Megan's cuticles need some attention. Real bad. Just sayin'.
I was the 'mystery reader' for Megan's kindergarten class last week. A mystery reader is a surprise visitor who - you guessed it - reads to the kids. When they saw me, one of them blurted, "Wow, you're tall!" and I wanted to give that kid 10 bucks. Hey, it was a nice thing to say, and like so much uttered by six-year-olds, it was spoken with near awe. So genuine and emphatic. You just don't get energetic compliments like that from adults. And I'm not that tall, actually. Anyway, my friends and I enjoyed a book about ladybugs. The kids all sat cross-legged on the floor. "Criss-cross-apple-sauce!" They hunched forward just enough they had to crane their necks to look up at me, like baby birds peering out of nests, or puppies. I was demonstrative and loud. I read with passion! Wonderful creatures, ladybugs! Everyone was attentive. Megan was front and center, right beneath my chair. She hugged my leg and beamed a smile and the world was just perfect for an instant.
Michael and I watched the last inning of the White Sox / Tigers game. Michael was pleased when the Tigers closer, Jose Valverde, came in. Valverde's a flamboyant character; he smiles big and hops around the mound, pumps his fists, and does other silly things. He's also an All-Star who's very tough to hit. He throws high-90's fastballs mixed with filthy breaking pitches. Nasty stuff. And he's big; he's 6-4 / 250. So I told Michael, "You're gonna be a big guy too, My Man, and if you put your whole body into it, every ounce of yourself, and deal it over 95 like Valverde here, and you have to precisely locate it, that's important too, but you'll figure that out," - at this point I had to stop speaking momentarily because I was working myself into a lather and breathless - "Anyway," I continued, "Michael, if you can do that, you can make millions and, AND... do you know what that means?!" Michael seemed both curious and concerned. Then he said, "I'll be rich?" I said, "Sure, yes, you'll be rich, of course, but what I was thinking is YOU CAN BUY YOUR OWN BARNES & NOBLE!!" Oh yeah, that got his attention!! Michael has asked, sincerely, what it would take to buy an entire Barnes & Noble store, and he's crystal clear about stating, "Not just the building, but every book on the shelves too." So, like any good father, I'm giving him practical advice, and an easy path to his dreams.
Michael and Megan often fight like cats and dogs, or, well, like siblings. Makes sense. When I tell them to cool it, they stop for a minute until, inevitably, one of them jabs or prods the other again - either verbally or physically - and the scuffle continues. That's when I'll give them a dramatic rendition of a speech, something short but lofty, something like, "Hey, knock it off and listen up! Is this what you want? Really?! You wanna be mean to each other?! You should reconsider... because this is life, and we're all in this together!!" Their annoyance is blunted by confusion after that, and only directed at me.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Tiny Dancer
So this recital was a big deal. It was at the local college, in a decent-sized venue. The show was longer than two hours, not that that's too long at ALL. Megan's class was the best, of course, outperforming the teenagers even. Michael leaned over during one pretty cool, kind of funky geisha number and said, "Except for Megan's, this is BY FAR my favorite." And he was right, it was awesome, but his disclaimer about Meg's class warmed my heart. He might have a supportive bone in his body after all!
Megan was proud and just thrilled with the whole experience. I think it made her feel like a movie star...and daddy giving her roses afterwards (you are welcome for the tip, Dan) sealed the deal. I think we might be signing up for dance again in the fall.
Megan was proud and just thrilled with the whole experience. I think it made her feel like a movie star...and daddy giving her roses afterwards (you are welcome for the tip, Dan) sealed the deal. I think we might be signing up for dance again in the fall.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Dad Entry #131
Megan is a slow eater. She dawdles and chirps and smiles. Even if she's starving and presented with something she REALLY loves - like a scoop of ice cream - she might take hours to eat it unless reminded there are other events - like bedtimes, and birthdays! - we'll miss if she doesn't eat a little faster.
I make the best PB & J for Michael's school lunches. We go with peanut butter and jelly when the turkey is slimy and smells bad. Just kidding, that never happens, although I do run out of Michael's favorite lunch meat sometimes. Anyway, I use good sturdy bread, but not too thick. A nice split-top whole wheat with honey and flax works, since you're dyin' to know. And here's the big secret: I score the bread. Score it before spreading the peanut butter on one half, and the jelly on the other. Then it kinda soaks in; it's almost a filling inside the bread, not just in between it. Yeah, I know, I'm a genius! Emeril, Martha, Jamie-what's-his-head who reinvented school lunches... they haven't called yet but they will.
The kids and I played with magnets the other day. It's the surest way to feel telekinetic. I tell Megan, "Just wait, Honey, don't touch the paperclip, I learned how to do something really amazing today, but I need to concentrate, if I really focus, if I really, really concentrate, I can actually move this paperclip without touching it...." Of course I have a magnet hidden under the paper or between my fingers. Meg-Pie's my favorite audience for simple tricks.
A favorite band of mine - called 'Live' - has a great song chorus that's apropos here. People like me who went to college in the mid-90's probably know Live's album "Throwing Copper" with songs like "Selling the Drama", "I Alone", and "Lightning Crashes". We overplayed this CD - while overconsuming cheap beer - for hours on end in bars and in my fraternity house. I remember abusing stuff by Blind Melon, Stone Temple Pilots, and Pearl Jam in much the same way. So I guess Live grew up like the rest of us. Someone in the band must have a daughter now because they have a song called "Heaven" with a refrain that goes like this: "I don't need no one to tell me about heaven, I look at my daughter, and I believe." Well... I agree.
I make the best PB & J for Michael's school lunches. We go with peanut butter and jelly when the turkey is slimy and smells bad. Just kidding, that never happens, although I do run out of Michael's favorite lunch meat sometimes. Anyway, I use good sturdy bread, but not too thick. A nice split-top whole wheat with honey and flax works, since you're dyin' to know. And here's the big secret: I score the bread. Score it before spreading the peanut butter on one half, and the jelly on the other. Then it kinda soaks in; it's almost a filling inside the bread, not just in between it. Yeah, I know, I'm a genius! Emeril, Martha, Jamie-what's-his-head who reinvented school lunches... they haven't called yet but they will.
The kids and I played with magnets the other day. It's the surest way to feel telekinetic. I tell Megan, "Just wait, Honey, don't touch the paperclip, I learned how to do something really amazing today, but I need to concentrate, if I really focus, if I really, really concentrate, I can actually move this paperclip without touching it...." Of course I have a magnet hidden under the paper or between my fingers. Meg-Pie's my favorite audience for simple tricks.
A favorite band of mine - called 'Live' - has a great song chorus that's apropos here. People like me who went to college in the mid-90's probably know Live's album "Throwing Copper" with songs like "Selling the Drama", "I Alone", and "Lightning Crashes". We overplayed this CD - while overconsuming cheap beer - for hours on end in bars and in my fraternity house. I remember abusing stuff by Blind Melon, Stone Temple Pilots, and Pearl Jam in much the same way. So I guess Live grew up like the rest of us. Someone in the band must have a daughter now because they have a song called "Heaven" with a refrain that goes like this: "I don't need no one to tell me about heaven, I look at my daughter, and I believe." Well... I agree.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Dad Entry #130
We ate at Billy's today, our favorite breakfast joint. Three teenager guys sat at a table next to us. They were tall. Almost as tall as me :) They wore loose sweats and Under Armor hoodies with "Palatine Pirates" printed on them. High-schoolers. They had that deliberately languid swagger of big, athletic 18-year-olds. They ate a ton. They lounged and laughed. Michael in about 10 years? I hope so.
Megan still can't eat chocolate chip pancakes without making an impressive mess, getting her favorite waxy substance on everything, in her hair, on her face, on her sleeves, under her fingernails. Under every fingernail. I thought about checking her little toes even though she had tennis shoes on.
I wonder how much longer I'll be able to wash Megan's hair. She asks me to help. Her hair was especially glossy and silky today, during her bath, since I used a humongous dollop - and some extra drizzles - of conditioner. I rinse her hair by dipping and pouring a Minnesota Twins souvenir cup from Target Field. I NEVER get shampoo in her eyes. Regarding the Twins cup, Papa Mike took us to a game there last summer. So we'll say this hair washing ritual is a mini-combo of two things I really love, Megan and MLB games with both Michael Byard Cox's.
Michael and Megan came to my softball game. They mostly dug in the dirt and tormented earthworms. That's okay. I didn't launch any homers or make any diving plays; I can see how the worms were more captivating. But do I wish it was a praying mantis, instead, that distracted them - perhaps one devouring its mate - or a toad or wounded bird or a colony of miniature aliens? Sure. My ego is telling me I was upstaged by worms. Although, I did hear Megan's sweet voice cheer for me a few times, and that's enough.
Megan still can't eat chocolate chip pancakes without making an impressive mess, getting her favorite waxy substance on everything, in her hair, on her face, on her sleeves, under her fingernails. Under every fingernail. I thought about checking her little toes even though she had tennis shoes on.
I wonder how much longer I'll be able to wash Megan's hair. She asks me to help. Her hair was especially glossy and silky today, during her bath, since I used a humongous dollop - and some extra drizzles - of conditioner. I rinse her hair by dipping and pouring a Minnesota Twins souvenir cup from Target Field. I NEVER get shampoo in her eyes. Regarding the Twins cup, Papa Mike took us to a game there last summer. So we'll say this hair washing ritual is a mini-combo of two things I really love, Megan and MLB games with both Michael Byard Cox's.
Michael and Megan came to my softball game. They mostly dug in the dirt and tormented earthworms. That's okay. I didn't launch any homers or make any diving plays; I can see how the worms were more captivating. But do I wish it was a praying mantis, instead, that distracted them - perhaps one devouring its mate - or a toad or wounded bird or a colony of miniature aliens? Sure. My ego is telling me I was upstaged by worms. Although, I did hear Megan's sweet voice cheer for me a few times, and that's enough.
Saturday, May 05, 2012
Wedding Sickness
A turn as a flower girl has left Megan reeling. She walked the aisle for our cousin Sarina at her wedding to Zac in Omaha last week. She had a hair appointment and her first updo and she was pleased as triple berry hawaiian punch. She was dazzling in sparkly heels and a pink dress with a giant bow in the back.
On the way to Omaha, we listened to "Where the Red Fern Grows." It was a pretty intense story...I remembered from my own childhood the sad ending. The kids were riveted. Michael and I marveled at how this kid spent entire nights out in the woods alone with two dogs, hunting wild animals. The story begins with the boy, Billy, pining for a pair of hunting dogs, describing the feeling as "dog sickness." Megan was listening intently and broke in with, "Oh, mom. I think I might have WEDDING SICKNESS."
Look at this beauty:
On the way to Omaha, we listened to "Where the Red Fern Grows." It was a pretty intense story...I remembered from my own childhood the sad ending. The kids were riveted. Michael and I marveled at how this kid spent entire nights out in the woods alone with two dogs, hunting wild animals. The story begins with the boy, Billy, pining for a pair of hunting dogs, describing the feeling as "dog sickness." Megan was listening intently and broke in with, "Oh, mom. I think I might have WEDDING SICKNESS."
Look at this beauty:
Friday, May 04, 2012
Dad Entry #129
We enjoyed a severe thunderstorm today. Before the downpour, we watched a wall of clouds approach. They looked thick and dark. Since I fancy myself smart and eloquent, I said, "Those clouds look thick and dark." Michael said, "Yeah, they're cumulonimbus clouds." I said, "Oh, sure, rain clouds." Michael said, "Well, no, you can't call them rain clouds because cumulonimbus also produce hail, sleet, and snow. And tornadoes. And lightning. Did you know lightening is hotter than the sun, Dad?" No, I didn't know that. How the hell did scientists figure that out, anyway? And what the hell is a coolio-whatsit cloud again?
I'm super-happy Michael's such a curious and bright kid. He's ebullient about learning! And effusive about sharing it! There are hints here, of course, but I absolutely never mock him. The more intellectual, learned, scholarly, sponge-y, the better, as far as I'm concerned. Let's be honest; I'm a nerd too. But I will always encourage physical pursuits and challenges, also. For example, I don't think Leonardo Da Vinci was much of an athlete. What does this have to do with anything? Well, to me it has to do with everything, literally, as in the definition of a Renaissance man. Da Vinci was a stunning artist, painter, sculptor, musician, mathematician, scientist, engineer, architect, botanist, inventor, anatomist, geologist, and writer. Great. But could he play ball? Did he step away from the easel, from the Mona Lisa or Last Supper, and go jump in a ball game? If not, frankly, this egregious deficiency calls into question his universally accepted status as a Renaissance man. Not cool, Leo! Historians might disagree with me, but they probably aren't obsessed with sports either; they're flawed, also. Anyway, Michael's smart and I love discussing things with him; I love hearing about his latest interests and reading material. Megan picks up on the vibe, too. Like me, I think she'll benefit from having a whiz for an older sibling. Michael crosses the 'showing off threshold' on occasion (e.g. cumulonimbus), but it doesn't bother me. Although, following our exchange about the clouds, I couldn't help but think of a scene in "The Breakfast Club"...
Johnson / Michael: "Did you know without Trigonometry there'd be no engineering?"
Bender / me: "Yeah, well without lamps, there'd be no light!"
Megan and I played Hangman the other day. Hangman is a Wheel-of-Fortune-like word-guessing game in case you grew up on Mars, or under strict Sharia law or something. Keep in mind, Megan's just learning to read and spell. So she carefully counted out and drew three spaces for letters, before zealously drawing the gallows. She looked pretty bloodthirsty. She smiled and said, "Ready, Dad!" I said, "You're a little too excited to hang me, I think, Sweetheart." I decided I was up against a three-lettered noun, so I guessed A. There was, indeed, an A, right about where I expected it, in the middle. I figured it wasn't too early to sandbag, so I asked for a Q, U, I and whatever else didn't feel right. Megan merrily went about drawing my hanging corpse. Then I threw a T at her. She sucked air through her teeth and grimaced, confirming my hunch the word was almost certainly a common pet, furry and feline. She wrote in the T, after the A, but then looked up, still bright-eyed and hoping for victory! Awesome. I picked more incorrect letters until I lost. "It was cat, Dad," you missed it! Megan was genuinely pleased she had 'stumped' me.
I'm super-happy Michael's such a curious and bright kid. He's ebullient about learning! And effusive about sharing it! There are hints here, of course, but I absolutely never mock him. The more intellectual, learned, scholarly, sponge-y, the better, as far as I'm concerned. Let's be honest; I'm a nerd too. But I will always encourage physical pursuits and challenges, also. For example, I don't think Leonardo Da Vinci was much of an athlete. What does this have to do with anything? Well, to me it has to do with everything, literally, as in the definition of a Renaissance man. Da Vinci was a stunning artist, painter, sculptor, musician, mathematician, scientist, engineer, architect, botanist, inventor, anatomist, geologist, and writer. Great. But could he play ball? Did he step away from the easel, from the Mona Lisa or Last Supper, and go jump in a ball game? If not, frankly, this egregious deficiency calls into question his universally accepted status as a Renaissance man. Not cool, Leo! Historians might disagree with me, but they probably aren't obsessed with sports either; they're flawed, also. Anyway, Michael's smart and I love discussing things with him; I love hearing about his latest interests and reading material. Megan picks up on the vibe, too. Like me, I think she'll benefit from having a whiz for an older sibling. Michael crosses the 'showing off threshold' on occasion (e.g. cumulonimbus), but it doesn't bother me. Although, following our exchange about the clouds, I couldn't help but think of a scene in "The Breakfast Club"...
Johnson / Michael: "Did you know without Trigonometry there'd be no engineering?"
Bender / me: "Yeah, well without lamps, there'd be no light!"
Megan and I played Hangman the other day. Hangman is a Wheel-of-Fortune-like word-guessing game in case you grew up on Mars, or under strict Sharia law or something. Keep in mind, Megan's just learning to read and spell. So she carefully counted out and drew three spaces for letters, before zealously drawing the gallows. She looked pretty bloodthirsty. She smiled and said, "Ready, Dad!" I said, "You're a little too excited to hang me, I think, Sweetheart." I decided I was up against a three-lettered noun, so I guessed A. There was, indeed, an A, right about where I expected it, in the middle. I figured it wasn't too early to sandbag, so I asked for a Q, U, I and whatever else didn't feel right. Megan merrily went about drawing my hanging corpse. Then I threw a T at her. She sucked air through her teeth and grimaced, confirming my hunch the word was almost certainly a common pet, furry and feline. She wrote in the T, after the A, but then looked up, still bright-eyed and hoping for victory! Awesome. I picked more incorrect letters until I lost. "It was cat, Dad," you missed it! Megan was genuinely pleased she had 'stumped' me.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Dad Entry #128
Megan has a terrific high-pitched staccato laugh. If evoked spontaneaouly, it is perhaps the greatest thing the world has ever known.
Megan asked me, "Dad, what does meditation do to your body?" I thought I misheard her at first; the question struck me as too weighty and abstract for a kindergartner. I answered flatly, "It can calm and relax your body, it can clear your head, it can oppose and deflate pushy emotions like anger, fear, and impulsiveness." I think Megan was a little overwhelmed by my answer :) But she tried to process it, because she furrowed her perfect little brow and was quiet for a moment. I said, "Why do you ask, Lover-Dove? Why are you asking about meditation?" Megan said, "Oh, it's something I've done in my life." Oh, gee, that makes it sound awful important. I smiled. And from there I just assured Megan that meditation is a healthy, positive thing. I hope someday Mego and I have a longer discussion about it, about the mind and the breath and self-control and how, if we're lucky, we can just maybe stay light and composed despite all the crazy moments and emotions we'll encounter as we age, the amazement, bewilderment, resentment, sorrow. I'll say, "Yes, it's all part of life, Sweetheart. And it's good."
Speaking of amazement and bewilderment: Michael's first baseball game this year was pretty momentous. Sara and I knew a good start to the season would do wonders; we also knew, conversely.... well, you get it. I would say Michael seemed the least nervous of the three of us. Hopefully he didn't notice his parents fidgeting as he put on a helmet, selected a bat, swung it a few times to warm up, and eventually exited the dugout for the batter's box. I told him before the game, as I've always told him, a good at-bat is to put good swings on good pitches, to see the baseball well, to have a little spring and optimism and intention in his movements. In short, I told him to look like a ballplayer. When good hitters strike out, and we all do, we shake it off, maybe learn something, consider an adjustment, but we stay confident, and plan on hitting the shit out of the ball in our next AB. Maybe I didn't say all of that, exactly that way, but there's a mindset I'd like him to settle into. So let me just say Michael had a great game! In his first at-bat, he took some bad pitches for balls, then swung and missed at a good pitch (I was thrilled, remember, the goals is to put good swings on good pitches) and then, THEN, after working the count to full, Michael punched a grounder through the infield! A nice hit up the middle for an RBI single! He batted 2nd, and his teammate in the leadoff spot also reached, and advanced to third on passed balls. Yes, the kids can steal bases this year when pitches get away from the catcher. It's real baseball! Woo-hoo!! Mom and Dad (psycho sports parents after all, I guess) were thrilled! And so was Michael. I should reiterate, though, that we know what's important. Kicking ass and taking names!! Hell yeah!! No. Not that. We'll continue to encourage Michael - who is still only an eight-year-old - to have fun and stay positive, regardless of hits, wins, strikeouts when he pitches, or strikeouts when he bats.
Yes, I just mentioned pitching. Michael pitched the last inning. I warmed him up since both coaches were busy. He threw strikes to me, and I had a sense he would do fine in the game. He did. He was elated when he struck out a batter. Two other hitters were retired by his defense. Three runners were left on base. He pitched out of a jam! He was VERY happy.
If a sleeping Megan turns or sprawls and tilts her head just so, her eyes might open, ever so slightly. This morning I awoke and went to check on my two favorite things. Michael was in the bathroom. Typical guy :) Megan, my precious angel, was still sleeping, and her right eye was so open I could see her pupil. This wasn't alarming at first glance since I do the same thing on occasion, or so I'm told; somehow I sleep with my eyelids partially cracked and open. So I assumed Megan was alive, and as I paused for a moment, admiring her cuteness, a crazy thought got a finger inside my mind's door. Funny how that happens, and funny to observe it, mindfully, for an instant at least, before the door is pried open and maybe flung off its hinges. I abruptly and suddenly focused on my baby's chest! Was it rising and falling?!?! Yes. Yes it was. Have I mentioned bewilderment? I could see Megan's blanket moving the tiniest bit. This little story may sound morbid. I know. I'm only reporting what happened. And then, of course, I put my face a little closer to sleeping Megan's, so I could, for just a minute before our lives raced on again, feel her soft rhythmic exhalations brush my cheek.
Megan asked me, "Dad, what does meditation do to your body?" I thought I misheard her at first; the question struck me as too weighty and abstract for a kindergartner. I answered flatly, "It can calm and relax your body, it can clear your head, it can oppose and deflate pushy emotions like anger, fear, and impulsiveness." I think Megan was a little overwhelmed by my answer :) But she tried to process it, because she furrowed her perfect little brow and was quiet for a moment. I said, "Why do you ask, Lover-Dove? Why are you asking about meditation?" Megan said, "Oh, it's something I've done in my life." Oh, gee, that makes it sound awful important. I smiled. And from there I just assured Megan that meditation is a healthy, positive thing. I hope someday Mego and I have a longer discussion about it, about the mind and the breath and self-control and how, if we're lucky, we can just maybe stay light and composed despite all the crazy moments and emotions we'll encounter as we age, the amazement, bewilderment, resentment, sorrow. I'll say, "Yes, it's all part of life, Sweetheart. And it's good."
Speaking of amazement and bewilderment: Michael's first baseball game this year was pretty momentous. Sara and I knew a good start to the season would do wonders; we also knew, conversely.... well, you get it. I would say Michael seemed the least nervous of the three of us. Hopefully he didn't notice his parents fidgeting as he put on a helmet, selected a bat, swung it a few times to warm up, and eventually exited the dugout for the batter's box. I told him before the game, as I've always told him, a good at-bat is to put good swings on good pitches, to see the baseball well, to have a little spring and optimism and intention in his movements. In short, I told him to look like a ballplayer. When good hitters strike out, and we all do, we shake it off, maybe learn something, consider an adjustment, but we stay confident, and plan on hitting the shit out of the ball in our next AB. Maybe I didn't say all of that, exactly that way, but there's a mindset I'd like him to settle into. So let me just say Michael had a great game! In his first at-bat, he took some bad pitches for balls, then swung and missed at a good pitch (I was thrilled, remember, the goals is to put good swings on good pitches) and then, THEN, after working the count to full, Michael punched a grounder through the infield! A nice hit up the middle for an RBI single! He batted 2nd, and his teammate in the leadoff spot also reached, and advanced to third on passed balls. Yes, the kids can steal bases this year when pitches get away from the catcher. It's real baseball! Woo-hoo!! Mom and Dad (psycho sports parents after all, I guess) were thrilled! And so was Michael. I should reiterate, though, that we know what's important. Kicking ass and taking names!! Hell yeah!! No. Not that. We'll continue to encourage Michael - who is still only an eight-year-old - to have fun and stay positive, regardless of hits, wins, strikeouts when he pitches, or strikeouts when he bats.
Yes, I just mentioned pitching. Michael pitched the last inning. I warmed him up since both coaches were busy. He threw strikes to me, and I had a sense he would do fine in the game. He did. He was elated when he struck out a batter. Two other hitters were retired by his defense. Three runners were left on base. He pitched out of a jam! He was VERY happy.
If a sleeping Megan turns or sprawls and tilts her head just so, her eyes might open, ever so slightly. This morning I awoke and went to check on my two favorite things. Michael was in the bathroom. Typical guy :) Megan, my precious angel, was still sleeping, and her right eye was so open I could see her pupil. This wasn't alarming at first glance since I do the same thing on occasion, or so I'm told; somehow I sleep with my eyelids partially cracked and open. So I assumed Megan was alive, and as I paused for a moment, admiring her cuteness, a crazy thought got a finger inside my mind's door. Funny how that happens, and funny to observe it, mindfully, for an instant at least, before the door is pried open and maybe flung off its hinges. I abruptly and suddenly focused on my baby's chest! Was it rising and falling?!?! Yes. Yes it was. Have I mentioned bewilderment? I could see Megan's blanket moving the tiniest bit. This little story may sound morbid. I know. I'm only reporting what happened. And then, of course, I put my face a little closer to sleeping Megan's, so I could, for just a minute before our lives raced on again, feel her soft rhythmic exhalations brush my cheek.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Amour de Jeunesse
Michael got a love letter. This was not your garden variety third grade love letter, one that says, "I think you're cute. Do you like me? Mark yes or no." Which, by the way, shouldn't even happen until fifth grade, at least. THIS letter was laced with heart and explanations of how he had earned the adoration. How many things they have in common (actually she says, "We're in common." Which is cute.)
This is the real deal: "I, I, I, I, I, I don't just have a crush on you like Gillian I have TRUE, GREAT, REAL love on you." She also requests that he PLEASE (8 please's actually) NOT pass this around or tell anyone about it. She did not, however, request that his mother also keep it on the down low. Though Michael doesn't need to know I posted this for the entire world to know until he is an adult, since I promised him it was just between us. Work with me, people.
Michael came home from school two days ago and told me he had something to show me that was not "for public." I thought he probably had something going on DOWN THERE. But no. He handed me the letter of love. He didn't seem to have much reaction to it, so I told him that it was quite a letter and asked how he felt about it. He shrugged. Poor girl.
This is the real deal: "I, I, I, I, I, I don't just have a crush on you like Gillian I have TRUE, GREAT, REAL love on you." She also requests that he PLEASE (8 please's actually) NOT pass this around or tell anyone about it. She did not, however, request that his mother also keep it on the down low. Though Michael doesn't need to know I posted this for the entire world to know until he is an adult, since I promised him it was just between us. Work with me, people.
Michael came home from school two days ago and told me he had something to show me that was not "for public." I thought he probably had something going on DOWN THERE. But no. He handed me the letter of love. He didn't seem to have much reaction to it, so I told him that it was quite a letter and asked how he felt about it. He shrugged. Poor girl.
Friday, April 06, 2012
A Beach Not At All Like the Tropics
...but fun nonetheless. The kids and I decided to spend our Good Friday off at the beach. It was cold and windy, but the sun warmed us and we had a great time! The kids don't seem to notice how lousy (I think) Chicago is, for which I am very grateful. It really was a lovely day, ending with pad thai at Penny's and a great first baseball practice of the season!
Friday, March 30, 2012
Dad Entry #127
Megan read to me tonight. "Go, Dog. Go!'" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want." I said, "No, Sweetheart, don't read fast. Don't hurry. Please don't hurry. You don't have to grow up, I mean read fast."
We went fishing in Minnesota. Papa Mike, Michael, and I drove to our friend Paul's near Deluth. Paul lives on a big lake, complete with two docks, boats, a four-wheeler, two boxers (dogs, not pugilists, although that would've been cool too), a bonfire, remarkably bright stars, bunk beds, a slingshot, waders, and a garage full of fishing gear. And lots of beverages. Michael had a blast. So did the rest of us.
While we were at Paul's, Grandma and Meg dined at the American Girl Doll store. I have yet to visit one of these fabulous shops, thanks to Megan's grandmas, aunts, and Mommy who always take her without me. Michael and I enjoyed fishing so much we threw our lines in Prior Lake, also. Megan joined us and it was biblical, we landed so many largemouth bass. Megan used her new pink fishing gear. Michael was happy with a lightweight setup of mine, which I officially gave him along with all my tackle. Megan was quite the animated, cheerful fisher-woman. Michael was more focused and moody; dour one minute, elated the next, depending on his cast length and accuracy, the presence of any line tangles, and time elapsed between catches. I mostly helped Megan, who occasionally missed her cues; "Hey Sugar-Bean, I think you've got one," I'd say, as I saw flashes of her pink and purple bobber under the surface moving sharply one way or the other.
Michael noticed a condom dispenser on the wall of a truck stop bathroom during our trip. I watched as he studied it, bracing myself. I didn't interject awkwardly with an attempt to distract or draw him away. I assumed he was reading the descriptions of his four choices, each with its own receptacle for payment via quarters above an opening where the handy item, once purchased, can be retrieved. Thankfully, he didn't ask me what it was, not to mention inquire about brightly colored product slogans like 'extra safe' and 'maximum pleasure'. I would've only piqued his interest further with clumsily fibbed and fumbled answers. We'll have this discussion soon enough, I'm afraid. Megan's not the only one - alluded to above - growing up too fast.
Megan, despite her petiteness - and her immaculate cuteness, of course - can let loose terrific farts. I mean real doozies, the kind any man's man would proudly call his own. It's all fun and games now; I just hope she never does it at the prom, or on a date sometime. Wait a minute, I take that back....
We went fishing in Minnesota. Papa Mike, Michael, and I drove to our friend Paul's near Deluth. Paul lives on a big lake, complete with two docks, boats, a four-wheeler, two boxers (dogs, not pugilists, although that would've been cool too), a bonfire, remarkably bright stars, bunk beds, a slingshot, waders, and a garage full of fishing gear. And lots of beverages. Michael had a blast. So did the rest of us.
While we were at Paul's, Grandma and Meg dined at the American Girl Doll store. I have yet to visit one of these fabulous shops, thanks to Megan's grandmas, aunts, and Mommy who always take her without me. Michael and I enjoyed fishing so much we threw our lines in Prior Lake, also. Megan joined us and it was biblical, we landed so many largemouth bass. Megan used her new pink fishing gear. Michael was happy with a lightweight setup of mine, which I officially gave him along with all my tackle. Megan was quite the animated, cheerful fisher-woman. Michael was more focused and moody; dour one minute, elated the next, depending on his cast length and accuracy, the presence of any line tangles, and time elapsed between catches. I mostly helped Megan, who occasionally missed her cues; "Hey Sugar-Bean, I think you've got one," I'd say, as I saw flashes of her pink and purple bobber under the surface moving sharply one way or the other.
Michael noticed a condom dispenser on the wall of a truck stop bathroom during our trip. I watched as he studied it, bracing myself. I didn't interject awkwardly with an attempt to distract or draw him away. I assumed he was reading the descriptions of his four choices, each with its own receptacle for payment via quarters above an opening where the handy item, once purchased, can be retrieved. Thankfully, he didn't ask me what it was, not to mention inquire about brightly colored product slogans like 'extra safe' and 'maximum pleasure'. I would've only piqued his interest further with clumsily fibbed and fumbled answers. We'll have this discussion soon enough, I'm afraid. Megan's not the only one - alluded to above - growing up too fast.
Megan, despite her petiteness - and her immaculate cuteness, of course - can let loose terrific farts. I mean real doozies, the kind any man's man would proudly call his own. It's all fun and games now; I just hope she never does it at the prom, or on a date sometime. Wait a minute, I take that back....
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Dad Entry #126
We are nearing 500 posts on the blog. We've lost a little steam, perhaps, but Meg-Pie won't be one of those youngest-in-the-family siblings whose childhood goes undocumented, compared to the oldest kid at least, the firstborn for which the parents compile a tome of photos, notes, nail-clippings, and everything else, totally burning themselves out in the process. No, we are recording and saving roughly an equal amount for both kids, in case they need evidence someday of their lives as infants, toddlers, and little-school-goers. Of course, if they're like me, they'll only look at these pieces of their history every decade or so.
I have two great friends at work named Limei and Maggie. The three of us lunch together sometimes. They are both from China and can flawlessly switch between English and Mandarin. There are many other wonderful and impressive things about them. For example, they get my jokes. And, even better, they both think Megan is gorgeous. Of course they do; they're brilliant and beautiful, also. It takes one to know one. They were studying the picture I posted of Megan standing on the stool looking at books. Limei said, "She is so skinny!" and Maggie said, "She's going to be a supermodel, a European-looking supermodel." I didn't ask her if she meant pouty and sophisticated. Or ferocious. Or just skinny. Whatever. I'm only praying for 'happy and healthy' right now.
Regarding Megan's skinniness: I mentioned many posts ago that Megan has a Nelson butt. This is, in fact, a misnomer. A Nelson butt - a physical characteristic distinctly present in descendants of the Nelson family, Megan's paternal grandmother's line - is really the absence of a butt; it's a non-butt. Those of us afflicted might prefer the description 'flat butt' but I'm not sure that's accurate. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.
I hope Michael doesn't read his own press because I'm going to say this about him: his origami is sometimes hurried and imprecise. I was tempted to say 'shoddy' even. His folds and creases can be soft and ever-so-slightly misaligned. For shame! Where's that obsessive-compulsiveness I see in most other members of our family?! Will it appear someday in a meticulously arranged sock drawer? Will it lead to umpteen unnecessary shoe and watch purchases? Will he worry all vacation that he left the garage door open? We'll see. It'll be something. And that's good; I think if you don't have a 'something' then you're not pushing yourself hard enough.
I have two great friends at work named Limei and Maggie. The three of us lunch together sometimes. They are both from China and can flawlessly switch between English and Mandarin. There are many other wonderful and impressive things about them. For example, they get my jokes. And, even better, they both think Megan is gorgeous. Of course they do; they're brilliant and beautiful, also. It takes one to know one. They were studying the picture I posted of Megan standing on the stool looking at books. Limei said, "She is so skinny!" and Maggie said, "She's going to be a supermodel, a European-looking supermodel." I didn't ask her if she meant pouty and sophisticated. Or ferocious. Or just skinny. Whatever. I'm only praying for 'happy and healthy' right now.
Regarding Megan's skinniness: I mentioned many posts ago that Megan has a Nelson butt. This is, in fact, a misnomer. A Nelson butt - a physical characteristic distinctly present in descendants of the Nelson family, Megan's paternal grandmother's line - is really the absence of a butt; it's a non-butt. Those of us afflicted might prefer the description 'flat butt' but I'm not sure that's accurate. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.
I hope Michael doesn't read his own press because I'm going to say this about him: his origami is sometimes hurried and imprecise. I was tempted to say 'shoddy' even. His folds and creases can be soft and ever-so-slightly misaligned. For shame! Where's that obsessive-compulsiveness I see in most other members of our family?! Will it appear someday in a meticulously arranged sock drawer? Will it lead to umpteen unnecessary shoe and watch purchases? Will he worry all vacation that he left the garage door open? We'll see. It'll be something. And that's good; I think if you don't have a 'something' then you're not pushing yourself hard enough.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Some pics from Dad's phone
Siesta with Papa Mike
Meg, Godfather Corleone I mean Josiah, and Casey
We love used bookstores
Meg's 'favorite color is pink' and her 'favorite animal is a puppy'
Meg, Godfather Corleone I mean Josiah, and Casey
We love used bookstores
Meg's 'favorite color is pink' and her 'favorite animal is a puppy'
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dad Entry #125
Iowa State beat Connecticut. Then lost to Kentucky. Not a bad showing in the NCAA tourney, really. I washed Megan's Iowa State t-shirt with pride.
Michael's friend Nahum was with us yesterday. They get pretty wild together. We were at Dick's Sporting Goods when Megan asked me, "Dad, why do boys run around being crazy all the time?" I said, "Oh Honey, we could spend the rest of our lives talking about that."
The fart jokes are pretty nonstop lately. It's a running comedy, a stand-up script that never ends. There are songs. There are poems. And yes, there are celebrated moments of olfactory disruption, discomfort, disgust. Oh well, we'd have a pot / kettle scenario if I cracked down too much. And I suppose it's better than a lot of things we joke about in life.
We were reading Megan's 'National Geographic Kids' magazine last night. There was a story about a baby ostrich named Madoc who was abandoned by his mother. The article was really about how a toy ostrich, a stuffed animal, was set in his habitat and now he follows it and sleeps by it. It comforts him. Plus, it shows Madoc he's an ostrich; baby birds learn what kind of creature they are by watching family members. (That happens with many humans too, I'd say, for better or worse.) The story used the word 'orphan' which Megan was unfamiliar with. I said, "Well, it means without parents; it says little Madoc's mom left him." The enormity of this gripped Megan. She said, "Oh, he doesn't have a mommy?" I thought this would bum her out, sort of kill the mood of our pleasant bedtime reading, but Megan cheerfully continued, "Well, he'll get new parents at the zoo, right? He'll be happy there, maybe get into a new family, right Dad?" They were leading questions for sure, but I liked her positivity about it. Meg's an optimist! And I agreed with her. "Yes," I said, "Fuzzy little Madoc is probably growing up and doing super-great right now." Optimism, by the way, is strongly correlated with happiness in scientific research.
I mentioned art and creativity in my previous post. It's interesting to me; I believe it takes courage to pump out art. Or - not so positively phrased - it takes a sufficient lack of self-consciousness. Kids have such creativity and curiosity. Of course they do, you might say, they're new to a world overflowing with sensory delight. As a toddler, Michael would move his fingers and stare at his hand in wonderment. I would say, "I know, Buddy, it's fascinating!" So much to see and do, so much to try. Despite my own issues, I still view the world this way; there are many places I haven't been, and many things I haven't tried, scuba diving, oil painting, rock climbing, fly fishing, big game hunting, surfing, snowboarding, sailing. And many things I've done that I want my kids to try, snow skiing, water skiing, deep sea fishing, bird hunting, traveling, rafting, camping, hiking, golfing an immaculate course, shooting a 50 caliber rifle, piloting an airplane (I only played with the yoke and throttle briefly and had nothing to do with the real flying, the take-off and landing). Both lists go on if I do more thinking and research. My point? This creative-kid-mentality inspires me, I guess. They make things with gusto. I know some kids are shy and some adults are prolific generators of art and work and excitement. Are my ruminations here unsubstantive then, or pointless? No. I'm certain too many adults allow the scales to tip; their doubts outweigh the creative energy they once possessed. I hope this doesn't happen to Michael and Megan. And we leak something else, I'm afraid... although kids can be mean, I've observed mostly an undampened sense of compassion in the littlest of their kind (sadly it can be corrupted or tempered quickly in our world). But Megan and Michael both have reflexive moments of deep concern for each other (I know, crazy, right?) and even for strangers. For a time it seems innate. I love these pure moments. They're instinctual. I'll admit it happens less and less every year. M and m's compassion for each other, and strangers, is flagging. Ha. Actually, I hope only the rawness of it is less. I hope the empathy and awareness is still there; they've only introduced more thinking, since they can better assess severity and consequences. I read this quote over the weekend and it resonated hugely with me, "Self-actualizing people have a deep feeling of identification, sympathy, and affection for human beings in general. They feel kinship and connection, as if all people were members of a single family." So what does it all mean? Hell if I know; I'm rambling. Although, I will say one more thing: I believe it's related to this scrap of wisdom, "Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it."
Michael's friend Nahum was with us yesterday. They get pretty wild together. We were at Dick's Sporting Goods when Megan asked me, "Dad, why do boys run around being crazy all the time?" I said, "Oh Honey, we could spend the rest of our lives talking about that."
The fart jokes are pretty nonstop lately. It's a running comedy, a stand-up script that never ends. There are songs. There are poems. And yes, there are celebrated moments of olfactory disruption, discomfort, disgust. Oh well, we'd have a pot / kettle scenario if I cracked down too much. And I suppose it's better than a lot of things we joke about in life.
We were reading Megan's 'National Geographic Kids' magazine last night. There was a story about a baby ostrich named Madoc who was abandoned by his mother. The article was really about how a toy ostrich, a stuffed animal, was set in his habitat and now he follows it and sleeps by it. It comforts him. Plus, it shows Madoc he's an ostrich; baby birds learn what kind of creature they are by watching family members. (That happens with many humans too, I'd say, for better or worse.) The story used the word 'orphan' which Megan was unfamiliar with. I said, "Well, it means without parents; it says little Madoc's mom left him." The enormity of this gripped Megan. She said, "Oh, he doesn't have a mommy?" I thought this would bum her out, sort of kill the mood of our pleasant bedtime reading, but Megan cheerfully continued, "Well, he'll get new parents at the zoo, right? He'll be happy there, maybe get into a new family, right Dad?" They were leading questions for sure, but I liked her positivity about it. Meg's an optimist! And I agreed with her. "Yes," I said, "Fuzzy little Madoc is probably growing up and doing super-great right now." Optimism, by the way, is strongly correlated with happiness in scientific research.
I mentioned art and creativity in my previous post. It's interesting to me; I believe it takes courage to pump out art. Or - not so positively phrased - it takes a sufficient lack of self-consciousness. Kids have such creativity and curiosity. Of course they do, you might say, they're new to a world overflowing with sensory delight. As a toddler, Michael would move his fingers and stare at his hand in wonderment. I would say, "I know, Buddy, it's fascinating!" So much to see and do, so much to try. Despite my own issues, I still view the world this way; there are many places I haven't been, and many things I haven't tried, scuba diving, oil painting, rock climbing, fly fishing, big game hunting, surfing, snowboarding, sailing. And many things I've done that I want my kids to try, snow skiing, water skiing, deep sea fishing, bird hunting, traveling, rafting, camping, hiking, golfing an immaculate course, shooting a 50 caliber rifle, piloting an airplane (I only played with the yoke and throttle briefly and had nothing to do with the real flying, the take-off and landing). Both lists go on if I do more thinking and research. My point? This creative-kid-mentality inspires me, I guess. They make things with gusto. I know some kids are shy and some adults are prolific generators of art and work and excitement. Are my ruminations here unsubstantive then, or pointless? No. I'm certain too many adults allow the scales to tip; their doubts outweigh the creative energy they once possessed. I hope this doesn't happen to Michael and Megan. And we leak something else, I'm afraid... although kids can be mean, I've observed mostly an undampened sense of compassion in the littlest of their kind (sadly it can be corrupted or tempered quickly in our world). But Megan and Michael both have reflexive moments of deep concern for each other (I know, crazy, right?) and even for strangers. For a time it seems innate. I love these pure moments. They're instinctual. I'll admit it happens less and less every year. M and m's compassion for each other, and strangers, is flagging. Ha. Actually, I hope only the rawness of it is less. I hope the empathy and awareness is still there; they've only introduced more thinking, since they can better assess severity and consequences. I read this quote over the weekend and it resonated hugely with me, "Self-actualizing people have a deep feeling of identification, sympathy, and affection for human beings in general. They feel kinship and connection, as if all people were members of a single family." So what does it all mean? Hell if I know; I'm rambling. Although, I will say one more thing: I believe it's related to this scrap of wisdom, "Anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will not enter it."
Dad Entry #124
The volume of artistic output from my kids is staggering. Thankfully paper is recyclable. If I saved everything, I'd be buried in it. So would you; we like to share! They have shows now about this very phenomenon, 'Hoarders' and 'Buried Alive'. It's awesome (my kids' art, not hoarding); the outpouring of creativity and expression is truly astounding. It does, however, put a strain on my capacity to judge what's keep-worthy. It's a daily struggle. Most of it gets pitched. Tossing one of Megan's drawings can be excruciating. Michael's origami cranes are difficult to let go. There are times I think of saving it all and buying a warehouse, a space to radiate young Michael and Megan vibes, for eternity, just by virtue of the multitudinous masterpieces stored there, works created - sometimes not very painstakingly - by my two favorite artists. The presence of tons, literally, of their beautiful and imaginative energy would just imbue the place with the same feeling I get when I hug them. What a pleasant thought. I'm going to shop for warehouses now.
The Cyclones are in the Big Dance! They square off against defending champion UConn in the first round. What's this got to do with M and m, you ask? Well, they both have Cyclone t-shirts for one thing.
I viewed a talk the other day (on a favorite website, ted.com) given by a passenger on the airplane that emergency landed in the Hudson River in 2009. He said it was terrifying, of course, when the pilot turned off both crippled engines and said only three words, "Brace for impact." He was pretty certain he wouldn't survive based on documentary footage of similar incidents. But a sense of sadness overtook the fear; he explained, "I didn't want to go. I loved my life. And this sadness really framed only one thought. I only wished for one thing. I only wished I could see my kids grow up. About a month later I was in a performance by my daughter, a first grader, not much artistic talent yet (audience laughter), and I'm balling, I'm crying like a little kid, and it made all the sense in the world to me, I realized at that point, by connecting those dots, I realized that the only thing that matters in my life is being a great dad. Above all, above all, the only goal I have in life is to be a good dad." Amen!
The Cyclones are in the Big Dance! They square off against defending champion UConn in the first round. What's this got to do with M and m, you ask? Well, they both have Cyclone t-shirts for one thing.
I viewed a talk the other day (on a favorite website, ted.com) given by a passenger on the airplane that emergency landed in the Hudson River in 2009. He said it was terrifying, of course, when the pilot turned off both crippled engines and said only three words, "Brace for impact." He was pretty certain he wouldn't survive based on documentary footage of similar incidents. But a sense of sadness overtook the fear; he explained, "I didn't want to go. I loved my life. And this sadness really framed only one thought. I only wished for one thing. I only wished I could see my kids grow up. About a month later I was in a performance by my daughter, a first grader, not much artistic talent yet (audience laughter), and I'm balling, I'm crying like a little kid, and it made all the sense in the world to me, I realized at that point, by connecting those dots, I realized that the only thing that matters in my life is being a great dad. Above all, above all, the only goal I have in life is to be a good dad." Amen!
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