MICHAEL
With reading considered a completed lesson for Michael, I hear lots of peanut gallery-esque remarks from him as he reads his way through life. Last week on the way home from Kansas, we passed one of my favorite signs: Terrible's Casino. It is an at least 100' tall sign in the shape of a handlebar-mustachioed man complete with ten gallon hat. As we passed it, I heard him mutter, "Well THERE'S a great way to kill your money."
MEGAN
Conversation today with Megan:
Meg: "How many 100s makes 1,000?"
Me: " 10."
Megan: "That. BROKE. My brain."
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Dad Entry #102
Megan said, "I saw a picture of you when you were little, Daddy." She said it like it was a secretive or scandalous discovery of some sort. I said, "Yeah, it's true, I was little once, smaller than you even." Then I asked, "Was I cute?" Megan said, "Yes, but then you grew up to be 16 and went to your own house and fed yourself." Ha, Megan's encapsulation of the passage to adulthood. Growing up. Some truth to it. Although, I didn't have my own place or 'feed myself' that young; my mom cooked for me - along with fast food joints, and my fraternity house mom and Grandma Bev at Iowa State - until I was about 20.
Michael's in Minnesota for the week. He called last night to say he won the homerun derby. Staged by Papa Mike, it was apparently a well organized event, with multiple rounds and competitor-specific distances (e.g. Michael had to hit it to the sidewalk, Ellie only past the tree). There was no Prince Fielder though, or even Daddy (I still got it, I sent one over the fence in my softball game last week, which is kinda hard to do in this thick, humid air). No prizes either, as the winner noted in my conversation with him, "I think I deserve a prize or something, don't I?" Michael hit 10. Grandma got second - she's pretty athletic, and a pretty athlete, my mom - followed by Alissa and Ellie. I'll have to watch the MLB Network for the official score and highlights.
Yesterday, out of nowhere Megan said, "Daddy, I miss watching you play basketball. I wanna go to one of your games again." I was touched, I don't know why she thought of it, it's not basketball season, it's not on TV a bunch, I'm not crying tears of joy or sorrow over Cyclone bball. Okay then, gotta plant that WNBA seed for my sweetie-heart, get onto another team. Megan might be tall! She was the tallest kid on her tee-ball team, I know I've said that many times here. She's up to my belly-button now. Which is too tall for my baby girl! But I tower over her still, and really, really love it when, in an elevator for example, a stranger steps in, and Megan tenses and moves toward me, kind of leans on me, real close, at this point she can't get far enough from the stranger or close enough to me, even if the stranger is the nicest guy in the world and all genuine warmth and smiles, Megan is just not comfortable, maybe she even takes my hand or puts an arm around my waist. Safe. In that moment, her dependance or trust or whatever it is, it's very empowering, and I'm pretty sure I would take on a pack of wolves, or hockey goons, or crazy soccer moms, to protect her, even if I wouldn't last long. Hysterical soccer moms eat guys like me for breakfast. I would rather face rabid beasts, or toothless enforcers.
I want my kids to learn that repetition is the mother of learning. I don't expect them to pursue the Malcolm Gladwell '10,000 hour rule' for international stardom in something. I just want them to appreciate the benefits of practice. There is no substitute. Whether it's playing an instrument, swinging a bat or golf club, or writing (what I do here: practice writing), I want them to realize it takes hours and hours of practice for incremental, appreciable improvement. The best musicians and golfers do their thing for hours a day for thousands of days. That's what it takes. You need some ability to begin with, and being average - or even good - at many things, being well-rounded, is fine too, but if you wanna be head-and-shoulders above, if you wanna be 'great'... repetition and tons of it. Swing that racquet or club or bat every day, even if it's just in the yard, going over mechanics, without hitting any balls. Keep shooting, playing that song, painting, singing, swimming, skating, skiing, dancing, running, throwing, solving, speaking, presenting, coaching, leading, writing. Practice the skills. If you're not cool with average, or with performance plateaus, if you wanna get better at something, better than you were yesterday, last season, last year... hours of repetition is your answer. Your only answer. The price, however, is time. And that's a big price, involving decisions and motivation. But big rewards are possible, too. 'Less is more' for some things, like certain style concepts, good snappy writing, makeup, government. But not so with practice. That was preachy. But I'm leaving it :)
Michael's in Minnesota for the week. He called last night to say he won the homerun derby. Staged by Papa Mike, it was apparently a well organized event, with multiple rounds and competitor-specific distances (e.g. Michael had to hit it to the sidewalk, Ellie only past the tree). There was no Prince Fielder though, or even Daddy (I still got it, I sent one over the fence in my softball game last week, which is kinda hard to do in this thick, humid air). No prizes either, as the winner noted in my conversation with him, "I think I deserve a prize or something, don't I?" Michael hit 10. Grandma got second - she's pretty athletic, and a pretty athlete, my mom - followed by Alissa and Ellie. I'll have to watch the MLB Network for the official score and highlights.
Yesterday, out of nowhere Megan said, "Daddy, I miss watching you play basketball. I wanna go to one of your games again." I was touched, I don't know why she thought of it, it's not basketball season, it's not on TV a bunch, I'm not crying tears of joy or sorrow over Cyclone bball. Okay then, gotta plant that WNBA seed for my sweetie-heart, get onto another team. Megan might be tall! She was the tallest kid on her tee-ball team, I know I've said that many times here. She's up to my belly-button now. Which is too tall for my baby girl! But I tower over her still, and really, really love it when, in an elevator for example, a stranger steps in, and Megan tenses and moves toward me, kind of leans on me, real close, at this point she can't get far enough from the stranger or close enough to me, even if the stranger is the nicest guy in the world and all genuine warmth and smiles, Megan is just not comfortable, maybe she even takes my hand or puts an arm around my waist. Safe. In that moment, her dependance or trust or whatever it is, it's very empowering, and I'm pretty sure I would take on a pack of wolves, or hockey goons, or crazy soccer moms, to protect her, even if I wouldn't last long. Hysterical soccer moms eat guys like me for breakfast. I would rather face rabid beasts, or toothless enforcers.
I want my kids to learn that repetition is the mother of learning. I don't expect them to pursue the Malcolm Gladwell '10,000 hour rule' for international stardom in something. I just want them to appreciate the benefits of practice. There is no substitute. Whether it's playing an instrument, swinging a bat or golf club, or writing (what I do here: practice writing), I want them to realize it takes hours and hours of practice for incremental, appreciable improvement. The best musicians and golfers do their thing for hours a day for thousands of days. That's what it takes. You need some ability to begin with, and being average - or even good - at many things, being well-rounded, is fine too, but if you wanna be head-and-shoulders above, if you wanna be 'great'... repetition and tons of it. Swing that racquet or club or bat every day, even if it's just in the yard, going over mechanics, without hitting any balls. Keep shooting, playing that song, painting, singing, swimming, skating, skiing, dancing, running, throwing, solving, speaking, presenting, coaching, leading, writing. Practice the skills. If you're not cool with average, or with performance plateaus, if you wanna get better at something, better than you were yesterday, last season, last year... hours of repetition is your answer. Your only answer. The price, however, is time. And that's a big price, involving decisions and motivation. But big rewards are possible, too. 'Less is more' for some things, like certain style concepts, good snappy writing, makeup, government. But not so with practice. That was preachy. But I'm leaving it :)
Monday, July 18, 2011
Dad Entry #101
Megan's an ant-smasher. I'm not sure what it means. At least she's not repressing it. She usually stomps on 'em, but yesterday she used a rock and was a bit more surgical, hunched over, chasing and squashing as her prey skittered for the safety of sidewalk cracks or grass. Even Michael, alarmed by her blood thirst, said "Geez, Megan!" After that it got weird; before getting into the car, she handed me her weapon - the rock - and said, "Keep that, it's my 'Ant Smash Rock'. Can we write that on it, 'Ant Smash Rock', like with a pen or something?" I didn't answer; I was imagining Megan's run as 'Xena the Warrior Princess', filling the big shoes - literally I think - of Lucy Lawless in that terrible series that ended many years ago, thank God. Yeah, that won't do; they'd put her in a deerskin bikini and Uggs, something stupid like that. I'd prefer she was like Angelina Jolie's character in 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' or 'Wanted' or 'Salt'. Actually, I remember those movies now, forget it, I hope she's an accountant.
Michael had his first zit. Pretty sure it was a pimple, a full blown whitehead, right between his eyes. He picked at it last night. And speaking of Lucy-Lawless-sized-feet, Michael's dogs are gettin' big in a hurry. It's all happening too fast!
Michael has a lot of baseball cards now. And he's been watching games on TV. He knows most of the good players. Gone are the days of:
Michael: "Dad, do you know who Albert 'Puh-jawles' is?"
Me: "I think you mean 'Poo-holes'."
Michael: "Oh, yeah, that could be. Is he any good?"
Me: "Albert Pujols? No, terrible, never heard of him. You can trade him to me though."
Is it just me or do individually packaged Velveeta slices last way too long? A million years from now, when the Earth is nothing but a barron wasteland of post-nuclear ash, they will find perfectly good cheese. If you can call it that.
Sitting to the left of Megan, hip-to-hip in the big chair, looking down at her long eyelashes and tan button nose, with my right arm around her, her head and sun-bleached hair in the crook of my elbow, watching her play the 'Hello Kitty' game on her Nintendo DS, listening to her narrate all the 'important' activities she's undertaking to get along in the game, while I take long deep breaths and sip green tea from my warm 'Master Kong Chef's Table' mug I have in my left hand... I think it was my perfect moment of happiness and health. I will try to recreate it again tomorrow.
Michael had his first zit. Pretty sure it was a pimple, a full blown whitehead, right between his eyes. He picked at it last night. And speaking of Lucy-Lawless-sized-feet, Michael's dogs are gettin' big in a hurry. It's all happening too fast!
Michael has a lot of baseball cards now. And he's been watching games on TV. He knows most of the good players. Gone are the days of:
Michael: "Dad, do you know who Albert 'Puh-jawles' is?"
Me: "I think you mean 'Poo-holes'."
Michael: "Oh, yeah, that could be. Is he any good?"
Me: "Albert Pujols? No, terrible, never heard of him. You can trade him to me though."
Is it just me or do individually packaged Velveeta slices last way too long? A million years from now, when the Earth is nothing but a barron wasteland of post-nuclear ash, they will find perfectly good cheese. If you can call it that.
Sitting to the left of Megan, hip-to-hip in the big chair, looking down at her long eyelashes and tan button nose, with my right arm around her, her head and sun-bleached hair in the crook of my elbow, watching her play the 'Hello Kitty' game on her Nintendo DS, listening to her narrate all the 'important' activities she's undertaking to get along in the game, while I take long deep breaths and sip green tea from my warm 'Master Kong Chef's Table' mug I have in my left hand... I think it was my perfect moment of happiness and health. I will try to recreate it again tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Dad Entry #100
Sometimes I think I write too much here, but then I realize 50% of my intended audience can't even read yet. Maybe they'll be interested in about 20 years. Until then, the jury's out.
At Starbucks this morning I saw a little girl with her shoes on the wrong feet. I miss Megan. She's in Kansas City for two weeks.
Megan rode on the scariest roller coaster at "Worlds of Fun" yesterday. She insisted on going. She's only 5; Sara said it was a real ride, like the kind people scream and puke on. She said Megan was terrified. And then exhilarated. And then proud. That is kind of a cool Pavlovian progression of emotions. Or a risk / reward lesson. A thrill, a rush. But do we want her conditioned this way, to 'be brave and try it', to think 'if I don't go, I'll never know'? Yes. Of course not. Maybe. Here we go again. I want her to be confident, adventurous (but cautious), I want her to think, "I can do this..." unless she should think, "This could be trouble..." Yeah, it's why I pray.
I want badly to pitch more BP to Michael. He's playing ball with Papa John in Kansas, and they went to a Royals game. Michael loved it. It's called indoctrination. Next up: watching the MLB Home Run Derby and All-Star Game, followed by a Twins game at Target Field with Papa Mike, followed by the Brewers game at Miller Park, then the White Sox at The Cell, punctuated with the best experience in baseball... watching the Cubs lose at Wrigley! This is an especially ugly year for the Northsiders, our lovable losers; only one other team - out of 30! - has lost more games at the break. Even the Royals have lost one fewer, and beat the Cubs head-to-head. The Twins are always better; they have a great organization up there. We don't care as much about the Brewers or Sox.
I had something special planned for entry #100, based on the "Family Project" survey I did last summer. But I can't do it until the kids return from KC. So maybe #101 will be 'special', or #102.
Megan's tee-ball and Michael's baseball seasons are over. Meg's was mostly a cute-fest. But Michael's got pretty serious during the playoffs. I wasn't ready for that. I haven't wanted a baseball team to win so badly since game 7 of the 2003 NLCS. Greg and I were at the game, ready to celebrate all night in Wrigleyville. Until the Cubs lost.
I played a little trick on Megan. She likes to unlock the condo door now, and she's good at it; her hands are strong and dextrous for as small as they are. But this time the door wasn't locked; I remembered I left it unlocked when I ran out to pick them up. Since I'm ornery, I told Megan as we approached the door, "Wait, I wanna try and unlock it with my mind." Megan stepped aside. I closed my eyes and wiggled my fingers over the lock. Then I turned the knob and it opened. My audience was impressed! (At least the 50% I referenced above.) Megan said, "How did you do that?!" Since a magician never tells, I looked at Michael who was already saying, "It wasn't locked, Megan."
Megan must've been thinking about the lock trick later when she blurted, "Yeah, no person on Earth is magic, right Dad, except for the Tooth Fairy?" Exactly right, Baby.
Is it just me, or do school gyms and cafeterias have the same bouquet of aromas they did when I was a kid? There's a mustiness to them, plus hints of disinfectant, sour milk, frozen pizza, sweaty mats, stinky socks... what else?
Megan is still pretty little. I was folding her laundry and smiling at her skinny jeans, and the fact her shorts are like smaller than an envelope. And then I snapped out of my reverie and thought, wait a minute, short shorts aren't allowed on my daughter. What the hell's goin' on around HERE?!?! Just kidding. Sort of.
At Starbucks this morning I saw a little girl with her shoes on the wrong feet. I miss Megan. She's in Kansas City for two weeks.
Megan rode on the scariest roller coaster at "Worlds of Fun" yesterday. She insisted on going. She's only 5; Sara said it was a real ride, like the kind people scream and puke on. She said Megan was terrified. And then exhilarated. And then proud. That is kind of a cool Pavlovian progression of emotions. Or a risk / reward lesson. A thrill, a rush. But do we want her conditioned this way, to 'be brave and try it', to think 'if I don't go, I'll never know'? Yes. Of course not. Maybe. Here we go again. I want her to be confident, adventurous (but cautious), I want her to think, "I can do this..." unless she should think, "This could be trouble..." Yeah, it's why I pray.
I want badly to pitch more BP to Michael. He's playing ball with Papa John in Kansas, and they went to a Royals game. Michael loved it. It's called indoctrination. Next up: watching the MLB Home Run Derby and All-Star Game, followed by a Twins game at Target Field with Papa Mike, followed by the Brewers game at Miller Park, then the White Sox at The Cell, punctuated with the best experience in baseball... watching the Cubs lose at Wrigley! This is an especially ugly year for the Northsiders, our lovable losers; only one other team - out of 30! - has lost more games at the break. Even the Royals have lost one fewer, and beat the Cubs head-to-head. The Twins are always better; they have a great organization up there. We don't care as much about the Brewers or Sox.
I had something special planned for entry #100, based on the "Family Project" survey I did last summer. But I can't do it until the kids return from KC. So maybe #101 will be 'special', or #102.
Megan's tee-ball and Michael's baseball seasons are over. Meg's was mostly a cute-fest. But Michael's got pretty serious during the playoffs. I wasn't ready for that. I haven't wanted a baseball team to win so badly since game 7 of the 2003 NLCS. Greg and I were at the game, ready to celebrate all night in Wrigleyville. Until the Cubs lost.
I played a little trick on Megan. She likes to unlock the condo door now, and she's good at it; her hands are strong and dextrous for as small as they are. But this time the door wasn't locked; I remembered I left it unlocked when I ran out to pick them up. Since I'm ornery, I told Megan as we approached the door, "Wait, I wanna try and unlock it with my mind." Megan stepped aside. I closed my eyes and wiggled my fingers over the lock. Then I turned the knob and it opened. My audience was impressed! (At least the 50% I referenced above.) Megan said, "How did you do that?!" Since a magician never tells, I looked at Michael who was already saying, "It wasn't locked, Megan."
Megan must've been thinking about the lock trick later when she blurted, "Yeah, no person on Earth is magic, right Dad, except for the Tooth Fairy?" Exactly right, Baby.
Is it just me, or do school gyms and cafeterias have the same bouquet of aromas they did when I was a kid? There's a mustiness to them, plus hints of disinfectant, sour milk, frozen pizza, sweaty mats, stinky socks... what else?
Megan is still pretty little. I was folding her laundry and smiling at her skinny jeans, and the fact her shorts are like smaller than an envelope. And then I snapped out of my reverie and thought, wait a minute, short shorts aren't allowed on my daughter. What the hell's goin' on around HERE?!?! Just kidding. Sort of.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Dad Entry #99
Michael asked if he was Italian (more on that later) so we chatted about ancestry, what it is, what it means. I told him, "I am American, and grateful for it, and you are too, but the term 'American' doesn't really describe ancestry or lineage to me unless you're Native American." Then Michael remembered and said, "Alissa has a friend who is related to Sacajawea!" He was suddenly excited by the possibilities; he said, "Maybe we're related to Lebron James! Or Aramis Ramirez!" Hmmm, okay, so the concept is only loosely understood for now, or it's being loosely applied, the concept of ancestry, but it is exciting, Michael's got that right, and if you go back far enough, I believe, yes, the Cox's are indeed related to Lebron and Aramis.
Megan is on the Diamondbacks since every team is named after an MLB franchise. By coincidence, Michael is on the Diamondbacks in his league, too. We were watching the Cubs play the Rockies on TV. Megan recognized the jerseys and said, "Oh, the Rockies, I know those guys, we played them." I smiled. Did she think they were the same players she faced? (Tulo and CarGo are two of the best on the planet.) Or was she was just matching names? It sure sounded like the former...
Megan overheard some women speaking Spanish. She thought it was cool. I told her, "I can teach you Spanish." Michael told her, "No, me teach you Caveman. It fun. It easy. It annoy grown-ups." It sure does!
I bought a book called "The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman". Bash me for buying the book later. (It was a #1 New York Times Bestseller though.) Honestly, I was interested in the prescribed 'Slow Carb Diet', the benefits of insulin / blood sugar maintenance... the healthy eating part. Really. Now scientists say fat and salt aren't so bad, what's killing us are sugar, HFCS, and refined flour, blah, blah. Anyway, the funny moment: I left the book out and Michael started reading the title before I could whisk it away. So I decided not to bring more attention to it than deserved; I let him read the cover. I cringed and waited. Thankfully, he said, "Dad, what is rapid fat-loss?"
Megan is still a messy eater. I love it when I step in the kitchen and there's a crunch underfoot and it's a cheerio. Or what's left of one. I still try to pick up the particles, you know, get them in a single pinch between thumb and fore-, even though it's only flour now and impossible to clean without a vacuum. I don't like vacuums very much. I'm pretty sure Sara will corroborate. Side note: Aunt Jenny was more afraid of the 'Sweeper' - what we called the vacuum - when we were kids. Or, more precisely, Jenny called it the 'seeper'. (That does sound scary!) Cute-as-pie little Jenny was vigilant; whenever a vacuum came to life, she warned everyone, "Seeper get you!"
We saw a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk. Michael said, "Oh, Dad, in Indiana Jones I saw this, I could use that for a weapon!" Let's hope it never comes to that.
Megan is on the Diamondbacks since every team is named after an MLB franchise. By coincidence, Michael is on the Diamondbacks in his league, too. We were watching the Cubs play the Rockies on TV. Megan recognized the jerseys and said, "Oh, the Rockies, I know those guys, we played them." I smiled. Did she think they were the same players she faced? (Tulo and CarGo are two of the best on the planet.) Or was she was just matching names? It sure sounded like the former...
Megan overheard some women speaking Spanish. She thought it was cool. I told her, "I can teach you Spanish." Michael told her, "No, me teach you Caveman. It fun. It easy. It annoy grown-ups." It sure does!
I bought a book called "The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman". Bash me for buying the book later. (It was a #1 New York Times Bestseller though.) Honestly, I was interested in the prescribed 'Slow Carb Diet', the benefits of insulin / blood sugar maintenance... the healthy eating part. Really. Now scientists say fat and salt aren't so bad, what's killing us are sugar, HFCS, and refined flour, blah, blah. Anyway, the funny moment: I left the book out and Michael started reading the title before I could whisk it away. So I decided not to bring more attention to it than deserved; I let him read the cover. I cringed and waited. Thankfully, he said, "Dad, what is rapid fat-loss?"
Megan is still a messy eater. I love it when I step in the kitchen and there's a crunch underfoot and it's a cheerio. Or what's left of one. I still try to pick up the particles, you know, get them in a single pinch between thumb and fore-, even though it's only flour now and impossible to clean without a vacuum. I don't like vacuums very much. I'm pretty sure Sara will corroborate. Side note: Aunt Jenny was more afraid of the 'Sweeper' - what we called the vacuum - when we were kids. Or, more precisely, Jenny called it the 'seeper'. (That does sound scary!) Cute-as-pie little Jenny was vigilant; whenever a vacuum came to life, she warned everyone, "Seeper get you!"
We saw a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk. Michael said, "Oh, Dad, in Indiana Jones I saw this, I could use that for a weapon!" Let's hope it never comes to that.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Dad Entry #98
Megan might become a lacto-ovo vegetarian. I bought some buffalo jerky at the farmers market and she said, "You eat part of a buffalo body? That's not nice."
Michael is currently fascinated with Braille. I don't blame him; I agree it's remarkable how blind people read. There are signs with Braille in the condo building, e.g. near stairwells and elevators. He has stopped multiple times now to feel and marvel at them.
Megan told me, "When I grow up, I'm gonna live in California." Ok, I guess I won't mind living there... :)
We stop and inspect the carcasses of dead insects a lot.
I wanna see "Kung Fu Panda 2" with the kids this weekend. "There is no charge for awesomeness!" - Po
"Kung Fu Panda" and "Megamind" are my favorites. Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Einstein. Yes, same boat. Humor: The highest form of intelligence. But doing Physics well ain't easy either; my lowest grades in college I think. I loved "How To Train Your Dragon" and "Despicable Me". And "Cars" and "Madagascar" are worth every penny. Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller. Is "Rio" any good? I haven't seen that one yet. Is it as good as "Nemo"?
Megan had her last tee-ball game today. She's a little tentative at the plate. She likes to roll it gently to the left side. I've given her a few tips, not least of all: "Swing harder Sweetheart, let 'er rip!" She's not open to suggestion from me though; she told me, "Daddy, you are not my tee-ball teacher. But maybe someday you can become a professional about hitting." Huh? A pro hitter or pro coach? Professionals? Who's already telling you about the pros? Your brother? (If so, that's awesome, I'm happy he's excited about baseball!) And why don't I possess the unquestioned authority you observe in your tee-ball coaches?! Your old man is the guy you wanna talk to about hitting, Honey-Bunny. And it's 'coach', in sports we call 'em coaches, Coach Walt and Coach Mike, not so much 'teachers'. I should note here that Walt and Mike are terrific coaches, awesome guys, great with the kids. I'm grateful for that. The kids have had wonderful coaches for all their teams so far. I suspect that won't be the case every time, but we'll see. So far so good.
Megan is such a perfect little creature, I ache a bit when I miss her, when traveling for work, even traveling for fun, hunting, whatever. She can be naughty, but she is without a doubt the cutest thing that ever lived.
Michael is currently fascinated with Braille. I don't blame him; I agree it's remarkable how blind people read. There are signs with Braille in the condo building, e.g. near stairwells and elevators. He has stopped multiple times now to feel and marvel at them.
Megan told me, "When I grow up, I'm gonna live in California." Ok, I guess I won't mind living there... :)
We stop and inspect the carcasses of dead insects a lot.
I wanna see "Kung Fu Panda 2" with the kids this weekend. "There is no charge for awesomeness!" - Po
"Kung Fu Panda" and "Megamind" are my favorites. Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Einstein. Yes, same boat. Humor: The highest form of intelligence. But doing Physics well ain't easy either; my lowest grades in college I think. I loved "How To Train Your Dragon" and "Despicable Me". And "Cars" and "Madagascar" are worth every penny. Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller. Is "Rio" any good? I haven't seen that one yet. Is it as good as "Nemo"?
Megan had her last tee-ball game today. She's a little tentative at the plate. She likes to roll it gently to the left side. I've given her a few tips, not least of all: "Swing harder Sweetheart, let 'er rip!" She's not open to suggestion from me though; she told me, "Daddy, you are not my tee-ball teacher. But maybe someday you can become a professional about hitting." Huh? A pro hitter or pro coach? Professionals? Who's already telling you about the pros? Your brother? (If so, that's awesome, I'm happy he's excited about baseball!) And why don't I possess the unquestioned authority you observe in your tee-ball coaches?! Your old man is the guy you wanna talk to about hitting, Honey-Bunny. And it's 'coach', in sports we call 'em coaches, Coach Walt and Coach Mike, not so much 'teachers'. I should note here that Walt and Mike are terrific coaches, awesome guys, great with the kids. I'm grateful for that. The kids have had wonderful coaches for all their teams so far. I suspect that won't be the case every time, but we'll see. So far so good.
Megan is such a perfect little creature, I ache a bit when I miss her, when traveling for work, even traveling for fun, hunting, whatever. She can be naughty, but she is without a doubt the cutest thing that ever lived.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Dad Entry #97
I went through Megan's purse. Was I practicing? For her teenager years? The sneaky rituals and parenting tricks I'll employ. No. Maybe. It depends. No. Whatever, I have ten years before that stage. Or nine. Eight. Six? Actually, I'm more fearful I'll be too passive; I'll trust Megan's moral compass when I should punch her boyfriend instead. I followed the rules when I was a teenager. I said goodnight to my mom every night when I was in high school. I mean when I went out and came home late; I had to walk up to the edge of her bed and tell her I was home (safely). Some nights I tried to keep my distance, and kind of whisper-yell from her bedroom doorway (because I smelled like cheap, skunky beer). My mom would groggily respond, "Ok, goodnight," to my, "I'm home," like she was still halfway under, and I would relax, relieved, and then the next morning she'd ask with a piercing, direct certainty, "So how come you barely stepped into the bedroom last night to say goodnight?" That magical mother sense. But Megan will be fine; I can trust her inner strength. She'll make her own decisions. Put another way: she's stubborn, not easily coerced or convinced to do something like be nice when she's crabby. Does this 'strength' as I've called it - because I'm too nice, naive, or dumb - anyway, does this mean she'll ignore peer pressure? Who knows. Okay, back to Megan's purse. Contents: a notebook, glitter pen, water bottle and rubber band. Pretty benign. Does anyone else remember Geraldo opening Al Capone's secret vault in Chicago during a live, heavily-hyped, special broadcast? Megan's notebook was small; it had stickers in it, mostly hearts and snowflakes. Nothing to worry about. No "I love Justin Beiber" scribbles, over and over, page after page. In Megan's handwriting!! She could easily manage that now if someone helped her spell. Who was her accomplice?!?! Seriously, I just thought it was cute she had a real purse - like a hand-me-down from Mommy custom made at 1154 Lill - and when I moved it from the middle of the hallway (?) I noticed it was very light. Gosh, I hate to say it, but when I think of purses I think of oversized, bulging bags, with straps awkwardly looped over arms, as sunglasses, checkbooks, make-up, and keys spill out, with photo buttons pinned on (of the kids in sports), all attached to a harried woman on some mission like shopping during a big sale or corraling misbehaving kids. I know that's distorted and wrong. But I'm being honest; I'd prefer I thought instantly of a 'red carpet handbag' instead, a designer dress accessory, which is more like a wallet, or a snack-sized-ziploc (one that's a bit more sturdy, pimped-out and colorful, and likely has diet pills or other drugs in it - stimulants, muscle relaxers, hunger cessation supplements, typical hollywood stuff, probably not apple slices or baby carrot sticks like I put in the snack-sized-ziplocs in Michael's school lunches).
Michael's first baseball season is winding down. He's improved; he has a nice swing. He does, however, like almost every second-grader, strike out a lot. It's his first year of 'kid-pitch'. Seven-year-old pitchers are erratic. That's an understatement. After four balls from a player, a coach takes over. But even that makes for a difficult, mid-AB change. A few of the kids cry when they K. Michael's not about to cry, but I can tell it grates on him. So I said, "Name a good player." He said, "Aramis Ramirez." I agreed with him when he said, "It's almost like for some guys I can tell they're good by the sound of their names." I responded with a bad Tim McCarver impression, enunciating "Michael Cox" in a very baseball-friendly, announcer-kinda way. He wasn't convinced. Anyway, Aramiz Ramirez does have a nice ring to it, and yes, he's a good hitter. So I told Michael, "Pay attention, we're gonna google his career stats." In 14 seasons, Ramirez has hit 294 homers. Not too shabby. And he's struck out 922 times, and that's not bad either; it's less often than many - Soriano! - who swing for the fences. Michael was quiet; that means it sunk in. But he still asked me the next day, "Did you strike out when you played baseball?" I said, "Sure, I played a lot of baseball and struck out plenty of times, but I don't think about that, I think about the times I hit homeruns, launched it over the fence, outta the park, and then I got to trot around the bases, now that's a good feeling, and one you'll love too, you can crush it, I've seen you, and that's what we, as hitters, remember. Just go up there and get your hacks. Got it?" He nodded at least. (For the record, what grated on me was if I booted one at shortstop. I hope Michael's just a monster first baseman. That's easier duty over there. You just gotta rake at the plate.)
Michael's first baseball season is winding down. He's improved; he has a nice swing. He does, however, like almost every second-grader, strike out a lot. It's his first year of 'kid-pitch'. Seven-year-old pitchers are erratic. That's an understatement. After four balls from a player, a coach takes over. But even that makes for a difficult, mid-AB change. A few of the kids cry when they K. Michael's not about to cry, but I can tell it grates on him. So I said, "Name a good player." He said, "Aramis Ramirez." I agreed with him when he said, "It's almost like for some guys I can tell they're good by the sound of their names." I responded with a bad Tim McCarver impression, enunciating "Michael Cox" in a very baseball-friendly, announcer-kinda way. He wasn't convinced. Anyway, Aramiz Ramirez does have a nice ring to it, and yes, he's a good hitter. So I told Michael, "Pay attention, we're gonna google his career stats." In 14 seasons, Ramirez has hit 294 homers. Not too shabby. And he's struck out 922 times, and that's not bad either; it's less often than many - Soriano! - who swing for the fences. Michael was quiet; that means it sunk in. But he still asked me the next day, "Did you strike out when you played baseball?" I said, "Sure, I played a lot of baseball and struck out plenty of times, but I don't think about that, I think about the times I hit homeruns, launched it over the fence, outta the park, and then I got to trot around the bases, now that's a good feeling, and one you'll love too, you can crush it, I've seen you, and that's what we, as hitters, remember. Just go up there and get your hacks. Got it?" He nodded at least. (For the record, what grated on me was if I booted one at shortstop. I hope Michael's just a monster first baseman. That's easier duty over there. You just gotta rake at the plate.)
Friday, June 03, 2011
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Dad Entry #96
Megan snores. Sometimes she ends up in a contorted position with her head tilted back and mouth gaped open. Then I can hear it, a little rattle in her throat. Sleep apnea? A life of fatigue and crabbiness and unrealized potential?! No, the snoring is rare; she’s usually silent as a mouse. A perfect angel. Until she gets crabby.
Michael’s bad sleeping habit – sweating – seems more frequent, and disruptive. He bundles up like an Eskimo, or a Bears fan at Soldier Field, many-layered, wrapped tight and surrounded by his comforter, blanket, sheets, another blanket, crayon pillow, and a jumble of stuffed animals. When I pull the covers back from his chin, a heat wave wafts upward, like I’ve lifted the lid from a pot of boiling water. No kidding. Steam. Then I touch his brow and it’s soaked. So is the hair on his temples. It’s like someone threw water in his face.
We were at a restaurant and a group of young women walked by. I’d say they were late teens or early twenties. Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!” Like everything Megan says - except for, “I hate (fill in the blank)!” and, well, several other things - it was super cute. The comment warmed my heart. Was it the innocence of it? The inaccuracy? The appeal, to a little girl like Megan, of such an esteemed and illustrious group as the Girl Scouts?! The cookies? I’m not sure. I know young men can do Eagle Scouts, but I’m not aware of an equivalent for young women. The comment just sort of pointed to Megan’s ‘understanding horizon’ I guess I’ll call it. Limited by age, of course. It’ll be a decade or so before she understands teenager-hood, and after that, what it’s like to be a woman, to really know what women look and feel like, what scares, inspires, and delights them. It’s a complex subject, and diverse, but there’s a book about it, a manual; it’s a billion pages long and incomplete and never been written and incomprehensible anyway.
Megan likes minty gum. She calls it ‘spicy’ gum, which is one of the fifty million things I love about her.
I already mentioned this when he tried it on, but Michael looked super-GQ in his First Communion suit. With clip-on tie, shiny black shoes, and new haircut. Stud.
Michael and Megan bicker. They joust a lot now; it brings back memories! Jen? Regardless, the other day Megan said, “I wanna marry you, Michael.” Michael responded – and I don’t know where he heard this – “Umm, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
The kids like to tell on each other, too. “Dad, Megan tried to kick me” and “Dad, Michael won’t let me play.” Cries of “It’s not fair” are common. And they threaten each other. Michael says, “Okay, you did it again so I guess I have to expel you from school.” This upsets Megan, as she enjoys playing school. She likes the fake assignments and ‘notes sent home to parents’ and field trip announcements that Michael creates and hands out to her. So Megan acquiesces – or is a tiny bit nicer – unless Michael goes too far. Then, like the other day, she’ll say, “I’m telling Mommy, and I’m gonna tell her to punish you real good!” The ‘real good’ ending made it sound less painful or punitive or something. But it gives Michael pause. The other day Megan insisted on passing Michael on the stairs. We weren’t in a hurry; it was just one of those mornings full of competition, irritation, and sniping between them. When Megan pushed past Michael on the stairs he said, “How come Megan always has to be first, even at someone else's birthday party!” Ooh, I knew immediately this was a severe charge, maybe the supreme accusation of selfishness for persons of single digit age. The Everest of indictments for self-centeredness! Birthdays are sacred. Christmas is the only exception, the only day it’s okay to have more fun and more presents than the birthday boy. Although, hopefully he gets a lot of attention too. He does at our house. Did I mention Megan’s comments about the “Jesus world?” Yeah, pretty cool, fifty million and one.
Michael’s bad sleeping habit – sweating – seems more frequent, and disruptive. He bundles up like an Eskimo, or a Bears fan at Soldier Field, many-layered, wrapped tight and surrounded by his comforter, blanket, sheets, another blanket, crayon pillow, and a jumble of stuffed animals. When I pull the covers back from his chin, a heat wave wafts upward, like I’ve lifted the lid from a pot of boiling water. No kidding. Steam. Then I touch his brow and it’s soaked. So is the hair on his temples. It’s like someone threw water in his face.
We were at a restaurant and a group of young women walked by. I’d say they were late teens or early twenties. Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!” Like everything Megan says - except for, “I hate (fill in the blank)!” and, well, several other things - it was super cute. The comment warmed my heart. Was it the innocence of it? The inaccuracy? The appeal, to a little girl like Megan, of such an esteemed and illustrious group as the Girl Scouts?! The cookies? I’m not sure. I know young men can do Eagle Scouts, but I’m not aware of an equivalent for young women. The comment just sort of pointed to Megan’s ‘understanding horizon’ I guess I’ll call it. Limited by age, of course. It’ll be a decade or so before she understands teenager-hood, and after that, what it’s like to be a woman, to really know what women look and feel like, what scares, inspires, and delights them. It’s a complex subject, and diverse, but there’s a book about it, a manual; it’s a billion pages long and incomplete and never been written and incomprehensible anyway.
Megan likes minty gum. She calls it ‘spicy’ gum, which is one of the fifty million things I love about her.
I already mentioned this when he tried it on, but Michael looked super-GQ in his First Communion suit. With clip-on tie, shiny black shoes, and new haircut. Stud.
Michael and Megan bicker. They joust a lot now; it brings back memories! Jen? Regardless, the other day Megan said, “I wanna marry you, Michael.” Michael responded – and I don’t know where he heard this – “Umm, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
The kids like to tell on each other, too. “Dad, Megan tried to kick me” and “Dad, Michael won’t let me play.” Cries of “It’s not fair” are common. And they threaten each other. Michael says, “Okay, you did it again so I guess I have to expel you from school.” This upsets Megan, as she enjoys playing school. She likes the fake assignments and ‘notes sent home to parents’ and field trip announcements that Michael creates and hands out to her. So Megan acquiesces – or is a tiny bit nicer – unless Michael goes too far. Then, like the other day, she’ll say, “I’m telling Mommy, and I’m gonna tell her to punish you real good!” The ‘real good’ ending made it sound less painful or punitive or something. But it gives Michael pause. The other day Megan insisted on passing Michael on the stairs. We weren’t in a hurry; it was just one of those mornings full of competition, irritation, and sniping between them. When Megan pushed past Michael on the stairs he said, “How come Megan always has to be first, even at someone else's birthday party!” Ooh, I knew immediately this was a severe charge, maybe the supreme accusation of selfishness for persons of single digit age. The Everest of indictments for self-centeredness! Birthdays are sacred. Christmas is the only exception, the only day it’s okay to have more fun and more presents than the birthday boy. Although, hopefully he gets a lot of attention too. He does at our house. Did I mention Megan’s comments about the “Jesus world?” Yeah, pretty cool, fifty million and one.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Dad Entry #95
Michael and I love a show called "River Monsters" on Animal Planet. An 'angling adventurer' named Jeremy travels the world catching giant freshwater fish. They're often billed as 'man-eaters' by the show's commercials and our sensationalizing media, even when they have no teeth. But Jeremy did catch an enormous, 9-foot-long white sturgeon Jeremy on yesterday's episode. The fish are always huge. And ugly. And therefore kinda creepy. So despite any irritating trumped-up, over-produced drama, Michael and I are addicted to the show. We watch it in HD on the big flatscreen; the scenery is amazing. In Alaska - where we were yesterday :) - grizzlies nearly attacked us while we fished for sockeye salmon that turn a brilliant red when spawning. One even took a fish right off our line which prompted our guide to fire a warning shot from his 50 caliber handgun which, by the way, is like a canon. And the 9-foot white sturgeon Jeremy landed... now that is a massive freshwater fish, and only half as big as their max size. This left Michael and I wide-eyed and breathless. I wanna take Michael carp fishing in Clear Lake, where I can promise him at least a 2-3 foot fish, and one nearly as unattractive as the stuff Jeremy catches. The show's a little scary for Meg - for example when Jeremy dives in a murky river in India and literally collides with a gigantic catfish - so we watch it when she's not around. During an episode on the Nile in Africa, Michael said, "Africa is an interesting place." I asked him, "You wanna go there with me sometime?" He said, "No, I don't want to get malaria," and then added, "I don't want to go through that process." I don't know if he meant the 'being infected by blood-sucking insects' process, or the fever, chills, sweating, pain and gasto-intestinal issues that are symptoms of the disease. I was mostly impressed with his use of the word 'process'. He's seven years old.
For the record, Michael's right to be worried about malaria in Africa. According to the WHO, every 30 seconds a child dies there from its effects. Of course, I told Michael he'd be fine if he visited Africa, since vaccines are being developed, and we'd treat him immediately if he showed any symptoms. I think this confounded him further... so why are so many kids dying? Why do 1 million people die annually from malaria when we have treatment? I decided not to launch into a discussion about poverty, disparity, and so on. I think Michael reads about things like malaria in his National Geographic Kids magazine. Maybe I should take it away from him!
Continuing on a serious note, I wonder if Michael will catch wind of the trendy wave of apocalyptic predictions, the Mayan calendar, End of Days, Doomsday, whatever. Didn't someone say the world would end a few days ago? Seriously, I mean someone who actually got widespread press and recognition for their prediction? It appears they were wrong. The question my dad - Papa Mike - and I like to kick around is if global threats and uncertainty are in decline now, or on the rise. Sure, there are many threats and issues now, but will any amount to the death and destruction of the World Wars, or the genocides orchestrated by Hitler and Stalin? Does the average person feel more secure now, or were they better off 50 years ago? It's difficult to consider an average, but it's really a simple question. We don't have to overcomplicate every idea, every answer. What is the direction of the world? Up or down? It seems silly to include these comments here, but hopefully the kids will read this blog someday, when they're older, and the world's a little older too. I hope any new developments between now and then are positive. But today you can scare yourself reading about terrorism and tsunamis, about Middle East dictatorships and government corruption. Entire countries are over-leveraged; the whole western world's in debt! What about global warming, and 'peak oil' with no real alternative fuels yet (at least for global transportation). Nuclear power is good for electricity, but look what happened in Japan recently? And what about 65 years ago?! Nuclear power as a weapon is terrifying, in the hands of a dictator, or a suitcase nuke or dirty bomb? What about chemical and biological weapons? Pollution and toxins? Corporate profit over people and Wall Street's insatiable gluttony? Zombies and vampires?!?! Ha, you might think they're real based on the deluge of recent movies and shows about them. One thing we can't deny: the world is faster and more developed, more technological now. And the 24-hour news cycle - and it's the 24-hour bad news cycle for sure - doesn't help raise our collective level of optimism and security. But Voltaire - that's a cheesy name for an Enlightenment era philosopher, isn't it? - said, "Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." I tend to agree. But the media spreads too much fear, as a strategy to increase reader- and viewership. It capitalizes on this notion that tragedy sells, always bias the story toward shocking, "If it bleeds, it leads." That's no good. Especially if, as a society, we want to promote a higher sense of optimism and security. Is it naive to want that? Or even worse, dangerous? Or is it healthy, and a little self-fulfilling even? I'm not sure, Michael and Megan can decide for themselves. Is the world good or bad? Even Einstein said, "The most important question any human being can ask is, 'Is this a friendly universe?'" Of course, I think the world is good; I think most people are good. But bad things still happen, and there are rotten apples that can do serious damage. Regardless of it all, most countries on the globe have cities and places that are safe. And worth visiting. I hope Michael and Megan agree; I hope they see the world. And meet many people. I hope they take a trip - safely! - to Africa someday.
For the record, Michael's right to be worried about malaria in Africa. According to the WHO, every 30 seconds a child dies there from its effects. Of course, I told Michael he'd be fine if he visited Africa, since vaccines are being developed, and we'd treat him immediately if he showed any symptoms. I think this confounded him further... so why are so many kids dying? Why do 1 million people die annually from malaria when we have treatment? I decided not to launch into a discussion about poverty, disparity, and so on. I think Michael reads about things like malaria in his National Geographic Kids magazine. Maybe I should take it away from him!
Continuing on a serious note, I wonder if Michael will catch wind of the trendy wave of apocalyptic predictions, the Mayan calendar, End of Days, Doomsday, whatever. Didn't someone say the world would end a few days ago? Seriously, I mean someone who actually got widespread press and recognition for their prediction? It appears they were wrong. The question my dad - Papa Mike - and I like to kick around is if global threats and uncertainty are in decline now, or on the rise. Sure, there are many threats and issues now, but will any amount to the death and destruction of the World Wars, or the genocides orchestrated by Hitler and Stalin? Does the average person feel more secure now, or were they better off 50 years ago? It's difficult to consider an average, but it's really a simple question. We don't have to overcomplicate every idea, every answer. What is the direction of the world? Up or down? It seems silly to include these comments here, but hopefully the kids will read this blog someday, when they're older, and the world's a little older too. I hope any new developments between now and then are positive. But today you can scare yourself reading about terrorism and tsunamis, about Middle East dictatorships and government corruption. Entire countries are over-leveraged; the whole western world's in debt! What about global warming, and 'peak oil' with no real alternative fuels yet (at least for global transportation). Nuclear power is good for electricity, but look what happened in Japan recently? And what about 65 years ago?! Nuclear power as a weapon is terrifying, in the hands of a dictator, or a suitcase nuke or dirty bomb? What about chemical and biological weapons? Pollution and toxins? Corporate profit over people and Wall Street's insatiable gluttony? Zombies and vampires?!?! Ha, you might think they're real based on the deluge of recent movies and shows about them. One thing we can't deny: the world is faster and more developed, more technological now. And the 24-hour news cycle - and it's the 24-hour bad news cycle for sure - doesn't help raise our collective level of optimism and security. But Voltaire - that's a cheesy name for an Enlightenment era philosopher, isn't it? - said, "Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." I tend to agree. But the media spreads too much fear, as a strategy to increase reader- and viewership. It capitalizes on this notion that tragedy sells, always bias the story toward shocking, "If it bleeds, it leads." That's no good. Especially if, as a society, we want to promote a higher sense of optimism and security. Is it naive to want that? Or even worse, dangerous? Or is it healthy, and a little self-fulfilling even? I'm not sure, Michael and Megan can decide for themselves. Is the world good or bad? Even Einstein said, "The most important question any human being can ask is, 'Is this a friendly universe?'" Of course, I think the world is good; I think most people are good. But bad things still happen, and there are rotten apples that can do serious damage. Regardless of it all, most countries on the globe have cities and places that are safe. And worth visiting. I hope Michael and Megan agree; I hope they see the world. And meet many people. I hope they take a trip - safely! - to Africa someday.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Dad Entry #94
The kids love school supplies. They'd rather shop in the school supplies aisle at Target than the toy department. It’s a new obsession with playing school, I guess. Sara and I are cool with it; we figure there are worse things to be obsessed about than school. So I bought piles of pens and pencils in China and brought them home as gifts. It’s what they asked for, and they’re less expensive over there, mechanical pencils, glitter markers, highlighters, Post-it notes, and so on. Again, better it be school and art supplies than other things they could ask for like candy or cheap plastic toys or weapons. Michael hasn't asked for Chinese throwing stars yet. Or nunchucks. But it won't be long; I gave him a deck of cards with 54 different images of Shaolin Monks doing Kung Fu. HI-YA! I will introduce him to Bruce Lee soon. And Donnie Yen.
Michael and his 2nd grade class - and Megan too, since Mommy was a chaperone - went on a field trip to the Chicago Field Museum of Natural History. So last night Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn’t wear underpants?" I said, “Really, that's interesting, how do you know?” Megan said, “I saw it at the museum on Michael’s field trip, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked.” Megan must've really studied the hieroglyphic symbols and drawings at the Egyptian tomb exhibit. But then I thought, Were the man's private parts depicted somehow, in that weird Picasso-esque 2-dimensional drawing style, commonly used by Egyptian artists? And then I thought, Why couldn't the Pharaoh find someone who could draw with more of a 3-D rendering effect? And then I thought, Megan gets her ADHD from me, obviously. Whatever, at least the stick figure drawing with male private parts was not anatomically confusing for Megan, like, say, the drawings of Egyptian men with dog heads. Uh-oh, I just teed that up for the ladies, didn't I? A man with a dog head isn't confusing at all... yeah, yeah.
Michael knows how to use Microsoft PowerPoint. No kidding. He said he knew how and when I was incredulous, he said, "I'll show you." So I opened PowerPoint on my PC and handed it to him and he proceeded to create a slide about Megan. He selected a layout and design, then he entered some text about her favorite things and added a clip art image. Wow. He's going to sit me down soon and project a few slides on the wall, or maybe route it via HDMI to our flatscreen, where he'll use a laser pointer to walk me through a presentation in PowerPoint complete with a spreadsheet and graph of the payment schedule he's proposing for the big allowance he deserves, with competitive bids and valuations and accounting for the chores he'll perform, followed by a pareto of how he'll spend the money. My son. He's very cerebral. I was giving him some reminders about baseball at his game on Saturday, in between innings. Michael played 3rd base and afterwards I pointed out to him, "Hey man, when the ball is hit to someone else, remember to cover your base. Especially if there's a runner on 2nd, he might advance to 3rd and someone might try to throw him out there." Michael's eyes were glazed over halfway through my comments. He wasn't interested. But... I bet if I gave him a baseball rulebook, he'd devour it and before long spout things like, "Dad, did you know there's something called the Infield Fly Rule, to prevent infielders from dropping pop-ups on purpose so they can turn double plays. Without this rule, a defense could drop a pop-up with runners on first and second, and turn it into a double play because the runners have to stay close to their bases so they won't get doubled-off, but then they can be easily forced-out at 3rd and 2nd base if the ball is dropped." Yes, Michael, I know, I played in the infield in something like 500 baseball games.
Michael and his 2nd grade class - and Megan too, since Mommy was a chaperone - went on a field trip to the Chicago Field Museum of Natural History. So last night Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn’t wear underpants?" I said, “Really, that's interesting, how do you know?” Megan said, “I saw it at the museum on Michael’s field trip, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked.” Megan must've really studied the hieroglyphic symbols and drawings at the Egyptian tomb exhibit. But then I thought, Were the man's private parts depicted somehow, in that weird Picasso-esque 2-dimensional drawing style, commonly used by Egyptian artists? And then I thought, Why couldn't the Pharaoh find someone who could draw with more of a 3-D rendering effect? And then I thought, Megan gets her ADHD from me, obviously. Whatever, at least the stick figure drawing with male private parts was not anatomically confusing for Megan, like, say, the drawings of Egyptian men with dog heads. Uh-oh, I just teed that up for the ladies, didn't I? A man with a dog head isn't confusing at all... yeah, yeah.
Michael knows how to use Microsoft PowerPoint. No kidding. He said he knew how and when I was incredulous, he said, "I'll show you." So I opened PowerPoint on my PC and handed it to him and he proceeded to create a slide about Megan. He selected a layout and design, then he entered some text about her favorite things and added a clip art image. Wow. He's going to sit me down soon and project a few slides on the wall, or maybe route it via HDMI to our flatscreen, where he'll use a laser pointer to walk me through a presentation in PowerPoint complete with a spreadsheet and graph of the payment schedule he's proposing for the big allowance he deserves, with competitive bids and valuations and accounting for the chores he'll perform, followed by a pareto of how he'll spend the money. My son. He's very cerebral. I was giving him some reminders about baseball at his game on Saturday, in between innings. Michael played 3rd base and afterwards I pointed out to him, "Hey man, when the ball is hit to someone else, remember to cover your base. Especially if there's a runner on 2nd, he might advance to 3rd and someone might try to throw him out there." Michael's eyes were glazed over halfway through my comments. He wasn't interested. But... I bet if I gave him a baseball rulebook, he'd devour it and before long spout things like, "Dad, did you know there's something called the Infield Fly Rule, to prevent infielders from dropping pop-ups on purpose so they can turn double plays. Without this rule, a defense could drop a pop-up with runners on first and second, and turn it into a double play because the runners have to stay close to their bases so they won't get doubled-off, but then they can be easily forced-out at 3rd and 2nd base if the ball is dropped." Yes, Michael, I know, I played in the infield in something like 500 baseball games.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Bunnies and Babies
My sweet babies nearly fainted when they found that the Easter bunny had left eggs in their ROOMS (how did we not HEAR him?!) There was only a few moments of tears fighting over eggs, but everyone shared very well in the end. It's lovely that I have one choc-oholic and one straight sugar craver.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
Dad Entry #93
Protective cups are required this year in Michael's baseball league. We explained to him, and to Megan who was eavesdropping, that it will protect his private parts. Megan was jealous; it's another activity or object that Michael - just because he's older - gets to participate in or possess before her. Megan said, "Well, I need one too, because my privates were burny the other day." She clarified it was the 'burny' feeling one gets from soap (we covered this shocking discovery in a previous entry). We explained that cups protect boys from a different kind of trauma. “They’re not really designed for girls,” I said, imagining their shape. Could I be more vague if I tried? Poor Meggie; I think she still wants one. I can't decide if it's because she likes baseball – she absolutely likes sports and is good at them – or because she views the cup and special holster-like underwear as another fashion accessory, sporty, unique, wearable over tights. With matching belt, scarf, shoes, jewelry... BAM!
The other day I heard, "Daddy is always happy." It was Megan's voice in the backseat and she said it again, "Daddy is always happy, Michael." I don't know what happened or what Michael said to get that response. But I was, well, happy to hear Megan say that.
Megan and Michael both had baseball / t-ball pictures Saturday. Michael's been through it before but it was the first for Mego. She was proud. So cute. She wore her baseball hat all weekend. My heart just about explodes whenever I think about it.
The route to Beijing usually takes us over the North Pole now, which is where I am as I type this, in seat 23B of a 777. I’m daydreaming how wonderful it’d be to have Megan on my lap now, sleeping peacefully (it just became an impossible dream), her soft hair under my chin. Maybe I could hold her dirty little hand. Even I cringe at the sight of her jagged cuticles and dirty nails after she eats anything at all. Of course, if we were snuggling together in this economy seat, we’d be terribly uncomfortable, crabby as hell, smashed and sweaty. We’d be smashed in the spatial sense, not via alcohol, although that can be arranged for free on international flights. For me, not Meg, of course, although a little sedative for Meg would be required FOR SURE on this 13 hour flight. She would go postal. Actually, in my daydream I just moved her to her own seat; her bony bottom was charlie-horsing my thigh every time she shifted, which was every 10 seconds. For 13 hours. This trip, door to door, is kind of an endurance test. Michael would do okay I bet; I can imagine him right now seated by the window, looking down at the Arctic Circle, or Siberia, or wherever we are, imagining it was Hoth, pretending the giant AT-AT walkers were tromping through the snow on their way to crush the rebel base (see ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ if none of this rings a bell). I mentioned to the kids this morning that we fly over the North Pole. Megan got pretty excited. I told her I’d look for Rudolph and that red-suited fat guy. I’m sure you can see it from space, Santa’s massive compound, all lit up, the toy factory and elf dormitory and reindeer stable. There must be confectionaries, a sleigh repair and auto body, a chocolate factory, a Starbucks. Regarding my latest trip to China, Megan asked me, “Do you talk Chinese?” I said, “No.” She said, “Dad, that’s bad.” I remember the rhyme. Megan continued, “How are they gonna tell you where the chocolate bunnies are, and the Pokemon cards, if you can’t find them at the store?” Yes, Easter is here and Megan wants chocolate bunnies… from China. Ha. I don’t think they’re really big on Christianity – or Easter – in China. I’ll find some chocolate for sure, because, as I told Megan, “Don’t worry Sweetheart, Daddy has lots of Chinese friends in China who can speak Chinese.”
On the eighth day, God made Skype. After napping on day 7. Getting to see and interact with the kids via portable video is pretty remarkable. Sara moves her PC so I can ‘be with’ the kids when they’re at the table eating, at the Lego table playing, on the couch, in the bathtub, etc. We have a ‘no screens’ rule at bedtime (no Nintendo DS, no cell phone videos, no cell phone games), but maybe Sara will let me read or tell them a bedtime story from China.
The other day I heard, "Daddy is always happy." It was Megan's voice in the backseat and she said it again, "Daddy is always happy, Michael." I don't know what happened or what Michael said to get that response. But I was, well, happy to hear Megan say that.
Megan and Michael both had baseball / t-ball pictures Saturday. Michael's been through it before but it was the first for Mego. She was proud. So cute. She wore her baseball hat all weekend. My heart just about explodes whenever I think about it.
The route to Beijing usually takes us over the North Pole now, which is where I am as I type this, in seat 23B of a 777. I’m daydreaming how wonderful it’d be to have Megan on my lap now, sleeping peacefully (it just became an impossible dream), her soft hair under my chin. Maybe I could hold her dirty little hand. Even I cringe at the sight of her jagged cuticles and dirty nails after she eats anything at all. Of course, if we were snuggling together in this economy seat, we’d be terribly uncomfortable, crabby as hell, smashed and sweaty. We’d be smashed in the spatial sense, not via alcohol, although that can be arranged for free on international flights. For me, not Meg, of course, although a little sedative for Meg would be required FOR SURE on this 13 hour flight. She would go postal. Actually, in my daydream I just moved her to her own seat; her bony bottom was charlie-horsing my thigh every time she shifted, which was every 10 seconds. For 13 hours. This trip, door to door, is kind of an endurance test. Michael would do okay I bet; I can imagine him right now seated by the window, looking down at the Arctic Circle, or Siberia, or wherever we are, imagining it was Hoth, pretending the giant AT-AT walkers were tromping through the snow on their way to crush the rebel base (see ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ if none of this rings a bell). I mentioned to the kids this morning that we fly over the North Pole. Megan got pretty excited. I told her I’d look for Rudolph and that red-suited fat guy. I’m sure you can see it from space, Santa’s massive compound, all lit up, the toy factory and elf dormitory and reindeer stable. There must be confectionaries, a sleigh repair and auto body, a chocolate factory, a Starbucks. Regarding my latest trip to China, Megan asked me, “Do you talk Chinese?” I said, “No.” She said, “Dad, that’s bad.” I remember the rhyme. Megan continued, “How are they gonna tell you where the chocolate bunnies are, and the Pokemon cards, if you can’t find them at the store?” Yes, Easter is here and Megan wants chocolate bunnies… from China. Ha. I don’t think they’re really big on Christianity – or Easter – in China. I’ll find some chocolate for sure, because, as I told Megan, “Don’t worry Sweetheart, Daddy has lots of Chinese friends in China who can speak Chinese.”
On the eighth day, God made Skype. After napping on day 7. Getting to see and interact with the kids via portable video is pretty remarkable. Sara moves her PC so I can ‘be with’ the kids when they’re at the table eating, at the Lego table playing, on the couch, in the bathtub, etc. We have a ‘no screens’ rule at bedtime (no Nintendo DS, no cell phone videos, no cell phone games), but maybe Sara will let me read or tell them a bedtime story from China.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Dad Entry #92
We visited Minnesota recently. The seating arrangement at meals is a pressing matter for Megan and Ellie. Who gets to sit by Gramma? (This is the most coveted place.) Then: What about Uncle Dan? Whadda we do with Papa Mike? And so on. Frenzied negotiations ensue. Important stuff. Sometimes bitterly fought over. And protested. As adults we long for the days when our biggest stressors were these kinda things.
Megan and I were discussing lucky numbers. I told her mine is eleven, because Papa Swede was in the 55th Armored Infantry Battalion of the 11th Armored Division. Megan didn't understand any of that. I said, "What's your lucky number?" She said, "One thousand!" I said, "Oh, wow, I guess we can fit that on a jersey." I think preschoolers drop big numbers like adults do big names. Megan: "I have like fifty hundred stickers." Daddy: "Oh yeah, well Steve Jobs called Papa Mike one time."
In church Michael leaned over and said to me, "Did you know that in a black hole, there's no time?"
I said to Michael, "Did you know if you turn off a lamp, there's no light?" Just kidding. (Nice little hint at "The Breakfast Club" there.) I never poke fun at Michael's enthusiasm for amazing things. It's awesome. He has an awesome brain!
Earlier Michael told me, "Did you know that Americans eat enough pizza every year to cover New York City... twice." He gets these cool facts from his National Geographic Kids magazines.
Megan has fun facts of her own. She told me, "Daddy, it takes 9 hours to fly to Hawaii, did you know that? You have to fly, and it takes 9 hours!" (Megan's teacher went to Hawaii.) Or a couple days ago when we were driving Meg said, "Did you know there are trucks full of pigs, and when you drive by them you can see their snouts! They all stick out! And pigs make bacon, did you know that?"
Megan has had some deep thoughts lately about the 'Jesus world'. This is synonymous with earthly death for her; you die and go to 'Jesus world'. Cool. I dig it. I agree. She's in CCD or 'church school' on Sundays, plus she goes to a Lutheran preschool. And we pray and so on... I guess we shouldn't be surprised. Megan will say, "In the Jesus world we could see Belle!" Or, when Mommy threatens to take Pokemon cards away for bad behavior, and she makes it clear they are gone 'for good', the kids will never get them back, Meggie might say, "What about in the Jesus world?" While looking up into the night sky Megan asked Mommy, "So after all that space and moons and stuff, it's pretty much all Jesus world, right?"
Megan and I were discussing lucky numbers. I told her mine is eleven, because Papa Swede was in the 55th Armored Infantry Battalion of the 11th Armored Division. Megan didn't understand any of that. I said, "What's your lucky number?" She said, "One thousand!" I said, "Oh, wow, I guess we can fit that on a jersey." I think preschoolers drop big numbers like adults do big names. Megan: "I have like fifty hundred stickers." Daddy: "Oh yeah, well Steve Jobs called Papa Mike one time."
In church Michael leaned over and said to me, "Did you know that in a black hole, there's no time?"
I said to Michael, "Did you know if you turn off a lamp, there's no light?" Just kidding. (Nice little hint at "The Breakfast Club" there.) I never poke fun at Michael's enthusiasm for amazing things. It's awesome. He has an awesome brain!
Earlier Michael told me, "Did you know that Americans eat enough pizza every year to cover New York City... twice." He gets these cool facts from his National Geographic Kids magazines.
Megan has fun facts of her own. She told me, "Daddy, it takes 9 hours to fly to Hawaii, did you know that? You have to fly, and it takes 9 hours!" (Megan's teacher went to Hawaii.) Or a couple days ago when we were driving Meg said, "Did you know there are trucks full of pigs, and when you drive by them you can see their snouts! They all stick out! And pigs make bacon, did you know that?"
Megan has had some deep thoughts lately about the 'Jesus world'. This is synonymous with earthly death for her; you die and go to 'Jesus world'. Cool. I dig it. I agree. She's in CCD or 'church school' on Sundays, plus she goes to a Lutheran preschool. And we pray and so on... I guess we shouldn't be surprised. Megan will say, "In the Jesus world we could see Belle!" Or, when Mommy threatens to take Pokemon cards away for bad behavior, and she makes it clear they are gone 'for good', the kids will never get them back, Meggie might say, "What about in the Jesus world?" While looking up into the night sky Megan asked Mommy, "So after all that space and moons and stuff, it's pretty much all Jesus world, right?"
Monday, March 28, 2011
Save The Earth
I am so proud of Michael. He really is such a cool kid. A few weeks ago, we were going to the park. When we arrived, he decided that he wanted to clean up all the garbage stuck in the winters undergrowth. Conveniently, the park we were at was across the street from the police station, so we went to ask for a bag for our clean up session. The police in the office were very impressed with Michael (of course).
We proceeded to clean up for an hour and gathered a huge garbage bag full of gunk. I was shocked that there was so much, and Michael was disappointed in the human race, that we could be so careless. He decided right then to start a club: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle Club. He came home and made posters for his friends that wanted to join, as well as permission slips so that their parents would be aware of what they had committed to. We resolved to pick a new park to clean every week this summer. How awesome is THAT, coming from a 7 year old?!
He makes my heart happy and hopeful.
We proceeded to clean up for an hour and gathered a huge garbage bag full of gunk. I was shocked that there was so much, and Michael was disappointed in the human race, that we could be so careless. He decided right then to start a club: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle Club. He came home and made posters for his friends that wanted to join, as well as permission slips so that their parents would be aware of what they had committed to. We resolved to pick a new park to clean every week this summer. How awesome is THAT, coming from a 7 year old?!
He makes my heart happy and hopeful.
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