Lions

I had no idea how arthritic my hands would feel the day after the cornrow debacle. I literally had to take two rounds of Aleve. But it paid off with the huge mane that resulted which Megan lo-o-o-ved.

Pictionary

Belated Christmasing photos...we had several rousing rounds of the old school pictionary, which the kids could not get enough of (until papa dished out the ice cream). Here is the Meg sequence, from hearing her word from Aunt G to the 'oh my goodness i can't draw THAT!' to the final execution. Uncle Jake had an uncanny way of guessing all of Megan's clues, regardless of how amoeba-like they looked. He'd shout 'Raking leaves!' and she would turn with a smile and say 'YES!" I am not sure what that could lead us to believe...Jake and Meg are kind of circling the same cerebral cortex?

Dad Entry #88

The kids and I watched the last episode - EVER! - of Hannah Montana. In the final scene, Hannah and her BFF! were at the airport together, about to leave for Paris for a year of excitement abroad - must be nice - rather than go straight to college. At the last second Hannah's best friend - I don't remember her name and thank goodness or I'd be disappointed in myself - decides she can't do it, she can't go, she wants to stay home and go to Stanford. It was a sad moment. I wasn't crushed exactly, but I wondered about Meg. Hannah and her friend embraced and said goodbye, and sappy music was playing, and naturally I assumed Megan was sad, about to cry probably, for sure in fact, so I felt a sudden need to console her. Megan was in the big chair next to me so I turned and said, "It's okay, Sweetheart, they're still best friends and they'll get to see each other again soon; this is a good thing really." Megan deadpanned, "It's just a movie, Dad."

I picked up Megan from preschool. The kids get about 10 minutes on the playground before they're lined up and released to the parents. Watching a bunch of 5-year-olds running around is fun. But later, for some reason, I had some crazy deep thoughts about the playground. Silly perhaps, but it's another metaphor for life it seems to me. I wondered if God views us - adults - this way as mostly we just run around full of emotion in life, spinning our wheels. We work and play. Occasionally we do something meaningful - maybe help a friend, face a fear - but mostly not. We might hurt ourselves here, or even each other, but to an observer - from the 'outside' - it's no big deal, everything's okay, lighthearted, unimportant, it's just a space to move around in and learn, fall and get up again, stretch, explore, until, well, we see it for what it is. Then preschool ends and we're off to kindergarten! Maybe the starter pistol is still echoing for us here. That was deep. I'm exhausted. Megan was so cute on the playground, climbing and running around all pigeon-toed in her high-heeled, knee-high boots. They're black patent leather. Fake leather, of course, from Target. Whatever, she looks like a Charlie's Angel, and thankfully she was impossibly agile like one in the heels that day; she never wiped out.

Dad Entry #87

Megan has big eyes and long eyelashes. She's gorgeous. But she has some beauty-related flaws. She gets food on her face, and snot around her nose. She wipes them on her sleeve. We'd prefer she use a napkin or Kleenex. She farts a lot. Surprisingly long, loud ones at times. She giggles kind of self-consciously afterward, at least, so that's good. Some of her outfits clash, but not in a pitiable, or even unstylish, way. It's more like, "Wow, leg warmers with sequined jeans and a tutu and big fuzzy slippers. Interesting. Creative. Bold! Comfort and warmth with panache. Voila!" Megan still brandishes a kind of whiny, or baby, or girl-about-to-swoon voice. Maybe it's multiple voices with multiple aims like sympathy, manipulation, permission, candy! Whatever the case, it fails to entrance Daddy, or sway Mommy, or generate a windfall of compassion or attention or whatever its purpose. It's just annoying.

I'm really happy Mary Ann suggested 'Grace' for Megan's middle name. I recall thinking it was a pleasant option, and I liked it, and we didn't have a better sounding idea, really. But now as I think of its meaning - as I age and roll with the ups and downs of life and consider, more deeply, the meaning of the word 'grace' - I'm so happy for its attachment to the little girl I often watch in amazement, this precious thing, because she started out so small and keeps growing and changing, or because she's so cute, or because she's so stubborn and defiant and dramatic sometimes I'm impressed by the effort.

My mom says a child is your heart walking around outside of your body. Sometimes it's wonderful; sometimes it's tough. Hearts are sensitive things, after all. I agree. Michael and Megan are certainly that, to me and Sara.

Megan saw me with my shirt off the other day and, referring to my chest presumably - I really hope it wasn't my shoulders or back - she said, "Daddy, why do you have hair on your body?" Without thinking much I answered, "Well, some boys do, because we're different than girls." I was satisfied but Megan wasn't; she said, "Why are boys different than girls?" The tide was pulling me into deep water here and I wasn't sure I could swim. I knew I didn't want to swim. I said, "There are a few reasons, but, oh, hey, let's go play Polly Pockets!"

Sara told me Megan wore a nude-colored leotard to gymnastics this week. Sara laughed and said, "You should see her, she looks like a skinny little naked thing running around the gym." I just don't know what to say about that.

Michael said he finished 2nd in the spelling bee at school. We aren't certain but we think this means he outlasted all but one of the eight to ten second graders who participated, only the best spellers from each class were eligible. He was undone by the word poetic. He put a 'k' on the end. We lavished him with compliments, well-deserved. He devours books. He's a smart dude, curious, sensitive, observant. We love him tons. But he farts too. Not as loud as Megan though.

Dad Entry #86

I am reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. It's about a father and his young son. My bookmark is a picture of Michael. It's a tough book to get through; McCarthy is notoriously unpredictable - e.g. "No Country For Old Men" - so I'm holding my breath hoping the father can save his little boy.

Michael was selected to participate in the spelling bee at school. He said his teacher picked three people from his entire class. We're proud of him. Ever since the news, we've relentlessly peppered him with words to spell. Megan too. She asked him to spell 'Stickety-Dickety-Doo'. He nailed it. He isn't annoyed at all by our incessant drilling. We're not doing it because we're maniacal about his success in the spelling bee, it's just because we're, well, annoying. Michael is awesome. When I gush about Megan, or wear one of my two 'I love Megan' shirts, some people - especially my female relatives and friends - accuse me of loving Megan more than Michael. That, of course, is nonsense. Megan is cuter than a thousand puppies - there's no doubt about that - but much more stubborn and volatile and dramatic and likely to meltdown and tell me I'm the worst daddy ever. And when I first mentioned this minor criticism - 'worst daddy ever' - to Sara, she said, "Well, that's fitting, because she told me I'm the 'worst mommy ever' so she might as well have both for parents." Sara referred to Megan as 'our little tyrant' the other day. I nodded.

Michael asked, "What is an alibi?" After a moment of suspicion - what's with all the crime talk?! - we discussed it. Then I asked Michael, "Do you know what motive is? Michael immediately guessed - correctly - that it's related to the word motivation. Good man. Indeed, I explained that motive is the cause or reason for a person's actions, and it's considered, like alibis, when solving crimes. The hypothetical scenario we examined involved bank robbers. Megan was listening; she blurted, "Oh! Maybe bank robbers want more money!" Meggie catches on fast! She's right, obviously, although I was thinking of examples of criminal motive with a little more depth...

Christmas was terrific. The kids are really fortunate. I am really fortunate. A big thanks to family and friends for that.

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.