Harry Potter Legos

Dad Entry #85

Regarding Michael's ransom note below: he needs a lesson in forensics. I should point out, for example, that world-class criminals avoid leaving fingerprints, recognizable handwriting, DNA, and personal stationary (what Ash Grove paper is for the kids) at a crime scene. Every adult in America is an expert now after 17 seasons and 5 cities of CSI; although, I've often thought, it's too bad this education came after the OJ debacle.

Spoiler alert: do not read this paragraph if you still believe in Santa! Michael seems a little incredulous these days - e.g. "How does Santa cover the whole world in one night?" - but I think he's okay with hook, line and sinker if it means more presents! I was roughly Michael’s age when I cross-examined my folks; I poked big holes in every part - from Santa at the mall to the toy-making elves to the impossibility of scale already noted by Michael - so they caved and broke it to me gently, “It’s a special tradition based on a real guy named St. Nick,” and so on. I fear any day Michael will do the same thing, paint us into a logical corner, somehow mortally wound the charade. Maybe I sniffed it out a little early since I had an older sibling. Jen's good, but three poker faces must've been easier to read than two. I think Megan will be relieved when she finds out eventually; she's a bit afraid of this fat guy with magic powers who 'watches if she's naughty or nice' and runs around her house late at night on Christmas. And I’ll be quick to tell her she’ll still get a big present ‘from Santa’ on Christmas morning. We did.

Megan asked me, "Daddy, do you remember when I was three and I didn't even know how to write an M?" Oh geez, let me see, that was AGES ago.... I remember when Megan was only seconds old; when the doctor pulled on her head, elongating her neck way too much in my expert opinion, trying to free her from Mommy’s tummy. Funny, it just occurred to me that Megan LOVES giraffes.

I shoe-shopped with Meggie at Kohl's on Black Friday. Some Twinkle Toes Skechers caught her eye. They looked like jewel-studded Chuck Taylors to me. Megan said, "Daddy, we're looking for size 13." She sounded like a professional; it made me wonder if it's an instinctive thing in women, like hunting is in bird dogs. Although, no one even comes close to buying more shoes than Papa Mike. I can't throw a gender blanket on this one; it would make more sense to label it patriarchal heredity that skips a generation. "But maybe size 12 will work," Megan told me. Ok, good, I'd have no idea other than checking the shoes you wore in here. "Lift me up, Daddy, I can't see the shoes up there." Yes, Ma'am.

Michael told me yesterday, "I wish you could put love in the basket. Love is more valuable than money. Love is worth more." I didn't ask him if he meant the collection basket at church, a Salvation Army bucket with a bell-ringer, or what. It doesn't matter; his point is the same and a good one. It was a warm and sincere comment, and I agreed with Michael and started thinking about it, thinking about how it relates to him, his views, his place and direction in the world. Maybe it's too early to have these thoughts about Michael, but there's no one on the planet I love more, so I let my monkey-mind go. I hope Michael has these inspiring, transcendental realizations or reminders – e.g. love is more valuable than money – especially when things get messy, or his chips are down, and he needs a boost. But I also hope he doesn't wield them as excuses, or even worse, as foundational principles for a kind of arrogant idealism. I would say, "Love. But also work." Because both are rewarding in ways we can't foresee or imagine, and neither, by itself, is enough to be really happy in life. I think my Grandma Bev said that, or if she didn't, I gleaned it from watching her. And by work, I don't mean 9-to-5 for 'the man'; work can be a lot of things, creative pursuits, helping others; to me it's about staying active and having self-discipline. “The sky’s the limit if you have self-discipline.” That is my message for Michael. But self-discipline can be hard to maintain, so I’ll have to add, "And Dude… do as I say, not as I do."

Michael embarks on a life of crime...

Michael left this ransom note for Mommy after hijacking some of her jewelry. I think Megan was complicit, but my hunch is Michael was the mastermind, and poor Megan was recruited to be the fall guy, the patsy.

Megan's Numbers

Megan's getting good at writing her numbers. Maybe '3' and '4' need some work, maybe '7', but she's doing great. And she signed her paper, also. At the bottom. And quite small. But... well done, Mego!

Dad Entry #84

Meggie pointed at the TV during a Kay Jewelers commercial today and said, "I wanna give one of those to my mom." They were showing charm bracelets. What a sweetheart. And her Barbie socks are cute. I am admiring them as I write this. I was reading Esquire magazine, and they had some anecdotal commentary from Leslie Nielsen, the great deadpan comedian and actor who recently died. He said, "I left my daughter with four friends who were sunbathing by the pool. I said, 'Hey, keep your eyes on Maura.' She must've been six years old at the time. Well, they started talking. I cross the yard, go up these stairs, and see her at the bottom of the pool. You react instantly. I remember diving into that pool and grabbing her. She spluttered when she came up, so she wasn't drowning. She hadn't been down for that long. After I knew she was okay, two feelings ran through me: I was livid at my friends for not watching her. And, not that I was a hero or anything, but it felt really good to know that without even thinking, I would do anything to save her. The feeling that I had when it occurred is no different than it is now at the thought of it."

Michael has an address book and he asked me for my info. I grabbed a pen and pulled open the tab labeled "C-D". Michael had written his own info into the top formatted space provided under the letter C. Same page as I was headed, what a coincidence! :) For his entry, Michael wrote:

Name: Michael Cox
Address: Palatine
Phone: Droid X

I smiled. To his credit - and ours as parents - he doesn't have a cell phone number, but he does have a Droid X, both kids do, for games, puzzles, and other apps, for the camera and camcorder functions, for watching movies, and for other silliness they've discovered at the 'Android Market' like the 'Big Fart Button'. Oh yes, hours of fun. With a single button! (And a splendid array of fart noises.) Leslie Nielsen also said this, "I have a fart machine that I usually bring with me. I was at a bar once, going down toward the john, and these two guys were in a confrontation and things were getting a little dicey. As I got in between the two of them, I said, 'Where's the john? Is it straight back there?' Fffffhpppppffffft. Well, these guys look at each other and then look at me, and they both start laughing. Fight was over."

When I think of things my children have that were nonexistent when I was little, I think of touchscreens, temporary tattoos, fart machines, and Starbucks. Our fake fart sounds were just the creative use of exhalation and lips. Or armpits, although regrettably, and to my great shame, I was never very good at doing it this way, and I mostly hid this embarrassing ineptitude from my friends. And if you just made a fart noise while reading this, you're not alone, I did the same thing as I was writing about it and fondly recalling the good ol' days when great recitals of fart imitation were only performed a-cappella (if that makes any sense). It's kind of like when vinyl was all we had. I bought a couple records just before cassettes were available. Huey Lewis and Twisted Sister. Or was it Hall & Oates? Speaking of flatulence, Megan ripped a couple doozies the other day. Impressive, coming from such a pretty little girl. We were genuinely amazed and incredulous when we heard them - they were a kind of loud, longish, vibrating bass fart - and then Megan smiled, and we all burst out laughing. Poor thing had a balloon in her tummy. Where would we be, as humankind, without farting to brighten our days. And regarding Starbucks, Meggie loves the modern concept of the coffeehouse. She orders chocolate milk and lemon bread and a coffee for her driver (Mom or Dad). And it only costs - her driver - like seventeen dollars. What a deal!

Michael can spell words now that I can't spell. Seriously. He searches for monsters in magazines and pamphlets, learns how to spell them, then challenges me.

Megan loves peanut butter so much she's content to eat spoonfuls of it for a meal. No, we don't let her, but it's clear this is true. She would. The irony is that Meg's cousin Alissa is allergic to peanut butter. I felt a pang of pity for Alissa - as I have many times before - as I just thought about this. But then I considered the following: maybe certain allergies - peanut, gluten, lactose - that bring about a consciousness or sensitivity around what and how we eat... maybe they're not all bad, maybe they're a boon in the grand scheme, while the rest of us are putty in the hands of marketing and convenience, two powerful modern forces behind the seemingly endless movement of processed, chemical-laden stuff on every corner.

Grammy taught Megan the Hail Mary prayer a while back. Megan had it all correct except the part when she said, "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for the scissors." That sounds better than "pray for us sinners" anyway.

Dad Entry #83

Last week Megan told me, "Daddy, I can smell the throw-up in the back of my throat." This was not a surprise as our princess had been up sick all night. I asked her, "Do you wanna brush your teeth, Sweetheart?" Megan: "No, it's fine." Huh?! Megan added, "Daddy, I threw up like 10 times last night in the bucket. Like when the doctor was going to cut me out of Mommy's tummy, and Mommy threw up in the bucket." It’s cute she remembers that… ha. It’s cute she mentions it, though. She likes to hear about the day she was born. Even though it's common, there's still a bit of fuss in the operating room during a c-section. And I embellish. And I'm pretty sure she likes the part at the end when we tell her it was one of greatest days of our lives. Days of our Lives… I wonder if crazy Sami is still on the show. Oh yeah, years ago I tapped the vein. Not really. But I saw bits of a few episodes.

Michael and I won a pumpkin pie at the annual Sanborn Elementary Turkey Shoot. I think that was 2nd prize. 1st prize is the bird. I told Michael that 2nd place is the first loser. No mercy! Cobra Kai! Hardly. We were thrilled with a pie (until we had to eat it). We were so proud of ourselves; we touched fists, blew ‘em up, and puffed out our chests. After all, lots of dad / kid combos compete; everyone in the school is eligible. Michael did great. But, yes, basking in the pleasure of our award – the pie – didn’t go so well. Michael didn’t like the taste. (Neither did Megan.) Michael lobbied for something else instead, "Ice cream? Or anything chocolate?" Sorry, we told him, but pumpkin pie is the prize. It’s Thanksgiving. You don’t win the heavyweight belt and ask for a necklace. You don’t get a Super Bowl bracelet. There’s no Stanley fork. You don’t invade France and get Spain. I know, I begged myself to stop, also. Terrible analogies, every one, but there was a point to make. And clearly I didn't make it because Michael blurted, “All of my hard work for nothing!” I was irked at this; gracious winner he was not, and – even more irksome – only winner he was not. “First of all,” I said, “Did you even break a sweat? We didn't get to warm up and we only shot for two minutes.” He gets sweaty practicing in the basement though, maybe that’s what he meant. But I added, “And, umm, didn’t you have a partner?” I hit everything but one shot in fact - I would dominate the grade school ranks! - and I drained two long ones for extra points. But then I pumped Michael up so much it’s no wonder he went all NBA prima donna on me. The knowledge of our victory was all I needed, but somebody had to eat the pie. With a whole can of Reddi-wip. I even put some on the pie. In case you live on Mars, a while back someone invented the pressurizing and propelling of cream out of an aerosol can. Amazing. I put it somewhere between the filament light bulb and velcro. Although adding the fluted top for decorative application was just showing off. With Reddi-wip you can dispense dollops – or massive amounts for that matter – of whipped cream directly into your mouth. The kids and I did this repeatedly like marvelous gluttons.

Dad Entry #82

Michael was being tough on Meg the other day. He went so far as to criticize her handwriting. She had written her name and maybe ‘MOMMY’ and ‘DADDY’ or her alphabet – that’s about the extent of her repertoire right now – on a scrap of paper and Michael looked at it and frowned and said, “Megan’s handwriting (insert especially unflattering grimace here) is so messy.” His expression and tone made it worse than an impolite observation; it was a sharpened put-down. I think the first thing I did was stick a finger in my ear to make sure my hearing wasn’t impaired. I was like, “Seriously Dude, on top of everything else you just called her out for her barely-five-year-old penmanship? You’re kidding, right?” Michael looked a little sheepish; he understood he’d gone too far with a jab about her writing skills of all things. For perspective, I should note here that Megan isn't even in kindergarten yet. We’ve tried hard to reduce Michael's instinct to be critical and competitive with Megan about everything. But I know some of it’s natural. Sibling rivalry. I tell him over and over again we have to encourage her, that she’s younger (“than us” I add here, perhaps that is silly, but I’m attempting to lump Michael in with me and Mommy in this case) so we need to help her learn and grow, lift her up instead of chip away at her, take pride in looking out for her. I assure Michael it’s the way we – Mom, Dad, and older people in general – treat him too; we try to be positive and encouraging. His response to that is, “Then why am I always the one in trouble?” This isn’t true, of course, as just about every bedtime finds Megan all wound up and flipping out - and therefore in trouble - while Michael is reading peacefully in his bed like an angel. A few days ago when I told him to leave Megan alone, he said, “Why are you mad at me, again? My life is always wrecked because you destroy it.” That’s an exact quote. Michael has a way with words. I tell Michael that cutting Megan some slack is just the way we should treat everyone who’s younger or less experienced or weaker than ourselves. I read a great quote recently from a contemporary of Wild Bill Hickok’s in Deadwood. He said, “Wild Bill was gentle as a child unless aroused to anger by intended insults, he was loyal and generous to a fault, and he invariably espoused the cause of the weaker against the stronger one in a quarrel.” So that was a weird interjection, perhaps, but even if I bolstered my case to Michael with quotes from old gunslingers – “Billy the Kid says eat your vegetables and be nice to your sister, Son!” – I fear it still wouldn’t inspire Michael to go any easier on Megan. And I understand why I can't more pleasantly persuade him; it’s a little too quixotic, ‘taking pride in taking care of Megan’, and so on. It’s hard to have a younger sibling who wants always to be included, and - it must appear sometimes - takes half of the affection and attention. But Megan is developing thick skin. She can defend herself and return fire. This is a very good thing! (Sort of; I hope she never learns to mudsling like a politician. I’m so happy the election commercials will stop now; bring back the non-stop Cialis and Geico ads.) And I think some competition is good between siblings; I hope they observe each other studying and getting good grades, for example, in hopes of not being outdone by the other. Plus, let’s be honest, Michael’s only a seven-year-old himself. But, this is also true: Michael is a very sensitive and bright seven-year-old.

I like watching little kids draw. They don’t seem to judge the accuracy of their renderings. They just scribble with excitement. Megan will draw something and say, “Look Daddy, a tiger!” I guess she feels the need to identify her picture, but I think it’s because she’s proud, not because she’s decided that otherwise I couldn’t tell what it is. Of course, what she’s drawn falls a little short in terms of capturing the grace and power, even the stripes or four legs, of a tiger. It really looks like nothing at all, in fact. But to her it’s a tiger! And to me it’s a tiger! “Awesome, Honey,” I’ll say, and I mean it, because she’s attempted to draw one of the coolest animals on the planet. And it’s awesome that she likes her drawing. And that’s a true story; last Sunday she drew a tiger. (At least she said it was a tiger!) Creativity is so important. Encouraging it is important. Sara is terrific about stocking supplies and keeping the kids engaged in art. And they enjoy it. Maybe with very young people, that critical voice hasn’t pushed it’s way to the front; the inner-judge has yet to convince them that they “can only draw stick-figures,” that their artistic talent is minimal. I say kill the inner-judge. Unless it’s the same voice that keeps them out of trouble; the same voice that reminds Megan not to write on the furniture. I think that’s a different voice though. Speaking of voices, I hear one now. It’s saying, “You’re rambling….”

Pumpkin Farm and Stargazing

Annabelle

Dad Entry #81

The other day I escorted Megan into a restaurant bathroom. It was obvious they were using a good deodorizer. Suddenly, Megan was happy. She smiled and bounced and cheerfully said, “It smells good in here! It’s really supposed to smell like potty in here, right Daddy?” It seems to me that happiness has a little to do with expectations.

I was a bit too hydrated and went to the bathroom twice during a short period while playing Star Wars with Michael. When I excused myself to pee the second time Michael said, “Again? You must have a bladder infection.” I didn’t ask him where he learned about the symptoms of urinary tract disorders. Maybe from Megan, our girl with all the 'body books'.

We went on a walk around the neighborhood. I realized there are interesting things outdoors to see and think about, natural things, if you're still young and sensitive and open. There are leaves, pine cones, acorns and flowers. There are bunnies and squirrels. There are trees to climb. There are bugs! We feed bits of bread to the ducks and pond fish. Bluegills, big carp, and a catfish the size of my arm surface to eat the bread. We pick and feed crab apples to the geese. I'm not sure we should do that, but they congregate under the tree and eat them when they fall anyway. It’s inevitable; they’re going to shit all over the neighborhood regardless. And when we have food they seem less irritable, less violent, less likely to have a honking fit and charge at us attempting to slap us with flapping wings. Geese are mean.

That reminds me... an Android (cell phone) video game called ‘Angry Birds’ has a firm grip on Megan and Michael. I'm addicted too. We need help. Although Michael prefers a game called ‘Ninja Kaka’ lately, where, rather than knocking over structures with flying birds, he uses touch screen gestures to slice flying fruit into vivid, juicy ribbons with a samurai sword. All on a high-definition cell phone display with terrific sound effects. When I was his age we had ‘Pong’. That was it. Until ‘Space Invaders’ appeared on Atari, and Pac-Man too; we played them on our crappy, little, blurry tube televisions, and we were so amazed we said to ourselves, “Technology is SO advanced now, surely by the year 2000 we’ll be able vacation on the moon, or time travel!” That was 1985.

Harry Potter and Princess Jessica

Finally, Michael's mop of a hairdo has paid off. He made a stellar Harry Potter and everyone recognized him. He loved every minute of it and was convinced that he would have won "the costume contest" (wherever that was being contested).

Up until two days ago, Megan planned on being Merliah Summers, the Malibu Barbie that is actually half mermaid (gasp!). She suddenly changed course in the middle of Walmart when her eye caught on a fabulous pink confection, complete with tulle peeking out from the bottom and a cute little black velvet bolero. She was suddenly Princess Jessica. And who, pray tell, is that? Megan made her up. Umm, okay.

Dad Entry #80

I am reading the autobiography of Craig Ferguson. He's Scottish. I love the Scottish, their humor, their ridiculous accent. And their teeth aren't that bad. The weather sucks though; it's rainy and miserable in Scotland almost always. I had some great times in Edinburgh for work. In between F-bombs and jokes and spotty recollections of spectacular benders, Craig said some things about parenthood that are, well, worth plagiarizing here, except I already blew it and gave him credit. He wrote, “My son came into the world a sticky, angry, and slightly confused mess…. Anyone who has been present at a birth knows how weirdly adrenal the whole event is. Up to that moment my child had been an abstraction, then suddenly he was real and the world had changed beyond recognition. Now there was someone I would unthinkingly lay down my life for, and I felt a massive, uncontrollable, powerful, feral love.”

He also said – and this is coming from a celebrity, an actor, a Hollywood personality! – “When you become a parent, you go from being a star in the movie of your own life to becoming a supporting player in the movie of someone else's.”

My words now, sorry. There are lots of things I enjoy in life, but I’m not sure any match the moments when I walk into Michael’s or Megan’s room at night, and, thanks to their nightlights, I can see their faces, and I can lean in super close and listen to them breathe. I can kiss them. But mostly I stare, and just sort of admire them. They are asleep and in peaceful repose, of course, although they might stretch or turn, sigh loudly or smack their lips, and Megan is never the way you should be in bed, which is to say head on a pillow and feet pointing downward; she is usually lying across the bed, or awkwardly on a pile of stuffed animals, or contorted in some horrifying manner. I fix her. But I’m there just to admire; it’s the one time they aren’t playing with or watching something that I’d be interfering with by being all up in their grill, staring at them. Craig described parental love pretty well. The one thing I’d add is the gratitude I felt, and enormity of responsibility – two things – which were also massive and maybe sudden, the way I felt their impact, when I first met my two sticky, angry and confused messes.

Dad Entry #79

Michael scored very high on his standardized tests for reading comprehension. Mostly because he greedily hoards Pokemon cards and then deciphers and memorizes every oddball detail printed on them. We’re talking about character skills like “Elemental Blast”, “Psychic Pulse” and “Malevolent Meteor”. He seizes and visualizes the meaning of these big words in spectacular mental scenes, I’m sure, vivid and permanent. Paragraphs in some test about Dick, Jane, and Spot must bore him to tears, but he understands them perfectly. Michael has never had a skinny vocabulary. I remember years ago when he memorized the Lightning McQueen book. It was not a 5-words-per-page affair either; it took at least 10 minutes to get through. Pretty much everyone who witnessed a ‘reading’ was very impressed. And Michael performed quite a few with enthusiasm and perfect pace and inflection. Michael was closer to average for math (the other half of the two-part standardized testing), but Sara and I were pleased and proud. His lowest marks (still around average) were for measurement usage and recognition, or something like that, in the math portion. We chalked that up to poor teaching. They should use Pokemon as a teaching tool for measurement awareness, also, like, “At what distance can Aerodactyl vaporize his enemy?” That sorta thing. But we figured reading comprehension is more important than anything else for someone Michael’s age – and perhaps always – so we’re very happy for him.

I was trading parenting stories with some co-workers. We were joking about the merits of unpredictability over consistency. Some dads are unpredictable when it comes to discipline (and visceral reaction). My dad was unpredictable to some extent and I think it worked perfectly when combined with my mother's unwavering consistency. Note: the following is hypothetical; in no way am I hinting at true events that took place during the mid-80’s in the kitchen of the Cox family home in Shenandoah Estates in Crystal Lake, Illinois. So what, exactly, is unpredictability? It’s when a dad only grunts at the news of a bad test grade but then has a Bobby-Knight-arranging-chairs moment the next time a chore is neglected. We're talking about crimes that are different but of comparable severity; there's a chance Dad might only frown, but sometimes.... I don't know if it's mood-driven or whim-based or reflexive discipline, good cop / bad cop, or textbook parenting of a bygone era. Although I'm not capable of ruling this way - and psychologists might classify it as confusing, misdirected, inappropriate, or harmful - I, for one, think it's enormously effective. I think it's genius.

Feeling sick and sore, I took a bath last night. Before I filled the big tub I moved the toy basket that now holds four Barbies. Three have mermaid tails and the other is, of course, Merliah Summers, the famous Barbie surfer and star of the box office smash "Barbie in a Mermaid Tale". Merliah has legs, but in the movie I think she wears a tail. We love mermaids. I enjoyed my first episode of Hannah Montana the other day. And I recommend the film “Tinkerbell and the Great Fairy Rescue”.

A while back Megan colored on, with markers, the arm of the couch and shortly after that the carpet in her bedroom. She knows these are serious infractions. Sara and I aren't sure what triggered the vandalism. And Megan isn't forthcoming with answers or explanations when admonished; she just cries. Which is tough since she's cuter than a thousand puppies. But we punished her and my sweet little Crip hasn’t tagged anything since.

A Little Suburban Haute Couture

My darling girl, for her birthday, decided that she wanted to have a "fashion party." My children have a knack for relatively nebulous birthday party ideas and this one was no different. Gretchen and I discussed the many options of what a model-y party would look like, replete with laxatives and champagne, sucking up pixie stick lines through 100 dollar bills. Since I don't know the extent of some of the moms' senses of humor, I decided to keep those ideas on the backburner for another year (you know, for when we know them all just a little better).

Megan went to spend the morning with Grandma while I spent hours prepping the house. I rearranged nearly the entire first floor to accommodate the most dress up clothing, accessories, items of makeup and bowls of skittles possible. I then also set up a "photo studio" for the girls to model their ridiculous get-ups. Megan nearly flipped out when she got home and saw my handiwork. They all had a great time and I got some fantastic pictures of Meg and her girls. They are all so CUTE!

I should also note Megan's strange tight-lipped smile. That's all I can do...note it.

Dad Entry #78

Yesterday, Megan told me there's a show she wants to watch at thirty-o'clock. "It's on Monday at thirty-o'clock," she said. She got the day right.

"Will you get your broccoli breath out of my face, it's devastating." Michael said that to Megan after dinner last night. They were looking at something together at the table, almost cheek-to-cheek. It wasn't a nice thing to say, but it seemed like a big word coming out of a seven-year-old mouth. And I agree you can't understate the awfulness of bad breath.

Megan wants to read 'body books' so often at bedtime I find myself missing Cinderella. "Can't we read Fancy Nancy instead, or a princess book?" I plead, cringing, as she pulls another anatomy encyclopedia off her bookshelf. "We haven't read Double Pink in a while," I add, but I've already lost; Megan is climbing into bed with her favorite pop-up human body book. Super. Mostly I'm tired of the inundation I'm getting in gross anatomy, but I also get uncomfortable when Megan asks, "What does this part say, Daddy," while pointing at paragraphs titled "Female Puberty" or "The Male Reproductive System". Then I have to improvise or dance around those parts, which I do poorly, and my audience is perceptive; it only heightens her interest.

That reminds me, Megan gave me a speech about the birds and the bees the other day. "Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?" It was one of those abrupt, 'out of nowhere' comments and I was confused. "Pipe?" I asked. She said, "Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it's a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one. And when babies come out they are covered in a super bunch of blood." Pipe? Super bunch of blood? True, about the blood; I've seen it twice. And I remember, with Michael, the doctor tossing aside the placenta, literally, tossing it into some waste container, and I thought, umm, are you sure you don't need that, it looks pretty big and important, like, maybe, Sara's liver or something. I remember a popular Farside comic depicting an operating room, and a piece of stringy organ or tissue gets flung out of the patient and flies across the room and the surgeon says, "Somebody remember where that thing lands."

For fun, I googled 'the birds and the bees'. Paraphrasing Wikipedia: "The birds and the bees is an idiomatic expression referring to courtship and sexual intercourse. The phrase is a metaphor often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about sex and pregnancy. The birds and the bees is a story sometimes told to children in an attempt to explain the mechanics and consequence of sexual intercourse through reference to easily observed natural events. Bees carry and deposit pollen into flowers, a visible and easy-to-explain metaphor of male fertilization, and birds lay eggs, a version of female ovulation." Gee, how wonderful. Flowers blooming, birds singing. And natural. And simple, it sounds so simple too, but I'm pretty sure it's always the same regardless of time, place, mood, strategy; when this talk occurs between parent and child, awkwardness and confusion reign. And attempts to sanitize the moment with terms like 'intercourse' and 'courtship' make it worse. Now I keep thinking of the line, "Let's talk about sex, bayyy-beee!" courtesy of Salt-N-Pepa, 1990. What's even crazier than me even thinking of that song is the fact it'll be over 25 years old when I have 'the talk' with M & M.

I walked while Megan pedaled a lap around the neighborhood yesterday. She looks impossibly cute in her big purple helmet and purple elbow or knee pads - they will work as either, you can mix and match, woo-hoo! The helmet is nonnegotiable. The extra pads, however, are optional but she likes to wear them. Hey, whenever possible, accessorize! Sometimes Megan can't generate the momentum or power to get up a slope, so I give her a little help, a little push. She's doing great though and I excitedly told her, "If you keep riding your bike like this Sweetie, your legs will get even stronger and you'll be a super bike-rider!" She told me, "I already am, Daddy." Oh, sorry. We'll send you to the X-games. You can win the gold medal in the BMX with training wheels event. I was happy to hear that kind of self-assurance, or confidence, or pride, or whatever it is, though. Self-esteem is so important. I don't see a shortage in Megan at the moment and I am very happy about that.

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.