Bling

Dad Entry #77

Megan's shoes are still pretty small. Cuter objects don't exist. Megan - the entire Megan - is still pretty small; I can lift her over my head, spin or flip her easily, and hold her upside down so she can 'walk' on the ceiling. I can put her in a duffle bag and move it up and down and all around like she's in a roller coaster car. (The handles on the bag are key.) And I can catch her if she launches herself from a higher step or chair or ledge. I am very reliable as evidenced by Megan's trust; she leaps at me without warning sometimes. I actually feel an adrenaline burst as I have to instantly react and position myself for a safe and soft grab of this thing that's VERY precious to me. But - sniffle - I can't do this stuff with Michael anymore. I can pick him up and toss him around a little, tackle him, wrestle him, get him to tap out if need be. But that's about it. I don't hurt him. I know at 200lbs I'm in another weight class.

I worry about Michael being, well, a worrier. Now that is funny. Honestly, I just wrote that first sentence without any awareness of its circularity or obvious allusion to heredity, without any intention to highlight that. No kidding. So maybe he gets the habit from me, although Sara is a bit of a ruminator too. It is both helpful and harmful to be this way. More of the former, I think, but it lends itself better to certain types of careers, certain habits and ways of life in general. Surgeon: "Hmm, did I just sew up the patient with my scalpel still in there? I better make sure it's back on the tray instead." But there are numerous variables that impact, well, everything in life, so maybe we should just add it to the list. Sensitivity and awareness and analysis are important. Pain is a good teacher. But paralysis is no good. Nor is it when anxiety and depression gnaw at a person's happiness, or slowly erode their peace of mind. I can speak from experience. I'll remind Michael that motion changes emotion, I'll remind him do something productive, directly constructive to his concerns if possible, when he feels a little down. I'll tell him to get moving, literally, and keep moving, get his pulse up if he's worried about something. I find it difficult, as a parent, to consider the negative genetics I might've transmitted to my kids. It's possible I have one or two deficiencies that I passed on. And that's sarcasm at its finest if you didn't notice.

I write these things because I enjoy thinking and writing about my kids - selfish, I know, but who isn't vain and selfish, I mentioned vanity in a previous entry. Anyway, I also write these because I hope the kids will enjoy reading them someday. I tell myself it'd be cool if I had some realtime commentary scribbled over 30 years ago by my parents or grandparents. But they have tons of stories to tell, of course, and not all is lost or told through an altered, contemporary lens. And they were awfully busy working their asses off. I intend to try that too someday. We do have tons of pictures, though. And we have VHS video of when we were roughly teenagers - all 'cool' and awkward - but the reality is we don't watch it. We never watch it. And, it just occurred to me, I'm happy we never watch it. So now I'm wondering what M&M will really think about all this anecdotal nonsense I keep writing.

Yesterday the kids were singing the Lady Gaga song "Bad Romance" (I had to look up the title) with the lyrics - if you can even call 'em lyrics - "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah, rahma-rahma-ma-ahh". Poignant stuff. That's the part the kids will bust into song with at random moments, like over a pile of Legos or at the dinner table. I asked them, "Do you know who sings that song?" Michael said, "Lady Gaga." I said to the kids, "Did you know Lady Gaga wore a dress made out of meat? The whole thing was made out of raw meat, like raw steak." Megan said, "Oh, then we would have to put her on the grill!" Yes, we would. One of many moments I've been so very proud of Megan.

Dad Entry #76

Sometimes when Michael gives Megan a command like, "Pick up your mess, Megan," or "You need a jacket, Megan," she will say, "You know Michael, you're not the daddy." Michael backs off but I'm generally puzzled and speechless for a moment when Megan says this - even though I've heard it before - because, maybe, it still has to sink in, maybe I'm still incredulous despite seven years of parenting already; it takes a moment for me to realize I'm involved, she's referring to me, I am the daddy. That's right, I'm the daddy! I'm in charge! I'm kidding. But not entirely. When Megan name-drops "the daddy", invoking my power in a way to defend herself, a little pride flickers inside me, but also a spot of humility, and why not some anxiety too for good measure; this is a big job after all, being 'the daddy' - and it's yours, it's your job, I'm thinking - and then I have an opportunity to do the job, because it's true, Michael is correct as usual, Megan really does need to pick up her mess or put on her jacket, but I'm lost in an introspective fog, I'm overwhelmed a little, super-grateful, amused but also in awe at this obvious, undeniable, unquestionable (until they're teenagers or sooner) authority that's been bestowed upon me and is acknowledged by my subjects as fact and law in debates between them. By the time I depart "Planet Dan" - that's what my family calls it anyway - Megan has already picked up her mess or put on her jacket. Because she's a good girl. And because, yes, I'm "the daddy" and Megan knows those commands are supposed to come from me - she is precisely characterizing them that way in her response to Michael - and she knows they will come from me shortly. She just doesn't like to take orders from Michael.

Megan showed me how to take makeup off of her face tonight. She doesn't wear it often - either via Sara or her own hand (it's pretty easy to tell the difference) - but she had some on tonight. We used a clear solution from a smallish bottle and Q-tips. It was Sara's makeup remover. I was worried about getting the mystery cleaner in Megan's eyes but I trusted she knew what to do and she did. Truly I had no idea which stuff to use. Not only do men never read directions, we never read labels either. Megan excitedly told me and showed me how to do it. I cleaned her eyelids while she closed her eyes. I wiped her pursed lips. I nearly passed out from adoration. Although, she's too young for makeup, right? Yeah, nevermind, I'm pissed-off! Not really. It's a treat she doesn't get very often. She enjoys it; she loves to go all princess on us. If it reaches Lady Gaga proportions, then we'll shut it down completely for awhile. Meat dress?! Are you kidding me?!

Dad Entry #75

I've criticized Michael for being hard on Megan - and he is - but it goes both ways. And some days are just wonderful, like this morning, when Michael hit the mother lode; he stumbled on a forgotten stash of Pokemon temporary tattoos and generously split them with Mego. Then they gleefully set about covering themselves like Kat Von D and Jesse James (of West Coast Choppers - and Sandra Bullock - fame, not the wild west icon). Yesterday was a little different. Michael was having trouble with a stubborn button on his pants. I helped him, but Megan observed what was happening and said, "Daddy, I know how to do snaps and buttons now." Was this a jab at Michael? Perhaps. They are both skilled at poking and jabbing. What siblings aren't? Michael fired back, "Snaps are easy, Megan, everybody can do snaps." Of course, snaps weren't in the embarrassing spotlight. I couldn't tell if Megan was throwing salt or just reminded of a new skill and genuinely proud and maybe a little insensitive with the timing of her announcement. Negotiating buttons effectively is important when your favorite thing to do is dress up in multi-layered, massively-accessorized, cringe-inducing outfits. They are elaborate. They clash, they blind, and occasionally they have buttons. Regarding insults, Michael seems more aggressive to me - he is older and smarter so it only makes sense if you've ever observed humans in a rivalrous or competitive environment - although he's also more sensitive. And Megan gets in her shots too. No doubt about it. Megan will benefit like crazy from having an older sibling. I did. No question. It's huge. In the meantime, she'll have to put up with some comments I wish Michael would let go, arguments and corrections he should leave unspoken. Michael can be impressively condescending in his dealings with Meg. But he's only seven; children like to overassert themselves. So do insecure adults, unfortunately. Anyway, I have to remind Michael often that he's two years older than Megan; of course he knows more things than she does right now; of course she tells him things he already knows; of course she says things that are goofy or just plain wrong.

There is one thing, however, that gets under my skin. As I said, Michael will correct and argue with Megan once in a while - perfectly normal and she does the same to him - but when Megan cheerfully asks for Michael's attention, "Look Michael, I can jump into the chair!" or whatever, and he ignores her completely... yeah, that's the one thing. If you haven't noticed, I have a soft spot for this little creature that some say even looks like me. My heart swells a fraction at the slightest thought of her. So when she is proud and excited to show Michael something, no matter how small or silly, and he responds deliberately with... nothing, well, it tugs on my heartstrings. And my anger-strings. Michael is one of the biggest orbiting planets in Megan's solar system. The irony, of course, is that sometimes we ask Michael to ignore Megan. We purposely instruct him to pretend she isn't even there if she's trying to incite something. Irony is ever-present when you're a parent; it's ever-present when you're a person. Michael's a terrific big brother; he includes her in so many of his games; he tolerates her occasional ornery moments and spazzy behavior. He will look after her. His very presence when she is in high school will be huge. Literally. As I said before, she will benefit in a big way from having an older sibling. Especially one like Michael. I benefited; thanks, Jen.

Megan can be VERY dramatic, but, despite great enthusiasm, her antics are typically minor league stuff, your basic attention-getting efforts, crying and so on. Michael's drama is a bit more sophisticated and humorous. It comes with age, I suppose. Megan asked Michael a while back for a plastic container he was going to throw away (a plastic mayonnaise container with a big, blue, pull-off top). Michael said no. I said, "Why not, Michael?" And he answered, "Because I'd rather save the Earth than let Megan have it." Yikes! Save the Earth? That's pretty ambitious. I like it! I'm proud of you, Son! Well, Michael intended to recycle the container instead of toss it in the trash. Good for Michael, but, yeah, he came off as a bit severe, a bit righteous. Was Meggie left wondering if she had selfishly disregarded the welfare of our planet? No. Was this example all I could think of to illustrate my point? Yes. Megan seemed unphased by the implied anti-environment label Michael was pinning on her; she wants to save the whales and all that and everyone knows any accusation to the contrary is blatantly false. As for more examples of drama, I remember one time when Michael refused - and ridiculed - the meal choices I gave him (like turkey or PB&J sandwich, or mac & cheese or buttered noodles). Just like his sister does, although her complaints are more frequent than his! So I said to Michael, "Fine, I guess you'll have nothing to eat then." Michael's response: "Well, do you want me to live or die?" Live of die? No, I was not attempting to starve him. I most assuredly said, "Live," but I added, "I'd appreciate you living with a little more respect and gratitude, but I know you're just bummin' cause season two of Star Wars: The Clone Wars is over." Have I mentioned how awesome that series is? Check it out!

Dad Entry #74

Michael has a mop like Laird Hamilton's. I should take him surfing. I'm talking about his hair, of course. It's streaked with natural blond highlights and it spills over his ears, not unlike the haircut of an English page boy. Actually, that's not fair; Michael's hair looks way cooler than that, but the fact I even notice, the fact I'm even commenting on it means, I guess, that I'm mildly old-fashioned. Oh well. My grandpas were baseball players and soldiers. They had short hair. Period. But my dad, aka Papa Mike, says, with great pride in fact, that he had longish hair when he was younger and he was quick to remind the critics in his family that... so did Jesus. Whatever, Michael looks great. And he feels great. And he's big. He's tall. Good for him. And back to the hair: I'm the first to point out there are lots of guys with crazy hair who are good at what they do - athletes, artists, adventurers - and that's all that matters. I would think dreadlocks are a burden with all the sweating and helmet-wearing athletes do, and I would think a low-maintenance, never-in-the-way cut would be best for, say, a rock climber, or even a rockstar. But I know it's quite absurd to suggest a guitarist not have long, wild, or very stylish, hair. How our heads look is an important part of our image, and who among us isn't vain? At least a little? My beloved son is no different. He claims to have an effect on women after all (see his quote below). Chip off the old block. Did I mention, however, that he's only seven years old?!

Michael might be tall, and his hair might be cool, but Sara recently noted a physical flaw. She says he can get pretty 'smelly'. His feet in particular, although at bedtime the other day I leaned in to kiss him on the forehead and a little BO wafted up from his armpits. It didn't make my eyes water or anything, but it's true; our little guy is turning into a big guy, and despite regular scrubbings, big guys can get stinky pretty quickly when they're active. Yes, Sara bought him some deoderant. Deoderant? Already? Yeah, kids grow up fast. But it's awesome.

Verbatim

"For some reason, I have an effect on girls. I don't know what it is."

Michael Cox, age 7

Dad Entry #73

Megan asked Sara recently, “Mommy, do teacher’s have birthdays?” Interesting question. The logic and reasoning framework inside a 4-year-old’s head is still rickety, or under construction, and I love to see its flimsiness exposed. This is not an indictment of my children. My kids are brilliant. For their age. So back to Megan's question: do teacher’s have birthdays? Well, teachers are strikingly human – which would imply a birthday – but they’re also figures of authority. Are they too rigid, too stuffy, to party? Are they somehow immune to the attraction of presents and fun, unlike children who are drawn like moths to light? Could a normal person ever forget or ignore their own birthday, or - gasp! - refuse the attention and gluttonous gift-giving? No way! A single step down that thought path would short-circuit a young brain. It's inconceivable. Mommy and Daddy have birthdays, so it isn't taboo or against the law or anything for adults. Was Megan's question triggered by an incomplete understanding of biology, birth, or age. No, it was more about parties and presents. But Megan loves her teachers; I don’t think it’s a reflection of whether she sees them as fun. They are kinda serious, though; would they throw a party for themselves with cake and balloons, candles and pointy hats with painful elastic chin-strings? Aunt Gretchen and Uncle Jake are teachers. And she knows they are really nice and fun and they celebrate birthdays. They party. So maybe this is one of the connections, one of the joists or beams, still missing from her basic logic structure, from this analogous edifice I guess I'm referring to here, the brick and mortar of which is a child's experiences, ruminations, and conclusions.

Yes, I know I'm way over-analyzing Megan. But I love her. And it's fun. So here’s another example of 4-year-old logic. This one illustrates the twists and turns, not so much the disconnects, of young thought and argument. I fed the kids buttered noodles and fruit, and I was thinking they could use a little protein. So I offered them some slices of cheese off of a nice block of Monterey Jack. Michael said, “Sure,” because he’s an awesome eater. Megan said she doesn't like cheese. This, of course, is not true. She loves cheese; if we have tacos she wants to shove nothing but handfuls of shredded cheddar into her mouth. So I decided to press. I said, “Honey, I’m pretty sure you like cheese. Do you like cheese pizza?” Megan said, “Yes.” Then Michael jumped on my examination of the witness. He said, “Well if you like cheese pizza then you like cheese.” But Megan countered, rather coolly I recall, “You know what Michael, I like cheese on crust better than cheese on nothing.” Michael and I were momentarily stumped as we both, no doubt, had to rearrange her logic in our heads. Or decipher her logic, or decide if it even was logic. It’s like the dreaded double-negative, it takes translation, it takes time to process, and while your gears turn you lose that instant for a quick-draw comeback! Well done, Megan. It was a fair enough statement but I know she likes ‘cheese on nothing’ also. She could’ve just said, “Not today.”

I was fussing with Megan at bedtime recently. She wouldn’t pick two books to read so I made the usual threats, hurry or you only get one book, that sorta thing. She was exhausted and especially feisty. She came back with, "Okay, then you're not my daddy anymore. I'll go to Texas, I'll go all the way to the airport. I don't like you. I want Mommy. I want Mommy to read to me anyway." I dealt with the situation which escalated even further until Megan got zero books. And Daddy's approval rating fell to zero percent. But I know it's not a popularity contest. Or a democracy. There are no elections. Those are important lessons I learned from my parents. Later I told Sara about Megan's comments. She smiled and assured me that Megan has insulted her in a similar fashion before.

I have decided that Pokémon is a plague; it has descended upon our home like millions of buzzing locusts, a smiting from the Old Testament God. Every penny is greedily devoured by the swarm. New cards do nothing to satisfy it; they only expand its reach and appetite and the swath it cuts every day through our otherwise peaceful lives. Birthday money is spent on cards; anything that is earned is spent on cards; Michael would sell Megan - and vice versa - for a Wailord. Cards are traded, searched for on eBay, and constantly stacked, admired, and moved in and out of binder pages. We find cards under furniture and in our beds, drawers, and cars. If I find cards in random places, I keep them. Like when I need a fork, or a pair of socks, and oh, here’s a Torterra and did you know he does 30 damage to his opponents? Then I trade them back to the kids. Yes, I am part of the problem.

Late Post: Fourth of July

At Clear Lake. The kids had a great time tubing and chillin' with the Nelsons.

Ladies

Megan and Mia had quite an afternoon with buckets and a sprinkler. I wish I could be all witty remembering the crazy games they came up with, but I am tired and usually am, so I don't actually remember them. But they were cute, mark my words.

Kansas Runs in the Blood

Kids in a cornfield. Cuties.

My, What Lovely Teeth You Have

Butterfly Girl

Michael got an invitation from a friend to help her carry the Pet Parade Banner at Palatine Street Fest. He, of course, balked at the idea of doing anything in front of people...or just doing anything at all. Megan was thrilled to pick up his slack and proudly helped Amelia carry the banner in front of a hundred pets through the Fest. Right before the parade began, she had to get her little angel face painted like a hot pink butterfly. She lo-o-o-oved the result. As did I. I mean, please.

Dad Entry #72

The kids are obsessed with dogs right now. We made it clear they're not getting one. But Grandma and Papa bought a little girl from the litter below. Little girls are sweet. Mine is. So dogs are the rage right now, slightly ahead of Pokemon cards on the attention/mention scale. I told the kids, “Grandma and Papa aren’t sure which baby girl they’ll get, they get third pick of the litter, but they’re going to name her Annabelle, kind of after Belle, and they’ll call her Anna.” Megan liked that. She did NOT, however, like it when I said they won’t get Anna for another month or so. She asked, “A month? How many minutes is that, Daddy? How many minutes until Grandma and Papa get a new puppy?” I told her, “That’s a lot of minutes, Honey. Anna is too little to come home with them now, she still needs her mommy.” We're all very eager to meet Annabelle.



This morning, Megan didn’t want any of her 25 breakfast choices. Yogurt, oatmeal, waffle, bagel, granola bar, PB toast, cinnamon toast, 8 cereal choices, fresh berries, apples, bananas, melon, dried fruit, etc. And any combination thereof? "No, I'm tired of those things," Megan said. And I thought, Seriously? Struggling with the monotony of repetition already? You’re four years old! Disappointed by the limited choices provided by the American standard of living? The modern grocery super-store? The Earth? Fruit picked in the other hemisphere that’s still fresh when I cut it open and serve it to you? Time for a chat about abundance and gratitude. Although, at 34 I see her point. I’ve eaten those things thousands of times; I’m tired of them too.

Sara said Megan spiked a 104.9 degree fever a few nights ago. I know kids can go higher than adults. Without frying their brains. But 104.9 made me wonder if her head steamed, if the sweat on her forehead evaporated in visible wisps. I think a temp over 106 or 107 is when you start the ice bath. Whatever, she was totally fine the next day.

Megan has glommed onto 'battery acid' as a cause for all kinds of issues, glitches, malfunctions around the house. I asked her where she first heard about it and she said, "Mommy found some in Michael’s car toy.” Sure, a battery went bad and leaked. It happens. But now if a cell phone acts up or the TV remote responds slowly or a light bulb burns out, Megan says, "Maybe it's battery acid." Michael finally got tired of it and told her, “Just because you're so smart about battery acid, doesn't mean that's what happened to everything.” I agree.

Dad Entry #71

Megan has a front bottom and a back bottom. Yep, it's that simple. It's what Daddy calls them anyway. For now. During her bath, she knows what I mean when I hand her a washcloth and say, "Wash your front bottom now, Honey," and I think, gently, but she knows that already, and then I add, "Daddy will help you wash your back bottom." Her back bottom is kinda hard for her to reach and clean appropriately. No need for any fancy terms she hasn't asked for yet. Ok then, good thing we’ve got that covered.

Second grade starts this week for Michael. I can’t believe it. He likes to learn and create and think. He’s awesome. He doesn’t complain about school; he enjoys it. Although I'll never forget what he said after his first day of kindergarten, “My teacher is kinda bossy.” Funny. Yeah, teachers are kinda bossy. Bosses are kinda bossy too.

Megan still has a huge interest in anatomy. Future doctor? Not if I’m paying. Megan loves her ‘body books’, books with pictures and diagrams of human tissues and organs and systems. The other day before running out, I poked my head into her room to say goodbye. She was sitting on her bed reading. She held up the book, pointed at an image and said, “Look, Daddy, a blood cell.” I laughed, but not until I'd raised my eyebrows, said, "Wow, that is so interesting!" and pulled my head back out of her room.

Megan likes to look for 'treasures'. Treasures are anything of perceived value spotted on the ground, or anywhere in public, and unclaimed, i.e. available to pick up and keep. Super. Typically this means lost hair-bands, pins, clips, nuts / bolts, bottle-tops, ordinary paper litter… who knows. Nothing too poisonous. But the one that makes even Daddy cringe goes like this…. I hear my sweetheart say, "Hey, it's Dora!" I look and yep, it's Dora the Explorer alright, but her cute animated face is on a spent, dirty Band-Aid. Megan has proudly mined it from the pool filter nearest us.

Michael has about a million Pokémon cards now. And he knows everything about every one of them. He even bought one on eBay yesterday. Woo-hoo. Now if we can get him to sell some cards on eBay. And put the money in his 529.

Megan is a total kiss wiper-offer. I give her a nice, clean, dry, good-breath, goodnight peck and she immediately throws the back of her hand to her face and wipes it off. Yeah, I'm kind of annoyed. When Jenny and I were Megan's age and gave Papa Mike a goodnight kiss, it was like a sip of Miller Lite and a drag of a Marlboro. Right, Aunt Jenny? And Papa Mike had a mustache then. Enough said about that. No offense, Dad. Megan gives the best hugs though. Nice long ones, head-on-shoulder. They're amazing.

Dad Entry #70

Megan likes a little storytelling now at bedtime. For years I've done my best with stories for Michael. Sometimes they're awfully boring or repetitive; creativity doesn't always spill out. Storytelling's a little different with Meg. Here's an example of how it goes down:

Meg: "Daddy, will you tell me a story tonight?"
Dad: "I'd love to, Baby."
Meg: "No, three stories."
Dad: "Umm, let's just do one and we'll make it a nice long one!"
M: "Two stories?"
D: "Once upon a time, there was a princess named Tina Fey, she was a beautiful-"
M: (interrupts) "How old is she, Daddy?"
D: "Oh, let's say she's almost five like you, Sweetheart!"
M: "No Daddy, she has to be grown-up age to get married."
D: "Oh. Okay, we'll say she's 25 then. Or 55. Anyway, Princess Tina Fey loved the forest. She loved-"
M: "Let's just say she's mommy-size, okay? She's mommy-size, right?"
D: "Yes, Baby, perfect, she's mommy-size, and she loved the forest, and she loved trees, big tall ones, and leaves. She loved to-"
M: "And then she met a prince, right?"
D: "Uh, sure, you bet, Princess Tina Fey met a prince one day in the forest, Prince Jimmy Fallon was his name and he-"
M: "And then they got married, right Dad?"

Megan really cuts to the chase when given editorial liberties. And apparently we can't tell stories about little princesses. Or ones without boys.

I love how often the kids tell me stuff I already know. It's cute. The subject is always brand new for them I guess. And they don't fully understand age and the accumulation of only marginally useful knowledge over decades of scholastic and media brainwashing. So it's not crazy for Meggie to assume, for example, that she's teaching me something when she says, "Daddy, these are called Pixy Stix! But they're just sugar." Yes, Baby, it's called marketing. Ice cubes to Eskimos. But the most important thing to remember about marketing? How to market yourself. Things like scholarships come to mind, Honey. ... Only kidding. Sort of.

Michael writes a lot. Right now he's listing all the Star Wars characters he can think of and find in books. Let me tell you: there are hundreds of Star Wars characters, Jedi's, Sith's, monsters, creatures, bounty hunters, droids, troopers, aliens, Hutts, Ewoks, Wookies, Mandalorians, Gungans, and so on (Michael would be so proud of me for that list right there). The movies only scrape the surface. So Michael's literally filling a notebook, page after page. I saw it. Impressive. But I hate to admit I actually flashed on the scene in 'The Shining' when they show you the manuscript Jack Nicholson's character has been laboring over for weeks, and it's like a hundred pages of the same phrase. Something else to admit: I remember doing lots of things like Michael's doing now, drawing characters, listing them, page after page, etc. I'm a little worried, of course; I don't want him to have any of the OCD issues suffered by the rest of his family.

Dad Entry #69

We had a skirmish at home recently, maybe classified as a territorial dispute or border conflict by the appropriate agencies, like in Kashmir, or Gaza, or the Korean DMZ. I mean no disrespect to the real issues in those places; but this was serious too. Michael threw the first stone. A modest volley to kick things off, he posted a 'No Girls Allowed!' sign on his bedroom door. But then he appended it with 'Crimes, seen crimes here!' or something to that effect, as, I can only assume, a threat of militancy if posted warnings were ignored. Or maybe it was an accusation of trespassing already perpetrated. Upon seeing the part about crime 'seen' / scene, I was mostly making a mental note to ensure Michael isn't sneaking glimpses of the nearly ubiquitous CSI flavors and episodes running 24/7 on cable. Michael also appended his sign with "Except for Mommy, Sam, Grammy and Grandma". (Samantha - aka Sam - is Michael's best female friend.) In need of a rapid response, Megan assembled her advisers (Daddy is Chairman of her Joint Chiefs). I convinced Megan it wasn't an act of war, but, indeed, a quick and decisive reaction was warranted. So Megan returned fire. Per her instructions, I told her how to spell out "No Boys Allowed!", and since getting that part down was kind of a slow process, I penciled in myself, "Only Daddy". Megan's 'L's' were upside-down but we left it; it seemed to add a sort menacing insanity to her message. Megan's sign was posted on her bedroom door under cover of darkness at around 19:30 hours that same day. She did not encounter the enemy, although she used way too much tape. Megan was pleased. And Michael felt good about flexing his muscles a bit too. I don't blame him. He needs his space.

Megan was telling me how Michael doesn't let her play his DS. He let Alissa play it, and Sam, and that irked her a little. She mentioned the girls specifically, maybe for that reason, because Michael lets Michael Sylvestri play his DS and he wasn't similarly implicated. Megan said, "We need to send Michael to sharing school. He needs to go to a class to learn how to share. He only shares with Alissa. He shares none stuff with me. Michael needs to go to class to learn how to be nice to me, right Dad?" We talked about it for awhile. Among other things, I assured her Michael loves her dearly, and, "A lot of people could do better at sharing." And yes, we need to work on Megan's use of the word 'none'.

Michael grows an inch a month. He's going to be a physical force. And he claims to be 11-0 on Papa's Nintendo Wii boxing. I told him, "Don't even talk to me until you've knocked down Mike Tyson in Punch-Out." No, that's not like Pong or Atari; it's Nintendo also, just an older version. And maybe it takes more skill to fire a musket than an AR-15. When Michael's around 20, and I'm a spry 40-something, I'm gonna so take him to school. Batting cages. Golf course. Shooting range. The bar. The bball court. I'll be like, "Are you even trying? Are you gonna guard me at all? And your jock strap is still over there." At that point I might have to pray he doesn't just tackle me and work a little UFC-style ground and pound. I missed him last week.

Dad Entry #68

When I read to Megan at night, she leans in and sometimes lays her head on my shoulder. Yes, it’s a slice of heaven. Although last night, while I was reading, I sensed her eyes were no longer on the pages, and I felt her breath on my ear. She was closely inspecting the side of my head. She said, “Daddy, your hairs are turning white.” I cringed. Sure, I’m still youngish, but I’m 30 years to the month older than Megan. Three decades. That’s a bit lengthy in terms of life experiences, movies, music, politics, fashion. We are on opposite slopes of the hill called youth. I recovered and said, “Yes, but with every white hair I get a little wiser.” She didn’t bother to ask me what that meant.

Michael is off to Minneapolis this week. All by himself. Actually, with grandparents; he’s only about halfway in years to hot-roddin’ alone. Halfway?! To 16?! Time flies. Yes, this is Michael’s second year without Mom, Dad, or Meg for an entire week. We miss him – Meggie does especially – but he doesn’t seem to reciprocate. At least one homesick call would be nice; I know he’s kept busy and entertained but one night of troubled sleep? One impulse to ask for an earlier return? Nope. He wants to stay longer. This year I think Michael is a nice distraction for Grandma and Papa, also. Because we have very sad news: Beller Feller has passed. Michael really struggled with this. But in a bedtime prayer he asked God and Aunt Maxine to take care of Beller. Cool. Megan, however, hasn’t grasped the permanency of it. Spoken like a four-year-old, very matter-of-fact, Megan told me, “Belle is dead.” I know, Baby. But only seconds later she asked, “Can we see Beller next time we’re in Minnesota?” Umm, no Sweetheart. How do we explain this to you? This confusion was maybe a blessing, as Sara reported that Megan took the news without tears and consoled Michael, “Don’t cry, Michael.” Michael cried anyway. But Papa clarified that, truthfully, it’s not permanent after all; Belle is only gone until we see her again in heaven.

Megan doesn’t eat much at dinnertime. We don’t allow her a bedtime snack if she only picks at her dinner. Rarely does she even ask for one. But then she’ll wake Sara or me at 6AM begging for breakfast. When we give her something an hour or more later – we aren’t going to commence or reinforce a practice of eating, even a snack, at sunrise – she will eat a ton. If we let her, she might inhale 2 bagels, with some fresh fruit, and a yogurt, and then she'll take interest in what I'm eating and steal half of that. And this all before she asks for waffles. No kidding. Our Skinny-Minnie can fit a lot in her tummy. But then she’s pretty satiated for the rest of the day, I’m afraid, and the cycle repeats itself. We’re working on it.

Megan collects leaves. She notices them, admires them, picks them up and hands them to me. Even the lushest, greenest ones will dry and disintegrate in my pocket, or on the counter. So I toss them back in the yard when Meg isn't looking. But let's hear it for nature; there's a lot of wonderful stuff out there. A toad in the grass? To Michael there's nothing more interesting. A turtle by the pond? Megan is astounded. Cicada shells, seashells, Merle the Squirrel, Fat-Bee? A swarm of ants in a sidewalk crack? Dinosaurs, sharks, volcanoes and so on. When do we become desensitized? Even speaking this way comes off as preachy or cheesy to anyone older than Michael. Oh well. My kids have reframed, enlivened, reanimated these things for me. For the moment anyway. But I'd still rather watch ESPN than National Geographic. And I hope M&M agree with me.

Ploehn Pool Party and Reunion 2010!

The Land of Oz

What is better than having a pool at your disposal? We are all brownberries after spending every day in the water at Grammie and Papa's house.