Dad Entry #120

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, my clothes were washed without much effort on my part. At a maximum, I delivered them to a closet or placed them in a hamper, I don't recall specifics. Maybe I threw strikes with socks, and sank buzzer-beaters with balled-up jeans. But that was it, the extent of my laundry duties. Although, there were rules; I'm pretty sure leaving items inside-out and tossed about my room was frowned upon. And I think my washing-person (thanks, Mom) appreciated a heads-up if things were caked with mud or permanent markered or somehow in tatters. But these things, like so many others, were noticed and handled with or without any awareness or courtesy from me. Sure, I was yelled at for the unexpected destruction of new or nice outfits. Otherwise, my dirty clothes always quietly reappeared, fluffed and fresh and delightfully scented, as if by magic. At some age I was trusted with the tiny follow-up task of putting my clothes away, jamming them into drawers, from a neatly folded stack left on the bed. But never once did I have to repeatedly wear dirty clothes (despite a desire to do so, perhaps); never once was this important, taken-for-granted service withheld. And now I'm certain it wasn't magic, because I'm the magician. The circle of life. Illustrated by laundry. As I've mentioned before, it's heartwarming, even if tedious, to fold a pile of princess socks, undies with rainbows and butterflies, delicates with kittens and bows. As long I fold laundry while watching Sportscenter, or some hunting show, I can admit, appreciate, and write about the smile this puts on my face.

Michael and I are taking archery together. We both hit multiple bulls-eyes last week. We're proud. We're improving, and our instructors are Olympic caliber shooters. For real; I'm not kidding for once. We use recurve bows; of course the one I use is much larger, and my arrows are longer, than Michael's. They provide the gear. It's great; I'm happy and grateful Sara found the course in the Palatine Park District catalog and signed us up. I suffer a bit of a dilemma when shooting a bow, just as with a shotgun, since I'm right-handed but left eye dominant. Michael doesn't have this excuse :) I think it helped me in baseball, however, as a righty hitter. So go the pros and cons of our God-given physicalities, each unique, and if you think about it, miraculous. Like I tell my kids: you are the technology. The standard, the amazing thing. Not that Motorola smartphone you're playing games on, not your Xoom tablet, your DS, your Wii, the television, the car, the Space Shuttle even... YOU! The best and brightest engineers can't create it, or recreate it, what God has given you. For free! Use it! Enjoy it. And please take care of it, for your own sake, and, I'd humbly suggest, to show your gratitude.

Dad Entry #119

I was washing Meg's hair in the bath yesterday when she said, "Watch out, I'm about to fart!" Sure enough, her warning was abruptly followed by a water-muffled – but very recognizable! – sound, and then a rising formation of bubbles. Thankfully, the passion fruit shampoo was strongly scented. There was a momentary battle for aromatic supremacy, if you will, in my nostrils. But Megan's fumes aren't very noxious. Of course not. Michael's, however, are downright peel-the-paint deadly. He could win contests. He's right up there with Uncle Scott when it comes to abilities of this sort. Uncle Scott... to be honest, it's a painful memory. He locked the windows of his Jeep Cherokee onetime and then dropped a chemical weapon that nearly killed his passengers, me and Papa Mike. I recall writhing and clawing at the window controls to no avail. The black curtain was closing (mercifully, I was blacking-out) but Papa Mike’s cacophonous hacking and gagging jarred me awake again. Neither of us were granted trauma-induced amnesia, which is tragic, but it's why we can corroborate, to this day, the claim that Uncle Scott is in a league of his own. He has no peers. Yeah, on second thought, I can't put Michael at the same potency level as Scott. Michael's young, he hasn't mastered the art yet, tinkered with every type of food and beer; he might describe himself as just a Padawan. But some day.... God help us if we end up with two Jedi's in the family. And during an otherwise pleasant moment – and in a poorly ventilated area – they decide to do battle.

Megan is good at spilling things.

We have fashion emergencies occasionally when Daddy's place doesn't have enough pants, or jeans, or shirts or skirts or leggings or headbands or blouses or sweaters or hose choices, et cetera, et cetera. And they’re four-alarmers according to Meg, dire emergencies. Truthfully, I agree and sympathize. Really, I do. I don't like having mismatching or limited clothing choices either. Mommy and I do our best to make sure this happens rarely.

Megan has my eyebrows. According to Sara, anyway. I was smiling when Sara pointed this out – I'm proud of everything I share with Megan – but then I realized it wasn't a happy announcement. I get it; I understand why it's bad news. Fast-growing, thick, bushy, coarse, unruly, gnarly, dark eyebrows like mine aren't ideal on a beautiful little female face. Fine. Megan might rather have a pair with smaller footprints, and of a thinner, lighter composition. She might prefer eyebrows she won't have to painfully pluck and groom… forever. Sorry, Meg. But I think they're perfect. I think YOU are perfect.

On Friday night, we went to the Palatine High School girls basketball game. Michael won tickets as part of a reading program at Sanborn. It was great; the kids were excited by it all, the players and cheerleaders, the exuberant announcer and even louder buzzer!! There were flag-twirlers and dancers and a spirited halftime show. Sara asked Megan, "Hey Sugar-Bean, would you rather be a basketball player or a cheerleader?" Megan said, "Neither, I wanna be a veterinarian." Megan's a big-picture gal.

A New Cousin! Andrew Squish-A-Lish

The squooshiest baby that ever was! The kids were thrilled to be there to meet their new cousin, Andrew Jonathan, on January 12th. Megan was flagrantly smitten – Michael was a little more secretive about it. Megan is now an expert on all things childbirth (so might I recommend not bringing it up) and plotted ways to take Andrew home with her. I did not hesitate to foil her big plans. Now I am itching to see him again and kinda wish we had sneaked him out the door with us.

Dad Entry #118

Last night Megan said, "Michael doesn't like me. He doesn't like me even a little bit." This wasn't a shocking charge by any means; the kids spar a lot and Michael often appears indifferent or annoyed at all-things-Megan. But, of course, Megan is a huge planet in Michael's universe. Michael loves her; he's always aware of her - whether he lets on or not - and I've seen him adamantly defend her if things approach any seriousness with others. (This is good.) So I tried to allegorize Michael's true feelings by telling Meg, "Sweetheart, if you moved to Africa, Michael would miss you terribly. He would cry." Megan thought for a moment and said, "Yeah, but do you know who would cry the most?" I answered, very theatrically (and truthfully!), "Me, of course! I would cry the most! I would cry like a big fat humongous baby!" Megan said, "No, you would stop before Mommy. You would stop crying after, like, a lot of days but Mommy would cry everyday forever." It was a crazy scenario to consider, her moving to Africa, but all the crying it would cause seemed to cheer Megan up.

I visited Grandpa Bev in Clearwater over the weekend. Awesome. She is so awesome. Uncle Wayne is too, and Ursula, and Dick. Really, really enjoyed a night out with Wayne. A remarkable guy, of course. We covered a lot of ground discussing philosophy, spirituality, marriage, the family. We drank a lot. And we had an altercation. Wayne, on some level, seems to attract them. He's an alpha in the purest sense. Pretty fearless. (Like Papa Mike, I would say.) Some guy mouthed off to him at the bar and I new instantly it would escalate. Wayne was right; the guy needed to be challenged, and Wayne - who has taken and given more beatings than I ever will probably - did a fine job. The guy was threatening to split Wayne's head open or some nonsense, when the guy's friends pulled him away. I was taller and younger - believe it or not - than anyone immediately involved, and these things are almost always all talk nowadays, so I just stood by Wayne and was okay with it all. It did, however, raise my blood pressure and Wayne, as cool as ever, poked a little fun at me afterward, for my shifting eyes and quicker speech, even after things had abated. It makes we wonder how/when/why/where Michael will encounter and participate in these kind of male rituals, these conflicts. Every man gets into it with other guys, and takes and gives some abuse, whether physical or emotional, I don't think it matters; it's a fight. Is it better or worse that we live in such a litigious society? You could argue - because just punching someone can lead to so much legal trouble - we're less inclined to go that route. Perhaps we're more policed, as well, in the neighborhoods I go, at least, on the northside of Chicago. Southside = different story. But I don't see many fights. Although you hear more about guns, these days, in clubs and bars. I would guess Michael will be more of a big-picture peacemaker like me, and maybe a little less in-the-moment like Uncle Wayne and Papa Mike. Honestly, I don't know which 'way' I'd prefer he be; I don't know which way anyone is, for sure. I think it's silly to absolutely label people as one type or another. I know this, however; I hope Micheal's big, strong, quick, and capable, regardless what his methods are for defusing or resolving these situations.

Michael possesses a nice equanimity. And it's nice for him! Not just for his family, his friends, and everyone else he encounters. It's awkward for others when a person has anxiety or anger or attention or arrogance issues, sure, (let's call them 'self-control issues') but it's the perpetrator who suffers most, obviously, in the long run, if not immediately. I really admire Michael's disposition, his temperament, his presence. It's more my style. Is it stupid for me to say that, since I'm his father? Maybe not, I mentioned some other guys in his family above. And I admire many things about them, too.

Dad Entry #117

This comment is perhaps random, silly, and uninteresting (gee, maybe I should stop there) but the concept of personal preference fascinates me. It truly differentiates us all. What does it reveal? I don't know. Gotta ask someone like Sigmund Freud, I guess. Although, on second thought, I'd prefer we look through the lens of a less, well, honest-but-awkward psychoanalyst. Anyway, one of my favorite scenes is the quick-mart / gas station stop on a roadtrip with the kids. We did this a few times during holiday travels. "Pick a snack," I say. Vegas won't even put odds on Megan's choice; chocolate is a shoo-in. She will, however, select a granola bar if I nix the candy. And bottled water is almost certainly her drink. A creature of habit. Michael's less predicable (in this meaningless scenario, at least). His instant preoccupation is with beverages (uh-oh), not candy. He browses the glass-doored coolers first. Or he'll ask for a slurpee or slushy before we even step inside. And he prefers salty snacks to sugary ones. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?! Nothing, really, it's just something else to drone on about. Although, the following question is important, and very mysterious: How is it my kids don't love cheese curls? I mean love, as in LOVE, as in preferred over all else. Because that's the way I love cheese curls. That's the aisle I run to. Sure, my kids enjoy Cheetos. But not with any fervor! Not with insatiable lust! So why is that? Cheese curls are hands down the best snack ever invented - the inventor, without question, deserves a Nobel or knighthood or sainthood or something - and the strength with which I hold this conviction, the depth with which it's ingrained in my bones and being, the quenchlessness of my cravings... it must be hereditary, right? It must be present somewhere on that crazy helix, the color-coded toylike thing scientists say is my DNA. RIGHT?! So wouldn't it have passed to my children? I guess not. Maybe it's a recessive gene. Oh, so I can blame it on Sara? Way to go, Mommy; you ruined it for them.

Back in DE#116 (my new super-creative abbreviation scheme), I mentioned that my sweet Meg-Pie voiced her aversion to sweating, or, presumably, activities that induce this vexing, discomforting, annoying, chafing - horrible! - response to physical activity and effort. (I like to sweat, and so do millions of other people, but this isn't about us, this is about the cutest girl on the planet.) So anyway, I want to revisit this, and assure you Megan's not exhibiting any kind or imperious hyper-feminity. She's no tom-boy; but she's no diva, either. She's Megan. She still gets food on her face. And leaves it there. In public, even. And it's no bizarre fashion statement, ala Gaga, or goth or grunge. And Megan gets the worst chapped lips EVER! Again, not very womanish. But she does like fancy outfits, not-very-subtle ensembles with scarves and hairbands and gaudy accessories. At church, especially, she is always fabulously dressed and shod, and sometimes freshly mani-ed and pedi-ed (but never spray-tanned, thank God). And Megan likes to nest and organize too; there's a real streak of nurturer in there (a trait often considered more feminine than otherwise). But she'll roughhouse and wrestle with Michael and me.... So there you go, as with all of us - especially women! - Megan is too complex to characterize.

Dan Entry #116

Michael was pretty great over Christmas. I don't think it's overstate-able. I'm not exaggerating when I say he was perfectly fun, polite, positive, active, thoughtful, grateful... in a word, awesome. It's not everyday a man feels pride when compared to an 8-year-old, but I'm proud when my mom / Grandma Barb says, "He's like you, Dan." We both have flaws, but I know my heart's big and in the right place, and his is too. He has such a refreshingly sanguine disposition. I did have a thought regarding Christmas, though.... does Megan deserve some credit for this rose-colored recollection of Michael? Does an angel look more like an angel next to someone who is not? My sweetheart wasn't entirely sweet. Overall, she was a jewel - of course - but she had some all-too-public issues with crabbiness and gift-receiving-etiquette-and-gratitude. It's true, we had one of those moments. She didn't like one of her presents and protested. She didn't hold back much. It was a bit shocking. I had to pick my jaw off the floor and whisk her away for a brusque one-way conversation. She was exhausted, and over-excited, sure, but those excuses are inadequate. I would still, however, summarize Christmas 2011 this way: my kids were terrific and I'm very grateful for them and we had a fantastic holiday. But... was I rooting for some random rotten kid to throw a tantrum in church while Megan sat there beautifully quiet and cherublike? Absolutely! And did I feel bad when Megan saw her presents from Santa and blurted, "He didn't bring me coal!" No! I did not! Megan knew she'd screwed up the night before - and she was scolded for it - despite some continued defiance. She's a stubborn little thing. I hope that strength is always focused in a positive direction. If so, it will serve her well.

Megan said, "Daddy, you make the best frozen waffles!" Talk about proud moments in my life. My cooking skills are improving - with recipes that don't involve anything frozen - but this dubious praise reminded me I'm still no Jamie Oliver.

We were talking about the kids' organized activities the other day. I asked Megan if she wants to play T-ball again. She said, "No." I said, "Why not?" She said, "I tried it and I didn't like it." I said, "But it looked like you enjoyed it, Honey." She said, "Yes, but I remember that time I sweated." Oh dear....

I am struggling a little now with having one of each, a son and a daughter, a boy and a girl. I love it - pretty sure that's obvious - but it presents challenges. Michael doesn't like Barbies; Megan doesn't love open gym. Megan wants a bedtime story about puppies; Michael wants one about pirates. And so on. Megan's not a fan of Clone Wars; Michael doesn't like Mickey Mouse. (I think it's cute Meg still likes Mickey's Playhouse; probably because it's interactive and musical.) And apparently Megan doesn't like to sweat.

Yesterday, Michael called Megan 'an insignificant little child'. Yikes. So Megan called Michael 'dumb'. Simple, but effective. It was a tough bout to score, but I ruled it a draw. As usual, I was impressed with Michael's use of vocabulary. And he wields condescension with a surgeon's precision. His word-choice was notable, but so was his delivery, equal parts contentious and dismissive. Well done. As for Megan's response, upon further examination I found it less simple than at first glance. Her uncaring, cheerful aloofness was perhaps very calculated, and strenuously maintained, despite the sting of Michael's opening volley. See, Megan is not one to remain composed during emotional moments without effort. And Megan's cuter than a box full of kittens. There's that. So I deemed the performances of both combatants exceptional. Therefore, a draw.

Dad Entry #115

Christmas is here! Almost. The trees are up, lights are out, carols are looping. Catalogs are being combed, lists drafted (and then redrafted, appended, expanded, rebroadcasted). Actually, the kids haven't been too frenzied about it. Michael basically asked for... books. Only books. We had to prod him to include toys. We were like, "Dude, you're eight. And it's Christmas." Thankfully - or we would've felt like austere or puritanical parents - Meggie wants a million things. Although, that's not true either; she's not exactly ravenous. She's been more chirpy with gift ideas, though, which has Sara and I back to thinking we're normal, slouchy parents. Thank God. Megan's even had a few bouts of mind-changing and indecision, which has frustrated some attempts to buy for her. Legos or dolls, dolls or Legos? Just pick one! Santa needs to know! Megan's fondness for Legos is cute; it hearkens back to her toddler days of doing big-pieced wooden puzzles. She likes to piece things together. And Christmas isn't complete without Nicolas (our 'Elf on the Shelf'). He's confounding Megan again this year (or terrifying her, we're not sure which). Meggie's amazed by his nightly relocation, but also a bit creeped out. I don't blame her. Pretty sure there are horror movies with 'Elf on the Shelf' characters in them. As for Michael, well, he still accepts Nicolas and Santa with the kind of positive aplomb he accepts most things.

Michael's playing bball again. Good man. He's big. We just gotta work on those hands.

We went to 'Go Roma' for dinner a few nights ago. It's one of Meggie's fave restaurants. I ordered the tilapia. Meg looked at it and said, "Is that fish?" I nodded. She said, "I'm gonna pray for that fish tonight, Dad. That fish is an animal, it's not nice to eat it." For real? Where did Megan hear that? Oprah? Ellen? Who knows.

Speaking of food, I noticed, recently, a disturbing deformity plaguing every single item on a kitchen cabinet shelf. Cereal, granola bars, fruit roll-ups, crackers... all the same. I'm still investigating, but would hazard the following: my kids are really bad at opening new food boxes. I mean in a manner that renders them not ripped and destroyed. Lid flaps beware; you will be shredded. And that stupid, little, paper-thin tab that's supposed to be a latch? Ha, torn off and discarded already.

I took the kids to the Secret Shop at Sanborn. Their grade school hosts a holiday pancake breakfast along with a sort of impromptu venue for gift shopping, a portable market with themed tables full of assorted trinkets and gadgets (mostly inexpensive, ugly things... just kidding). There are tables with knick-knacky toys, sport paraphernalia, jewelry, stuff for pets, and so on. The kids can pick presents for loved ones. And it's all them; they browse and decide on their own. The results are often entertaining. You guys all got fabulous gifts. Oh yes! You better wear and display and use them with pride!

Dad Entry #114

The kids are doing well in school. We had parent-teacher conferences. Michael's glowing review from Mrs. Gasunas included accolades and anecdotes like – this was my favorite – “I wish I had 20 Michael’s in my class” and – Sara’s favorite – “Michael made Thanksgiving cards for everyone. On his own; it was not an assignment.” Megan’s ahead of the curve also; she enjoys learning, is energetic, artistic, well-behaved, social but capable of independence, only moderately moody, and – with the exception of an occasional ‘3’ written backwards or moments of confusing ‘b’ and ‘d’ – she's wicked smart! Just like Mom and Dad. And she's exceptional with scissors. Mrs. Kravitz showed us a project that involved cutting. Megan is very precise! Why is scissor-work the most important, you ask? Well, it's proof of her superior fine motor skills. I'm proud of this because I know – with ZERO doubts whatsoever – that her all-star hand-eye coordination is of patriarchal lineage. Megan might play a great shortstop someday like her Daddy. Although, Papa John’s a good golfer and ballplayer, too. So maybe she gets it from the Ploehn’s also, whatever; M & M are like the rest of us, a great swirling mixture of remarkable ancestors. Sara and I are feeling lucky today; M & M – or 'M & m' as Sara writes it – are pretty terrific. Of course, these sentiments are subject to review and minor downgrade at any moment, especially during their teenage years, or, hell, after mornings like yesterday when Megan woke up crabby, so Michael – in accordance with a practiced skill of his – threw gas on the fire. He can be impressively snooty and snappy with her, always at the wrong time. Although, he considers it perfect timing, I’m sure. Things can deteriorate to pandemonium except that I’m a Super-Dad and I squash it immediately. Or not.

I was thinking the other day about Michael’s very first reaction to Megan, when Mommy was still in the hospital bed, and Gramma and Grammie brought Michael into the room, and there was this noisy little hours-old blanket-bundle with a cute face – Megan – being lavished with affection, so clearly the new center of the universe…. Naturally, it didn't take long for Michael’s feelings on the matter to crystallize. He was not a fan! “Put it away,” he said. And the next day when it was time for everyone to go home, he was pretty adamant about wanting to leave Megan at the hospital.

Michael informed us a few days ago, "I am exceeding the state standards in every subject." Alright then. I guess that’s good. Well done, Son. I’m not making fun; Michael's bright and eager to learn, and this attitude, harnessed and directed appropriately, will make his life more fulfilling. In the meantime, maybe the government should ask for his solutions to the debt crisis? Perhaps the UN could brief him on world hunger and consider his proposals? I'm sure physicists are wondering where he stands on a unified field theory.

Yes, Michael's a bookworm. He consumes books like Papa Mike does salt. Grammie salts everything too, I think. Except for melon, which Michael was a little perplexed too observe Papa John doing one beautiful summer day. He reported to me this bizarre behavior and I shared with him my philosophy: cucumbers, French fries, and corn-on-the-cob. Those three. That’s it.

M, M and A (Annabelle) pics

Kiss From Anna


Bedtime


Still Sleepy in the Morning

Another Halloween Pic: Megan's Candy List

Halloween 2011

The Face That Launched a Thousand Nicknames

Megan
Meg
Meggie
Meg-O
Scrambled Megs
Zegzan
Peg
Peggy
Peg Peg
Peglet
Meglet
Nutmeg
Meg Pie
Peg Pie
Mei Mei
Pei Pei
Mimi
Meems
Moo
Lulu
Laylie
Loolie


I feel relatively certain I will add to this list as I talk to her, so I am sure you will all want to check back to this riveting post.

Dad Entry #113

Halloween was a success. By my metrics, anyway, which include things like: 1) Megan didn't fall ass-over-teakettle bounding down concrete patio steps in her too-long, hoop-y wedding dress and heels, and 2) Michael's nasty cough subsided long enough for him to trick-or-treat, and 3) The neighbor pulled a wagon with beers hidden in a blanket-covered false bottom, and 4) Michael got two lemonhead candies - big ones, shooter-marble-sized - which I promptly stole to enjoy next week when posting up at the end of some long creek bed, swale, cornfield, or finger of forest waiting for pheasants to fly out. Life is good.

Megan asked me repeatedly, "What are you going to be for Halloween, Dad?" She never seemed bummed that my responses were insincere or noncommittal, "I'm gonna be a Jedi," or, "I'm not sure Honey, what do you think I should be?" Her answer? A prince. She is so awesome. I think I better dress up next year. At least in an Elvis wig and sideburns and sunglasses. Not a prince but a king, the king. Or maybe my dad still has one of his old leisure suits, that'd be enough.

Megan is spelling an important word correctly now. Luv is Love. I prefer the former - which she's scribbled on several notes for me - but I've grudgingly endorsed the proper spelling.

Michael and I watched Iowa State pound Texas Tech on Saturday. On the road in Lubbock. The Cyclones just ran 'em over, 41-7. Over 300 yards rushing. I tried to conceal my surprise from Michael. I was pacin' and freakin' until it was almost like, dude, relax, even the Bears couldn't come back from this deficit. I sensed my nervousness had leaked out a tiny bit - like when I lept out of my chair and flexed and growled on touchdowns and turnovers - so for Michael's benefit, I nonchalantly mumbled a few things like, "Piece o' cake, on the road in Texas is ALWAYS a Cyclone victory." Whether Michael caught it as a reference to ISU's victory in Austin last year, as well, I'm not sure. The Cyclones were a freight train and I'm proud.

Dad Entry #112

Megan was looking at something on my Xoom tablet. She said, "Daddy, it isn't stuff about me?" I said, "What?" She said, "I don't see stuff about me." I inquired further and discovered she was Googling herself. Ha! She had entered her name - "Megan Cox" - into the Google search field and was examining the results. She said, "I wanna find pictures of me, like when I was a baby!" Awesome. Michael's been Googling things lately (don't worry, he's always properly supervised) and apparently his little sister has caught on. Although, I suppose, not entirely... when you're only 6 you don't comprehend how big the world is. Then in school, maybe, you're led to believe our planet is expansive and diverse - and it is, of course, in many ways - before you circle back again, and question that, and recognize how, in other ways, it's not as big as you thought... or so it's been for me; I seem to alternate between those polar sentiments. I experience 'small world' moments, chance encounters, six degrees of separation, the human condition. Then I think of the volume of space at the deepest parts of our oceans, miles and miles below the surface; apparently there are even lifeforms there, eyeless fish, giant squids, enormous spider crabs (I learned this with Michael). Or I think why haven't I set foot on the African continent yet? Why haven't I been to India, or Brazil, or Fenway?

Michael is going to be Joe Mauer for Halloween. Not bad. A very relaxed, pure hitter.

Then there's Megan. Oh, Megan. A bride? Really? Can't that wait, Sweetie-heart, for, well, ever?!?!

Megan doesn't read much yet, only 'sight words' or little 'popcorn words' as they're taught in kindergarten. So when she 'reads' aloud to herself, she's aided by pictures and perhaps some memory (of an earlier adult reading), but otherwise it's imagination, improv, off-the-cuff. She's pretty good at it! She provides great meandering, colorful narration for each page, stories within stories superbly expressed. I shall hereby present to you a sterling example: Megan was reading a book about puppies and said, "She nestled him in warmness." That is a knockout, awesome sentence! Original, fluid, with an active verb, full of feeling but not too wordy, and it elicits a sort of sensory recognition or memory. Right?! It's a homerun, touch 'em all, Baby! I mean didn't just hearing that sentence make you feel warm and cozy? Even though I guess it's about a girl holding her puppy. Whatev. It's choice. The work of a master. My daughter! My lyricist, poet, wordsmith... my angel! I wish I could do that, like Megan, put words together so perfectly. I was just reminded of something, a bonus question: "It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up." What character? What car?

New Ralph Lauren Ad (except her clothes are from Target)

Dad Entry #111

I love to watch Megan sleep. Yeah, still; it hasn't changed. Will I feel this way forever? I've decided it isn't creepy. Her college roommates might disagree. Her husband? Well, my hope is he'll have a daughter of his own, he'll understand, he'll call and say, "Ok, she's sleepin', come on over and watch her for a few, then we'll have a beer." Perfect. Except, I'll wanna peak in on my granddaughter, too. Just for a minute. That'd be swell. Sounds crazy, sure, but why would I feel any differently about Megan 30 years from now? I'll always appreciate her in peaceful repose - won't I? - as one stares for a moment at a masterpiece of art, reflecting on its timeless beauty, marveling at the creative forces that somehow produced it. Am I getting ahead of myself? I mentioned a while back that Megan was so perfectly occupying a sweet-spot of cuteness. And I lamented my belief it would end soon; I envisioned it as more of a peak than a plateau. I was wrong. Megan hasn't exited any sweet-spot yet, even though she's six now, and she was three or four back then. Her skinny jeans, her questions and comments, her voice (when it's not whiny), anything at all that she utters, her pigeon-toed-ness, her little girl imagination and thought processes, her doll-playing, her drawings, her laugh, her skirts and shirts and shoes and books... everything about her is still pretty damn cute.

Michael went to his first NFL game last Sunday. Adrian Peterson scored three TDs for him in the first quarter. AP cuts quicker than anyone in the game; it's an impressive thing to see in person. The Vikings hosted the Arizona Cardinals at the Dome. Papa and Gramma have great seats, and it's the loudest sports venue I've ever been to, a sea of screaming purple. Michael and I agreed afterwards we're still Bears fans, but it was awesome. When they blare Led Zeppelin's 'Immigrant Song' - "I come from the land of the ice and snow!" - I wanna run onto the field and tackle someone. Or everyone! I'm not sure Michael was as goose-bumped as I was at various points and plays, but it was a critical first step in the process of full-on indoctrination. Michael plays football at school now with friends. I did too for many years. Life is good.

It is impossible for my children to brush their teeth without getting toothpaste all over the sink and surrounding countertop. The only uncertainty is whether it'll be a mess of old-school white paste, or globs and streaks of blue gel. We have both.

The kids came to Motorola yesterday for lunch. They were excited. Me too. They both have multiple cell phones I've given them, ones that are old or don't make calls reliably - fallout from product development and defect resolution efforts :) - but have functional cameras, camcorders, speakers, WiFi, touchscreens, sensors, and everything else, most importantly they're capable of running all the games / puzzles / apps the kids install from the Google Android Market. They know their whiz-bang devices were designed and developed where their dad works. I hang a picture over my desk that Michael colored and wrote on a few years ago, in first grade I think; he finished the sentence, "When I am older I hope to follow in the footsteps of 'Dad. He makes phones. He is nice to me.'"

And Her Sixth Year Arrives

As I flip through these photos, I am shocked that our little girl is turning six years old. How did that happen? How does she already have all these little friends? How is she old enough to need to navigate social situations that come from multiple friendships? But here we are. And she'll only keep growing. Her birthday party was at the pool...and it made her so happy! That's usually my goal. Unless she's being stubborn, and then my goal is to be more stubborn than her, regardless of how ridiculous the topic is or how miserable it makes her when I win. Did I just say that out loud?

Take THAT, Floppy Tooth

Even a tooth that wants to hang on by a thread for weeks can't survive music class, baby! My little girl lost her first tooth on the eve of her 6th birthday...awesome!

Dad Entry #110

Michael doesn't like to be wrong. He likes admitting it even less. I've never encountered this trait before. I've never seen a bear crap in the woods either. Okay, I've seen the former, but only a million times. Sarcasm aside, I should add this about Michael: he isn't wrong very often.

My kids have a shitload of books. Sorry, but that statement needed emphasis. Profanity works pretty well for that. If you've ever been to a movie, or a ballgame, or a bar, or a meeting at work, you know it's true. I don't recommend it, but nobody's perfect. So everywhere I turn now I see books, kids books, on the shelves - duh! - but also on the tables, chairs, beds, counters, ottomans, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the hallway, in my car. I love it.

When I think about the things I know my kids will go through, as they grow, it's a tiny bit heartbreaking. Michael and Megan are lucky - and I am too - compared to many. But I'm not talking about poverty and destruction, severe emotional and physical pain. At least I hope I'm not! I'm talking about other 'things', as I've precisely labeled them. Difficult things. Moments of nervousness, embarrassment, sadness, betrayal, guilt. These are painful experiences too. I don't want my teenagers to cry. But they will. Prized friendships will explode - if only temporarily. They'll be rejected by the only person they'll ever love (until, a week later, they discover the next 'only person they'll ever love'). They'll make mistakes that hurt others, too. There will be accidents and missed opportunities. They'll take speech class. And then the 'only person they'll ever love' will be sitting in the front row - not even listening but this won't register - when a notecard is fumbled or missing, when cottonmouth and clamminess attack! I don't see how it's possible, but at some point my kids will experience failure, be disrespected, mocked, wrongly accused, overlooked, ignored, under-appreciated (or over-appreciated, this can have ill effects too). These things leave marks. I think of the prayer in Gethsemane, "Father, take this cup." But we are pushed into growth and change this way, like everyone else, a part of the awesomeness - thank you, Po - of being human; we are so similar. It's all good. I guess. I read a simple quote the other day: "Kids are inherently strong, not weak." True. I also read something like, "We should remember that childhood and young-adulthood are not preparation for life, but a significant portion of life itself." Also true. I wonder if my kids will even use notecards for speeches? They probably get teleprompters now.