cried (in pain) and on his birthday he was strong enough to do push-ups in the plastic bassinet they set him in after delivery. He was markedly out of place in the newborn nursery, a giant next to the preemies there, maybe like a white shark caught in a fishing pen full of tuna. He was born with the chest of a strongman contestant and the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer. And if physique alone wasn’t enough to earn him the title of nursery brute, he had a swollen face to go with it, mostly around the eyes, like a prizefighter. His labor was arduous although he never did arrive as nature intended. Too big. But the swelling – and his mother’s severe exhaustion – were proof he went the distance before going to the scorecards for a decision to surgically intervene. As a baby, he only cried when he was hungry. But this was not infrequent really because according to the charts, at 2 months he was 10 months, and a 10-month-old eats food. Real food. Solid food. This wonder-boy only got milk. But every day he drank two or three times the number of ounces recommended by the pediatrician. Some of his clothes were never worn because he outgrew them in utero. It wasn’t long before this toddler could speak so clearly that one might, over the phone, mistake him for an eight-year-old. Dirty bibs and diapers were age giveaways in face-to-face meetings, although they emphasized the dichotomy; those who spoke to the boy were impressed. He learned every ‘Thomas the Train’ character overnight. It wasn’t long before he knew enough about marine biology to lecture at a university. And he knew less about marine biology than he did about prehistory. At the ripe age of five, the boy became a world leader in dinosaur identification (and, even more remarkable, pronunciation). Pachycephalasaurus. Say that five times. A fan of books, the boy’s private collection surpassed in number every library on the planet save two (Congress and the Vatican). And, to enhance his creativity further, in a matter of months he collected more lego sets than Kate Hudson has boyfriends. Okay, I can’t go on with this story, but hopefullly by now you’ve identified its hero. Yes, he is Michael Byard Cox (not to be confused with Papa Mike). Since I noticed I’m approaching entry #50, I’m anxious to get there… so more on Michael in #45.

A couple of my favorite things

I mentioned one of my favorite things in my 'Dad Entry' below. The resolution is poor but I actually found a picture of it.... You might be able to read what's on my favorite T-shirt, also.

Dad Entry #43

My apologies at the beginning here, this is very long. But once again I’ve let months slip away without recording a word. A while back the kids visited Kansas City for two weeks. We talked on the phone a lot but hearing Megan’s voice and not being able to smother her was tough. While she was gone I spent a few minutes trying to describe her. Here are some things I wrote down: Megan is majestically beautiful, even when she has crusties on her face. Her eyes are so big and clear. Her voice sweet. Her mini-shoes, jeans, sweaters, swimsuits, and summer dresses… so cute and small. Her tiny painted nails. Her hugs, laughter, tears. Her snot. When she wakes up and says, “I have a froat,” which means she has a ‘sore throat’ and maybe a cold brewing. When she clings to me in the close presence of strangers – well, that is inexpressible. To be so needed and trusted by something so precious (to me). I think those moments give me the strongest and rawest feeling of purpose I’ve ever experienced. ‘Fulfilling’ is a good word. Many times Sara and I have used ‘yummy’ to describe an especially satisfying, snuggly moment with Meggie. Yep, she’s yummy. She was absurdly adorable at the ages of one and two. She still is at three. I can’t believe, very soon, she’ll be four! Not as diminutive but just as exquisite. My princess. My heiress. She is compassionate, visibly moved when someone else is hurt or upset. She’s a reader and puzzle-doer, and, although to me it seems a bit paradoxical, she is also a daredevil. I mean she has an analytical, deliberate side to her (Megan the focused puzzle-doer), but also a vivacious, audacious streak (Megan the fearless, reckless jumper and climber). Peg-Peg, as Sara often calls her, is many other things, too. An artist and athlete and dancer and singer and scholar. She loves her stickers, markers, play-doh, and paint (and scissors, of course, every kid loves scissors!). She loves to play ball and ride her little pink bike wearing her ridiculously cute pink helmet. She hollers, “Louder, Daddy,” from the backseat and then, her face contorted like a rock star’s, passionately sings duets with Sheryl Crow, Bon Jovi, and Boy George as “Soak up the Sun”, “Livin’ on a Prayer”, and “Karma Chameleon” are blasted out of my car speakers. And now she loves to write letters, especially M’s. And she will sit and go through deck after deck of flash cards. Way beyond any typical attention span for her age. She says which letter a word or picture on a card begins with, among other games. If I were to mention a flaw, or as we call them at work, an ‘opportunity’… well, Megan can be shamelessly dramatic. My little diva. She is gorgeous though. That fits. A daredevil diva. Megan is not a full throttle tantrum-thrower but she might indignantly sink to and sprawl on the kitchen floor as if flabbergasted by a simple order like, “Put your books away and put your shoes on Megan, we have to leave now.” Megan’s a pretty finicky eater, a bit of a manipulator (yes I am putty in her hands, but not always!), although less exploitive than Michael (maybe because of the age difference); she’s not too much of a rabble-rouser or provocateur (except occasionally when she feels like annoying Michael for some reason), sometimes moody (but who isn’t?), mostly sweet, at times spiteful, sometimes soft and whispering, sometimes petulant and clamorous (when the most miniscule of requests is denied!), and, without a doubt, Megan can be impressively stubborn. This will help her in some areas of life and hurt her in others (oh well, life is a lesson). She is vivacious, audacious, studious, vigorous, pertinacious, gorgeous, and yes, to me, precious. And – though it doesn’t fit with my silly word game above, it is VERY important – she is compassionate. I have observed a kind of genuine empathy in Megan, and I pray it isn’t taken from her by the rigors of life, drowned out by noise, or drained or dulled by her own striving and struggles, of which we all have plenty. I don’t want her to be desensitized, and yet I don’t want her to be too sensitive; I want her to be tough. Oh geez, welcome to life and the challenges of balance and harmony and competing ideas and conflicting goals (not to mention difficult people and hard situations, although those two are our best teachers). Regarding this empathy many little girls seem to possess (and one or two boys, also), there is so much activity and noise around them, so many ups and downs accumulate, maybe they quit noticing when someone else is crying. Sorry, I digressed. This is already too long. But mostly I have described Megan today. I love her. Next entry: Michael.

Thank You, Ralph. Thank You Very Much.

All these years I have avoided kids music on the grounds that it might make me tear my hair out...or worse. My kids have grown up listening to (and learning all the lyrics for) Bob Dylan, Rhianna (who Michael has a MAD crush on), Gwen Stefani, Led Zeppelin, Britney Spears, Bon Jovi and pretty much anything I like listening to. From time to time there is language or content that is maybe not totally appropriate, but at least I skip tracks like 'Gold Digger' and anything with a recognizable f-bomb. However, Justin Timberlakes' 'Sexy Back' is completely acceptable, just to give you a frame of reference. They have never used inappropriate language (besides saying 'penis' a lot, which I think is developmental) or even questioned anything they have heard while listening.

So a few weeks ago, Meg and I went with friends to see Ralph's World. We had seen him before, but never listen to his music at home and my friends were surprised to find that Meg was so unfamiliar with such a staple. Last week, I thought, you know, that music wasn't hair-rip-out worthy, so maybe I could get some. Give in to the kids music craze, as it were. I ordered two of his disks up off of Amazon and stuck one right in when they arrived. The first one was 'Happy Lemons' or something like that which has a song called 'What's New Pussycat.' Almost immediately, the kids CRACKED up and said, "Why is he saying PUSSYcat?!" They don't know at ALL the connotations of that word, and yet they found it hilarious. So for the past 24 hours, I have been hearing the following terms constantly: PUSSYcat, PUSSYmegan, PUSSYmommy, PUSSYmichael, PUSSY.

So Ralph Covert successfully corrupted my children's vocabulary with just one song. I no longer feel the need to defend my choice to allow my kids to sing Johnny Cash songs about cocaine and prison. Turn it up, Michael.

Comin' Atcha

The quality of these sucks, but it's a cute sequence of a cute CUTE girl.

Livin' Large at Goose Poop Beach

Michael the Fish. And Megan the Mermaid Who Won't Leave Land.

Retirement Plans

Day at the Races

Singin' boy

And with Sam. Sammie. Sam-a-Lam. She has a fun name.




And Michaels end of the year music program.

Singin' Girl

Meggies end of the year music program. Yes, I am months behind.

Giving Thanks

A few days ago, I sat Michael down to write a few of his endless birthday thank yous. I dread the minutes spent eeking out 3 or 4 of them. They are much like pulling teeth that are firmly rooted. The threats of returning each and every gift that has no thank you written for it is only a momentary re-focusing tool. Anyway, we sat down and got to work. We had done MAYBE two and were starting the third when he started futzing around with something (maybe the eraser on his pencil?) and I said, "Michael, don't be losing interest now!" and a look that was nothing short of revelation came over his face. He looked at me with wide eyes and said, "Well I don't have ANY interest in this!"

I think he actually thought that my belief that he was actually interested in writing thank you notes could be voided and so the need for them would also disappear.

Dad Entry #42

Michael asked me tonight, “Do Jedi have to take baths, or showers?” (We read a Star Wars book and, before lights-out, told a story with Jedi characters.) So his brain was really churning and, not surprisingly, out popped a deep question. Deep? Yes, because Michael wasn’t equating himself to a Jedi. And he wasn’t asking which they take, baths or showers. The way he asked it, I could tell Michael’s curiosity was centered around this thought, “Do beings with powers still have to do ordinary things?” Do Jedi have to clean themselves? How mundane! Do they put their pants on one leg at a time? (Maybe not since they have The Force at their disposal!). Do superheroes sleep? Do they ever make themselves a snack? What about their laundry? Do they ever reach for the toilet paper and find it down to the cardboard. Empty. Bummer. I explained that some Jedi are human. Obi Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker, for example. So I would assume they shower or bathe just like we do. And Anakin Skywalker is not only human, he’s also Padme’s boyfriend. I emphasized this as significant, although I think Michael was incredulous. Yep, after a long day of battling Separatists, it is Padme who insists Anakin wash off the dirt from foreign planets, the soot on his face from chasing enemies on speeders, the debris from evil battle droids he’s light sabered in half, or maybe oil stains from repairing his shot-up starfighter engines. Not to mention, he probably sweats a little, especially on Tatooine, his home planet, which is a desert climate. Then I anticipated Michael’s next question. What about Jedi like Yoda and Kit Fisto; they are both green and strange-looking, which is to say, distinctly not human. I admitted I’m no expert on alien hygiene. So I told Michael we can just pretend or believe whatever we want to. I braced myself for more questions like, “Yoda is really short, do you think he uses a stool at the sink like Megan?” (How demeaning for a Jedi Master!!!) Uh-oh, now I can't stop wondering… does Yoda have his own miniature facilities? He must. A low showerhead. A restroom like at Michael’s preschool outfitted for little people. So many things to think about…

Our Lebron

If Ted Williams Hit Righty....

Dad Entry #41

I had a visitor this morning. Meg-Pie hopped into bed with me at about 6:15. She jibber-jabbered a little and situated herself with blankets and ‘pets’ (her medley of stuffed animals) next to me. The thought of this simple moment makes my heart swell. Yes, her sweet voice, like an angel’s, her cute little self, well, like my own little heart-warmer. She was tranquil, rested, happy. Which, some days, is a Megan mood-set that seems more rare than a Cubs World Series. I was sleepy, and she was talking softly, so I don’t remember anything she said except, “Daddy, are we going to Minnesota today?”

I got teary-eyed at Michael’s first tee-ball game. There, I said it. Why? Maybe because if you added up all the hours I’ve spent on a diamond, well, it would be many weeks, or months. To see my son playing was, I don’t know, some kind of surreal circle-of-life experience or something. And he hit the ball well. And he looked excited to do it, to step up there and rip it. In the field he did okay, especially when he endeavored to pick and fill his glove with grass. But he’s having fun, and at this age there is nothing else. You can work with 5 and 6-year-olds on the very basics, but let’s be real. He’s a kindergartner. Signals and squeeze plays, the infield fly rule, throwing sliders with finger pressure... we’ll start all that next year. I think right now he prefers Pokemon, Bionicles, Legos, playing ‘kung-fu’ and ‘hide-and-seek’ with me and Megs. We do those things mostly.

Michael mentions his penis a lot these days. In the bath tub he’ll say, “Megan kicked my penis and that is really terrible for my penis.” Of course I agree and oversee appropriate precautionary measures like instructing him to turn around so when Megan submerges to rinse her hair, she doesn’t kick his penis. When wrestling, he'll remark, “It would really hurt if my penis got stomped.” Again, I nod agreement, but try not to make a big deal out of his comment. Of course, he’s giggling and I don’t want to throw gas on the fire. But now Megan is catching on; yesterday she told me her puppy has a penis.

Found a Slip of Paper...

that says:

September 2008: Michael
"I can't wait for the first time I kill a bad guy when I'm seven."

Down On The Farm

Today Meggie's preschool went on a field trip...

1. Her first bus ride!! She was only mildly impressed on the way. On the way home it was old news.

2. The big, and very red, barn. And a lovely clear blue sky.

3. Meg and this mama cow had a staring contest that lasted an unusually long time. The cow did eventually win.

4. This is mama's baby. Very timid and very adorable.

5. Megan, the original cowgirl. She was atop Maverick, who appeared to have been drugged.

6. Meg and her friend, Alanna, taming a concrete turtle.

7. Megan and Alanna = monkeys

8. Teeny little face.

9. A very gleeful roll in the grass. Not the hay, the grass.

10. This tree rocked. It was old and scraggly and just beautiful. I took its picture about 50 times, but I thought I'd at least show it to you with a little Meggie at it's base.

11. This is what life would look like if you lived on a few acres. Except I imagine the grass would not be quite so perfectly mowed.