Dad Entry #145

I spent about 24 hours with just Meg-Pie and my niece, E-Lo (Ellie Laurienzo). Both are seven years old. And female. Here's what I learned:
1. That annoying song - that I like now - is by Taylor Swift
2. Side ponytails are trending, and are a fashion tier above the regular variety
3. Little girls fart a lot, like way more than chili-lovers, teenage boys, frijole-fans, you name it. The demographics I formerly thought of as world-champion are likely shameful underachievers.

Birthdays come and go, organic material fossilizes, glaciers move, then melt, Donald Trump's hair would even crack or unravel! in the time it takes my children to tie their shoes. And that's only after they locate them. And after they discard them for another pair they suddenly favor (with obvious unawareness of the weather, or 'what goes with what' outfit-wise). And that is only after - the worst part - they untie the strongman-tightened triple-knotted rats-nested laces perfectly preserved from the previous wearing. Because it's possible - very easy, in fact - to just slip their shoes off and kick them aside when no longer needed. But putting them back on again takes millennia. Go figure. There is paradox and irony and metaphor here to chew on and twist for days. I'll have more time to think about it the next time M & m are putting on shoes.

Dad Entry #144

I got to sit by Megan during Thanksgiving dinner :)

We had the rare doubleheader yesterday: Iowa State football followed by Iowa State basketball. Seven hours of glorious stress. I wonder if Michael will be a Cyclone. Or a Hawkeye, Jayhawk, Gopher, Husker. Who knows. They all sound good to me, although I'll instinctively and happily open my wallet to some institutions more than others. Iowa State has beaten all of the above recently in some, if not most, contests, so I'll likely be amenable to my son bolstering a lesser university that needs his awesomeness. At Iowa State I was taught to share; mostly things like answers to homework and tests, and beer, but the principle stuck.

Megan giggled and announced pridefully, "I've pertzed 24 times today!" I frowned. Then she betrayed the tiniest bit of exertion, revealed in a slight narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips, or straining of her organs, I'm not sure, but I knew what was happening and then she said, "25!" in the instant she exhaled and slumped her shoulders a bit, like a weightlifter after racking the bar. My lovely princess, everybody!

I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." They are probably more valuable to me than all other items of paper I possess, like Ernie Banks baseball cards, money, and the deed to my car.

Dad Entry #143

Michael has a new war-cry: "I hate zits!" We're fast approaching an interesting phase. And Michael is 92 pounds now, according to Papa Mike, who proudly conducted a weigh-in last night, no doubt mimicking a sportscaster, or the ring announcer before a title fight. My son is pretty stout. I'm happy for him. And it's evenly distributed volume; he's tall, with feet that grow so fast I bet you can see them getting bigger if you just stare for a moment.

Megan told me yesterday that when she touched her right ear, it burned. That didn't sound good so I investigated. Her earring was stuck to her earlobe by an organic adhesive, I assumed, comprised of leaking, crusting, coagulating fluids. I went to work with Grandma. First, we removed the earring, which bubbled up, when dropped in peroxide, like a hot-tub when the jets kick on. Megan screamed when we touched her ear. There was blood. At one point Megan cried out, "I want Michael!" Michael joined us eventually, although I'm afraid only because he was curious about the commotion; I didn't sense compassion from him, which constantly irks me in matters between him and his little sister who unfailingly, unflinchingly, absolutely adores him. We cleaned and medicated Meg's ear, and then she shook, literally, shivering in my arms, afraid, anticipating more sharp pain which she probably felt when Grandma slipped the clean earring back in during another fit of hysteria. As I suspected, the offending accessory gets reinserted or the hole will close. For a moment, I thought, really, we're gonna put that thing back in?! Although, I know her ear won't turn gangrenous and fall off. Since I've never had any piercings, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, since I've never had a daughter with an infected piercing, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, there's just a lot of uncharted territory during fatherhood. Yeah, that one.

I was stealing veiled glimpses at Megan's grill the other day. Then I just said, "Honey, show me your teeth." Megan flashed a forced, toothy smile and I cringed. Then I kissed her forehead and lied, "Perfect and beautiful," to cover my honest reaction. Megan skipped away, light as a feather. She's still gorgeous and flawless, of course, but there's a storm brewin' and it's gonna be costly. Hurricane Orthodontia. Things aren't exactly looking like piano keys in there.

Dad Entry #142

Megan has a poncho-looking sweater that is super-cute, in a kind of elegant, old-fashioned way. I have no idea what it's called; it looks like a thick-knitted tablecloth with holes for appendages, although it's smaller, like a doily, and soft. Yep, Megan looks beautiful and chic in anything, even a tablecloth.

The outcome of board games with M and m is always good. I like to win as much as the next guy, but I can tolerate losing to them. In fact, I prefer it, but in the interests of mimicking life in general, once in a while, when the cards or dice are falling my way, I not-very-quietly-or-politely give them a drubbing, at Uno, for example, or Trouble (nothing serious). M and m, like most kids, hate losing; they see zero benefit in it. That takes a few decades to pick up as a life lesson. I want them to win every time, but I know life isn't amenable to that; they're gonna take some lumps. So be it, learn something, use it as fuel.

Megan brushes and fluffs and flaunts her golden hair - pretty common among women, I'd say - twirling and splaying it in the air, like the model in a shampoo commercial. These days, I wish I had that much hair to tousle. Which reminds me...

Papa Mike asked Megan, "Who has a bigger bald spot? Me or your daddy?" Megan, bless her heart, said, "Let me see your's, Papa," and when he leaned over and showed her, Megan concluded instantly, "Your's is way bigger, Papa! It's ginormous! You need to grow some hair, Buddy!" Good girl.

On the way to Alanna's birthday party, Megan advised, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart would've shattered into a million pieces, except I'm pretty sure she still needs me. And I really, really, really hope she always needs me, at least a little; to listen, give a little advice, or just listen!, give a little money, carve the holiday turkey!, show my grandkids how to shoot a basketball or a gun. Who knows; I just might come in handy, occasionally, all of her life. That would be swell.

Dad Entry #141

Megan likes broccoli. She does, however, voice disgust if there's a single decaying floret mingled with the otherwise plush and perfect green. "There's a brown spot here," she says, squinting and glaring at the poor vegetable. "It's rotten," she declares, and I know a door slams in her head; she has made up her mind. I counter-declare that a touch of yellow or brown on a single, tiny, cruciferous outcropping, a little bruising perhaps, will not harm her, especially since it's all been rinsed and steamed, and since the discoloration she's referring to is barely noticeable, even under magnification. I hope she scrutinizes men like this. Then we'll agree; if we can detect - or even imagine - a flaw, a blemish, we don't discriminate between obvious and miniscule... it's rotten! All rotten! All bets are off!

Hanging out with two boys, Megan gets a heavy dose of things like football, cardboard sword fighting, Avengers cartoons, and tackle box arranging (yes, Megan has her own). Most days she doesn't seem to mind. She loves the "Iron Man: Armored Adventures" show. And "Star Wars: The Clone Wars." And fishing and adventure shows. This is good; Michael and I don't have to do any selling. And Megan is just as eager, as her juvenile father and brother, to play with action figures. We have a terrific collection, a mix of Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superhero figures like Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk (my favorite since I was their age; I had the Underoos and everything). So we divide up 'the guys' (although there are some female characters in the pile also, like "The Baroness") by conducting a sports-style draft, and then spirited weapons-hoarding, character-positioning and fighting ensues. It's good fun.

I wonder if I'm overdoing it when I say things like, "Michael, do you know what excites me when I start thinking in the morning?" Since he knows this is rhetorical, he doesn't offer any answer or comment, maybe just an eye-roll, as I continue, louder and more deliberate, with a kind of pious fervor building (I've usually had a little coffee by now), "Life with you as my son. That is what excites me." And then I drop a quote from one of my great heroes, Ferris Bueller, "The question isn't 'what are we going to do,' the question is 'what aren't we going to do?' We're going to fish, play sports, make things, fix things, hunt, woodwork, travel, debate, get straight-A's, be super-good to Megan, hang out with loved-ones, watch our families grow, and someday - someday! - watch the Cubs win the World Series." Amen.

Dad Entry #140

Michael wants to get a lizard. I think Mom wants to put this one on Santa, and then be miffed, along with Michael, at the formerly-thought-of-as-perfect paragon of gift-giving when he doesn't come through, when the lizard freezes in his sled or something, forcing Santa to leave another present, one without a heartbeat and scales and a digestive system, maybe something without a cage.

I'm pretty sure every male is a renaissance man, at least for a period. I'm referring to our early years, of course, as very few of us are Michelangelo's or Leonardo's in adulthood. The magnitude and variety of their achievements, not to mention their historical fame, render them a high bar, but we're all pretenders as kids, and none more than Michael. He does it all! On any given day, he might paint, sketch, sculpt with clay, play sports, race, swim, compete, design, diagram, build, wrestle, catch fish, catch frogs, write stories (however brief and simple), play music (even if painfully discordant and only with sticks), play with 'weapons' (which, ideally, are also just sticks), dance, act, perform, study, scribble in notebooks (Bill Gates bought one of Leonardo's for 30 million), draw comic strips, water his plants, collect and dissect insect specimens, and so on. I will encourage Michael to hang on as long as possible. And hopefully, in my efforts to 'lead by example,' he will help me do the same; tonight I will write and workout; tomorrow I will play softball; yesterday I played basketball; last week I hunted and fished and blasted targets with a variety of different caliber weapons (9mm, .357, .38, .22, .30-06 scoped rifle, and 12 gauge shotgun); Saturday I was with friends listening to live music; I practice chords and learn riffs on the guitar (thank you, Youtube); I cook, simple stuff and poorly, but still; I've built wood furniture from raw lumber; I think I fixed a toilet once, and changed a tire, and tiled a bathroom; I'm reading several books (although many won't get finished); I have way too many plants (although none right now are consumable... like vegetables, or basil, to be clear); and I appreciate theaters (albeit the kind that serve popcorn). I really should take the kids to a Broadway show sometime.

Speaking of hunting: I told the kids a week ago I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends - and their dogs! - to hunt birds. Megan asked if she could come. I told her, and reiterated for Michael, "You can't take a hunter safety class until you're 12, and you can't hunt until you take the class and learn gun safety." And I added, for good measure, "And even then I don't think it's wise to handle guns until you're older." I was thinking specifically about the kick and awkward heft of shotguns - versus handguns - but Megan had another weapon in mind; she said, "Well, I could get a bow and arrow then, and come with you, and hunt with that." Needless to say, it was an earnest appeal. Somehow I managed to say no.

Speaking of the bow and arrow: Michael still attends archery classes through the park district. He loves it, and is quite good now; bullseyes are not uncommon. Something else to add to my 'renaissance kid' list of activities above. Maybe someday he'll teach me how to bow hunt.

Her Work

Megan often comes to visit me early in the morning and asks me if she can do "her work." Her work consists of reading, drawing, writing, organizing, whathaveyou, as long as it is quietly in her room. If this visit is before 7 am, I personally consider it to be the middle of the night. However, if it is after 6:30, I will allow work to be done. Before that, she must go back to sleep. This drawing was done last week during her worktime. I love it. Time so well spent.

Dad Entry #139

Michael got a question wrong on his standardized math test. There were 70 questions and he missed one. Sara and I were PISSED! We screamed in unison, "This kind of carelessness is UNACCEPTABLE!" Not true, of course. He scored very high. He's a good student and we're happy for him, what he's doing for himself, learning, growing, building a big, agile hunk of gray stuff between his ears.

At the Sanborn Fall Fest dance party my sweet, sweet, sweet, little Megan was a wallflower! For a little while anyway. She was a bit shy and self-conscious watching other kids run, jump, and skip all over the dance floor. Ha! I know the feeling! I didn't push her. I said, "Do you wanna dance with the other kids, Love?" She said, "No," and stepped a little closer to me and leaned against my leg and my heart expanded and I wanted to hug her forever. It was awesome! She stuck to me like velcro while we watched and chatted with friends and listened to the music. I loved every minute of it until she finally left me. Then she was gone, never to return, dancing and laughing with friends, spinning, flailing, chasing and being chased in a throng of unpredictable silliness and confusing self-expression. Suddenly the music seemed painfully hip-hoppy and annoying. Yes, it was hugely metaphorical.

Megan enjoyed a new experience recently. She rode in the front seat of a moving automobile. For the first time EVER! Woo-hoo! What a novelty! Michael was there too – with Megan in between us – but he projected the been-there-done-that aloofness of a prideful veteran; he's ridden upfront before. But it was new for Megan, and she sat tall and bright-eyed, craning her neck over the dashboard. "I can see everything!" she said with refreshing enthusiasm. We rented a flatbed truck from Home Depot. There was no backseat. So we all buckled up – there were three seat belts in the front – and I drove very carefully as I explained how the role of 'riding shotgun' has evolved from the days of covered wagons and bandits. "If robbers tried to stop the stagecoach it would be your job to blast 'em," I said to the kids. Okay, I didn't say that. But if I'd really chronicled the history of front-seat-riding, I would've included the period when seat belts were ignored and it was legally okey-dokey for Dad to pull the kids up on his lap to steer. And the front seat would have an open, dirty ashtray and maybe a can of Old Milwaukee somewhere. Every car wreaked of cigarettes and every dad had a mustache. The good ol' days!

Fishing Clear Lake

 

Megan is Ruined

We've lost her to the good life.

This weekend, Dan and Michael went to Iowa for a fishing trip. Shockingly, they did not want to have Megan tagging along and complaining the. entire. time. So she stayed with me and Dan booked us a room for Friday night at the Marriott near our house with his 600 bajillion Marriott points, so we could have a girlie night.

We headed over after school, armed with swimsuits and crafts. When we arrived at the check in counter, Megan had hit a maximum level of excitement. The guy who checked us in asked us where we were from and I told him, "Oh, just Palatine. We're here for a little girls night." He asked me to wait for a few minutes and went to the back. When he returned, he told us that since we were only there for one night and the hotel wasn't full, he had hooked us up in a top floor suite. Little did we know he had just put us in the best suite the hotel had! Since Dan is a preferred Marriott guest (thank you, Motorola) we also got to choose a treat from a little menu to be sent to our room. The guy and I both laughed after I read the list and Megan chose fruit and pretzels over ice cream. He told me quietly, "I'll send up some ice cream, too."

When we got to the door with our number on it, I thought we were mistaken. There were two doors. I never get two doors in a hotel! When we opened them, we literally walked into an apartment. I wish there was a video of us, running around like crazy people..."A kitchen!!!" "There's another bathroom over here!" "I'm in an OFFICE!" "There are ten chairs in the dining room!" "MEGAN. GET IN HERE AND LOOK AT THE MASTER BATHROOM." We were giddy and silly and laughing like maniacs. Some time after that, there was a knock on the door. In came a guy bearing snacks: a lovely plate of whole fruits, a bowl of pretzels, a bowl of M&Ms, a bowl of Skittles, a pint of ice cream and the water Megan ordered. It was like we had been dropped into Shangri-la. Megan said, "If this was our house I would be digging it so badly!"

We made the most of it! We spent time gazing out at the lovely 16th floor view which was floor to ceiling in each room (Megan noted that "when you are on the ground, there just aren't as many trees as this!"), building Legos in the office, warming ourselves by our fireplace, doing crafts in the living room. I am bummed as I realize we didn't spend any time in the dining room or the kitchen. Missed opportunity! We swam in the pool and lounged in the hot tub. We took a hot bath in our cavernous bathtub. We ordered room service and I had a good laugh when Megan couldn't understand why I liked crabcakes...turns out she thought they were crapcakes. We watched a movie in bed and snuggled the night away. That's my nice way of saying Megan hogged the bed and basically slept on top of me most of the night.

In the morning we lounged around before heading down for a swanky breakfast buffet where Megan decided that that is where she would be getting married and our Romanian waitress took a shine to us. Then we had friends come over to our humble abode for another swimming session. The girls all got to squeeze in a quick kidwash in our unbelievable shower before we had to check out.

Megan is now damaged goods. She cried at bedtime tonight, wishing we were back at the hotel. Never again will a normal hotel room, or even a normal suite, cut it for her. This new level of maintenance may affect her wedding plans.

Dad Entry #138

Michael has some dark hair on his legs now. So does Megan!

Sometimes I look at Megan and she is so gloriously angelic and perfect that for a kind of timeless, transcendent, wonder-filled moment nothing else matters whatsoever. Michael casts this spell on me too, on occasion, when he's doing something like writing in a notebook or standing in the batter's box. I just feel enormous gratitude. The kids hear this voiced regularly; it's how I start nearly every prayer with them. God, thank you for my children. Thank you for my son. Thank you for my daughter.

It's ridiculous how cute Megan looks in skinny jeans. They're tailor-made for her. She's pretty thin. She would eat up the whole potato chip aisle if we let her, but we don't let her.

Megan loves the board game Monopoly. She played a bunch with Grammy and Papa over the weekend. She viewed me as fresh meat, and I acted like it when we squared off yesterday. I let her explain the rules, which she did with an eager confidence and a dash of condescension. She said, "I just need to warn you, if you run out of money, you lose." She added, "And you can end up in jail, and there's lots of other weird things, and the game can last a long time." I thought, hmm, sounds like real life. Our game isn't finished but things are going as Megan planned; I'm slowly getting crushed and bled dry. While Monopoly isn't exactly analogous to real life, it is interesting to note that being responsible and generous hasn't served me very well. I didn't overextend myself financially, or buy everything in sight, or try to outmaneuver my neighbor. And yet I find myself on a downward slope, paying fees and rent wherever I land, hemorrhaging money while my covetous opponent straightens her piles of cash and – despite a sweet and gorgeous facade – seems to relish my every misfortune. Megan still throws me a look of doubt when I explain that five ten-dollar bills are not worth more than one fifty-dollar bill. And yet, I lose :)

Megan had her 7th birthday party! Ten seven-year-olds petting puppies and bunnies at Petland. Pizza, cake, presents... gluttony! It was fun. Only occasionally did I check college football and Ryder Cup scores. (Papa Mike held the Ryder Cup at the Wentworth Club in England years ago following a European victory.) Also, I should mention that Iowa State and the Bears are both 4 - 1.

A Princess Turns Seven

Megan's party was a success! She decided on Petland as her location of choice, which was no surprise to anyone who knows her. There were puppies and bunnies...there was koi petting and live piranha feeding (this went over surprising well, considering they tossed in basically what many of the girls have for a pet)...there was pizza and strawberries and cake. What more could you ask for?!

Megan was pleased as punch and even thanked me for her party...twice! A few adoptions occurred at the party, as well, so we're happy to have helped a few animals find homes!

On another note, I am still reeling at the notion that the little girl I brought home from the hospital a few months ago turned seven YEARS old with these festivities.

Dad Entry #137

We’ve been busy. I’m at a Starbucks in Beijing right now. That sounds a little self-important, but that’s my intent: to impress my audience. Maybe it's the adult versions of my subjects. I hope my kids are proud of their parents the way this kid’s proud of his. Working long hours and traveling isn't easy for anyone. But Sara and I get it done; my kids have shoes. I think. They grow out of ‘em so bloomin’ fast now.

First grade is not on Megan’s list of favorite things. Yesterday she said, “I don’t wanna go to school. We can only do what Mrs. Palm says. And she tells us what to do all day.” I thought, Oh Honey, you have 15 more years of this. But Meg’s adjusting. It’s a longer day now, plus an earlier one. The longer part was all I recognized at first, because I’m slow. (Meg was only in class from 12:50 to 3:20 last year, 2.5 hours.) But the earlier part is a change too, and girls – even little ones – get all fancy-pants about hairdos, outfits, accessories, shoes! Meg has to complete this checklist by 8:30 now! Even so, I hope her complaints peter out soon. I still laugh when I think of Michael’s first grumble about school: “Mrs. Kravitz is kind of bossy.”

Michael’s pretty awesome but he’s no paragon of spotlessness (to steal a phrase I just read in Sports Illustrated). Sharing is a difficult concept for him. Destined for Wall Street? There are worse places to work. I mean if ethical pitfalls are a concern. Washington DC, for example. To be honest, I suspect Michael shares generously with everyone except Megan. But I don’t have a shirt that says, “I love everyone.” My shirt says, “I love Megan.” So we have a problem. Both kids have a scarcity mindset sometimes. They hoard and guard things like stickers and pencils, things that just seem undeserving of so much protection and accumulation. Michael will bristle when Megan reaches for one of his markers. If he complains, I say, “Dude, can’t you share your markers with Megan?” He might very matter-of-factly answer, “No.” I say, “No? Are you joking? You have a thousand of them.” He doesn’t disagree. He says, “But Megan has her own markers.” And around we go. Although sometimes, since reasoning with a mind that’s very bright and logical – and wrong! – can be so arduous, not to mention fruitless, I just give Megan all of Michael’s markers for a while and that’s the end of it. Parenting is not a license for tyranny, or some lifelong imperious regime, but it’s no democracy either. I tend to forget this. I don’t have a gold and bejeweled throne to remind me. I only have a ceramic one. Two, actually. That need frequent cleaning. It all makes sense now.

The kids did so much this summer! There was constant swimming, biking, sport-playing, movie-watching, art-creating, and pillow-fort-building! There were birthday parties, parades, fireworks, and bonfires with marshmallows. There was ice cream! And lots of fishing, boating, festival-going, and traveling (to Prior Lake, Olathe, Iowa City, Omaha, Bettendorf, Clear Lake, Battle Creek, downtown Chicago, the Wisconsin Dells… to name a few).

Summer's Out for the School Year!

We are mid-way through a successful first week of school, though both kids are beyond exhausted already – thinking is tough work! Megan had no growing pains starting first grade...no tears, she didn't bat an eye at eating lunch at school and her fear of gym has miraculously disappeared (as of one gym class). Michael is stressed because his two little friends-that-are-girls from last year seem to spend all their time whispering and not playing with him the same way. He was mortified when I suggested that they were probably whispering about how CUUUUTE he is. He said 'relationships are gross.' I agreed that they probably are when you are a 9 year old boy, but he might change his mind later. Or not, whatever suits him.

Dad Entry #136

Michael has a rash. It spread quickly at first, but has abated some (kind of like reality TV addiction). It's scary if you take a closer look (also like reality TV). The skin on Michael's face is nearly reptilian in texture. It's like the bumpy leather of a good football or basketball. Although, maybe I'm exaggerating; it's not that bad. But I'm happy tonight isn't prom or homecoming or his first date with a VERY lucky girl. Other than bouts of itchiness, he doesn't seem bothered. I suspect he'll feel differently in a few years. He'll be less accepting of reptile skin. On his face. Spreading like a Colorado wildfire. He'll need some assurance these things are no big deal. Or maybe I'll take a different tack; I'll say, "Let the game come to you, Kid. When a reptile rash pops up, embrace it. Wear it. Own it! It's the new thing. You make everybody want one, you understand?" Kidding.

We go to pet stores a lot. There's a type of little animal, I think they're hamsters, with - I'm just gonna come out and say it - enormous testicles. I don't know why they appear so overgrown and disproportionate. And I'm not going to look it up for you. You have guesses, and probably one of them is correct. Imagine the comedy on Q&A forums online following this inquiry. Anyway, we passed by these rodents at Petland last night and Megan pointed and said, "I don't like those. They look like they have huge boy bottoms." I agree. My sweetheart. In Megan's world, your private areas are your bottoms, and if more specificity is required, the terms 'front bottom' and 'back bottom' can be used to differentiate. Also the terms 'boy bottom' and 'girl bottom' apparently. I think we covered this in Dad Entry #52 or something, but it was time for a refresher.

Dad Entry #135

You know, there is tremendous inertia around writing about my kids. When it's time for a new entry, when it's been a while since I scribbled anything about them, I struggle to get started. And then... I can't stop (trying to write the best I can for them). They are such fascinating creatures. Of course, so are the rest of us. Ideally we keep things simple, but to be human is complex, it's multi-layered, multi-dimensional, it's big and thorny, but with roses too, and interactive; yes, life is social (whether we like it or not, we are intertwined). So I think we should choose openness and depth over simplicity sometimes, depending on how much we want to peel the onion. My kids don't like onions. But I suspect they might down the road, when eating a bratwurst, for example, or Mongolian beef (I'm pretty sure Heng Wing restaurant in Palatine puts narcotics in their Mongolian beef). The kids and I ate onion rings over the weekend, although if Meg-Pie had her way she'd only eat the batter.

Megan asked me, "Have you ever been jealous of anyone?" I said, "Yes, Honey, I know exactly what that feels like. Who are you jealous of?" Megan answered, "Alissa." When I asked why - thinking we might plunge into a piercing and powerful discussion, one about self-esteem, for example - Meg said, "Because she has an American Girl doll suitcase and I don't have one." Oh. Okay. So maybe I'm over-anxious for that depth and complexity I mentioned above.

The other day, Michael mused, "I don't know how adult palates adjust to beer and coffee." I'm accustomed to impressive comprehension and eloquent phrasing from Michael, his adult-like attempts to use not-simple words. He has a nice vocabulary. But this comment just seemed especially... Michael-like. He is nine years old now. I don't think I employed the word 'palate' in conversation until my third decade, nor did I conceive of how a palate is something that 'adjusts' to given objects of consumption, objects like whiskey, a pleasing beverage to certain loved ones, but something I just can't enjoy like I do beer and coffee. It doesn't matter if it's Scotch, Irish, or Canadian whiskey. Michael would describe my palate as obstinate, intransigent, or intractable when it comes to embracing Johnnie Walker, Jameson, or Canadian Club. I love Michael. He's smart.

Megan will be in first grade soon. This means she'll eat lunch at school. Woo-hoo! Yes, apparently she's excited, and she shared one reason for this the other day, "Next year I'll get to see Michael at school lunch!" My first thought was: he better not ignore you, Megan, or be dismissive or aloof or anything other than perfectly awesome to you... or I'm gonna be pissed. Megan adores Michael. And I love her for it. I love her for a zillion other reasons, or in a zillion other ways, or with a zillion times a zillion units of force or volume or whatever the best metric. But you gotta start somewhere, and now if I list all the reasons I love Megan, I only have a zillion minus one to go.

On the way to Paul's

Michael's Monsters

Bowling Is SO a Sport!

A Great Season

St Louis Cardinals Spring 2012