Dad Entry #176

I have never done this before, but #176 is only going to be a quote, from William Broyles. He's a Vietnam veteran and a writer / editor whose feathers include the screenplays for Apollo 13, Cast Away, and Jarhead, among others. Oh, and he's a dad...

"Next time my son and I came to the mountains we’d be ready, not that it would make any difference. We hadn’t earned a next time. The bear had given it to us. Grace came as a gift from unexpected givers. And if you weren’t grateful, if you didn’t thank God or nature or the Great Spirit for your life, your children, for being granted the moment to walk on the earth, then a bear might as well eat you and shit you out as a green puddle. You could get a big house and an expensive car, send your kids to the right schools and give parties for people like yourself, but there would always be that booby trap on the path, the ambush from the flowers, the grizzly in the woods, waiting for you. We made a wide circle away from where the grizzly and her cubs had gone into the woods..."

Dad Entry #175

I gave Megan an espresso this morning. She had an important standardized test at school. I’m kidding; I didn’t give her any espresso. I made extra for myself, though, and quickly drank too much and gave her one helluva pep talk.

I pulled into Sara’s driveway the other day and then exited my car when it was still in Drive. Yeah, I didn’t put it in Park. Are you wondering what happened? We were late for Michael’s basketball game, for one thing.

Before the annual pheasant hunt, I told Megan, “I’m goin’ huntin’, Baby.” Her reply was swift, “Can I come?” Her unawareness and innocence is cute. Bird hunting, for me, is an awesome aggregation of fresh air, countryside, tobacco, great boots, shotgun blasts, pulse-pounding bird flushes and knockdowns and retrievals, amazing dogs, friends, evening alcohol, humorous profanity, story- and lie-telling, and blood (we kill, clean, and eat the birds, after all). Yeah, those are the biggies and, currently, Megan might only embrace the dogs and expensive footwear parts (although she has flashes of proficiency at lie-telling). But Megan won’t be a half-pint forever, and someday we’ll tote guns together over vast fields in cold, wet, nasty weather in search of pheasants. It’ll be fun. I’ll get her a tin of Skoal Long Cut Cherry and she can use Papa Mike’s reasonably-weighted 20 gauge. Did you know they have Apple, Berry, Citrus, and Peach Skoal now? Our deceased rural patriarchs are rolling over in their graves.

So anyway, my car idled forward – very briskly, it seemed to me – and I jumped back into it and slammed my foot on the break. I hit the correct pedal, thank God, and instead of accelerating, the car stopped… but not before it crashed into Sara’s garage door. The damage was less than I feared, but I am suddenly afflicted with a very specific kind of terror and paralysis; I am afraid to get out of my vehicle even after I’ve turned it off, and I’m sitting there holding the key, which is nowhere near the ignition, and the engine is silent as a church mouse. The whole thing happened, of course, because I was thinking hard about how to be a better parent, when I should’ve been concentrating on my driving, or my not driving, or my parking or whatever it was that happened. Such are my flaws.

Dad Entry #174

For several weeks now, both kids have had a rattling cough, and very robust – and often visible – mucus masses blocking one or both nostrils. Megan's wet snot often sags and teardrops to the extreme of coating her upper lip at which point I recommend a Kleenex. I hope she catches on before high school. Megan's nose was dry – and nearly clear – last night, though; there was only a single, crusty hanger I desperately wanted to pick as I admired her flawless face. She was reading to me. I said, "Booger, Sweetheart," and pointed to the right side of her nose and she dug and flicked it away. Who cares; I vacuum. Megan was reading aloud a book about a girls basketball team. This is good, since I will coach her soon and want basketball on the brain! On her brain, I should clarify; basketball is always on my brain, especially with Michael’s team at 3-0 and Iowa State ranked 17th. I’m excited to coach Megan’s squad of eight-year-old girls. I’m also terrified. But if my suspicion is true, I’ll benefit from the fact that girls pay more attention and work harder than their male counterparts. Michael's team, albeit older and maybe less tearful, is rambunctious and easily distracted and pretty much annoying as shit. They are also very good and undefeated. Do you think I’d take fewer wins if it meant fewer annoyances? HELL NO!

Outsmarting eight-year-olds isn’t easy. And that holds true for seven, and six, and five, and so on. Speak for yourself, you say? Fair enough; I realize I am the one and only common denominator in my experiences with all the precocious, prodigious kids I’ve been parent, uncle, cousin, coach, friend, and acquaintance to. Maybe you know how to outsmart grade-schoolers, but I don’t. I have a long record of failure. So yeah, anyway, I can’t wait to be in charge of a whole team of eight-year-old girls.

I mentioned Kleenex above. I really love it when Megan leaves a tissue in her pants-pocket, and it ends up in the washing machine with a huge load of laundry. It leaves beautiful little snowflakes – super-thin and impossible to remove – on all of our clothes. It’s so festive!

Dad Entry #173

It occurred to me the other day that securing good email addresses for my kids is nearly as important as getting them social security numbers. I know email addresses are free and everywhere. I know some of you have three of them. I know they’re as accessible as big, fat credit cards (although, hopefully, after the ’08 meltdown those are no longer handed out like parade candy). But it is precisely because of – not despite – their modern ubiquitousness, that proper email addresses are essential. Hey man, there are real consequences to lousy email monikers! For starters, availability is finite, unless you’re okay with random or impermanent extensions. Something like megancox@AcmeCableCompany.com will be defunct in mere months when Acme is swallowed or squashed by a marauding giant like Comcast. And then AT&T will give you a better deal than Comcast. Even megancox@motorola.com is only good until she accepts her golden parachute. So let's save our children, shall we, from having to craft one of those “my email address has changed” notices every year, which inevitably and ironically end up mass-mailed to a bunch of other no-longer-used addresses. We lose contact with loved ones. And the unreceived, unread messages lead to false accusations, bitter feuds, and missed parties. We can’t have missed parties. Another problem is that of namelessness, or the use of silly pseudonyms or just plain gibberish. Just plain gibberish is just plain annoying. I don’t want people to initiate urgent and serious contact with Michael by entering why.u.hate.me.playa.abc-ya.123-ya@yahoo. Or whatever. That just won’t do. And if including an authentic name sounds reasonable, we’re right back to the part about finite availability. Countless names are very common. (‘Cox’ is no exception, unfortunately. Have fun in high school, kids! It’s character-building. I was saddled with it too). There is a Michael Cox on the New York Giants currently; there was a Danny Cox on the St. Louis Cardinals when I was a kid. And last I checked, ‘Megan’ hasn’t gone the way of Mertle or Herman. Now a word about prefixes and addendums: I don’t believe in prefacing or appending an address with a pigeonholing descriptor or asinine abbreviation. I’m just not a fan of promqueenmegan@ or dr.bball.michael.b.phd@hotmail. Addresses like this, to me, are the same as i.am.an.imbecile@earthlink.net. And finally – phew, is anybody still reading? – the extension ‘hotmail’ brings to mind a concluding concern. A gmail address is preferable, in my opinion, and not just because I work for a Google company. Yahoo addresses are also common; they are clearly recognized and remembered. Hotmail? Hmm. This is the gray area. AOL? Not gray anymore; @aol.com is totally 90’s and unacceptable, and God knows what kind of ancient user interface you're stuck with. So... did I follow my own advice? Yes, I was able to get perfect gmail and yahoo addresses for M and m. They include initials and middle names, but are solely name-based. No confusing tangle of numbers, periods, and dashes. No nonsense or profanity or hip-hop slang. That’s it. They’re set. They have lifelong, clear, and major-provider email addresses. You’re welcome, Michael and Megan; thanks to me, you can avoid the major pitfalls – primarily anonymity and asininity – when it comes to this important matter.

Dad Entry #172

My son is a Vikings fan. I had to kick him out. I sent him on his way with one of those sticks-with-a-handkerchief-bundle-over-the-shoulder thingies. Sorry, Bud. Rain or shine, suck or not suck, it’s Bears here. We love defense and erratic quarterbacking. Michael’s a Minnesota fan because his grandparents took him to the Metrodome. It was Vikes / Cardinals – the Bears weren’t in town, sadly, only Larry Fitzgerald – but it blew Michael’s hair back. There’s a kind of heightened intimacy or immediacy – or frenzy! – that comes with ceilinged, enclosed stadiums at full spasm, packed and ravenous. Open-air joints like Soldier Field just can’t match the uproar. When the dome blares Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” at a zillion decibels over tens of thousands of crazies, even I feel like swinging an ax for glory and a ticket to Valhalla. “We come from the land of the ice and snow…. Valhalla, I am coming.” I wrote about this before – Michael at a Vikes game – but I didn’t think it would stick. Purple? If he gets a horned helmet with yellow yarn braids, it's going right in the trash.

I’m in Brazil on business. I’ve worked hard but also consumed kilos and liters, respectively, of meat and local beer – Bohemia, Itaipava, and Chopp Brahma. Being here – my first time in South America – is a nice reminder that the world is both big and small. Just as people from every corner, to me, are always the same but different. Yeah, I’m like, deep. The cultural contrasts are fun to wade into, the language and food, of course, but fashion and architecture – and beer – always deviate, also. Shoe styles seem to vary between continents, as do license plates and light switches. I’ve blown up electric shavers in Europe and Asia because the outlets are always different. The most obvious dissimilarity, however, is the design of that profoundly utilitarian fixture in bathrooms (or WC's, depending). Yes, I mean toilets. They are surprisingly diverse. The thrones and urinals are different in every country I’ve been to, and it’s an IQ test to figure them out. Is there a button or a lever or a cord or a sensor? And in Brazil right now: What is this thing that looks like a pull-out sink sprayer? I don't like bidets. Somehow, we manage. I think my point is this: I hope my kids travel. It’s eye-opening – and soul-opening, frankly, in my opinion – to bounce around the globe some.

Dad Entry #171

Yesterday, Megan said, “Daddy, can I dumpster dive with you?” I was stepping out of our condo with a bag of recyclables, empty bottles and junk mail and so on. I felt a twinge of emotion but I can’t remember if it was shame or pride or both in some confusing seesaw. I want my sweetheart to be grounded and real, although garbage-picking in crusty, smelly dumpsters is surely pushing it. Regardless, I said, “Of course you can come, Honey-Bunny, but I doubt you’ll see anything you wanna keep.” The recycling dumpster – shared by everyone in the building and almost as gross as its abutting and identical neighbor, the garbage dumpster – occasionally yields a within-reach, unsoiled treasure. For example, someone gets ESPN The Magazine; someone else gets The New Yorker. If the Bloomberg cover is tempting and not damp or sticky, I will consider it. I pulled a True Blood DVD box set out not long ago, which I immediately gave to Sara who was just arriving with the kids. Unabashedly, I tossed it into her car and used the unfortunate phrase ‘dumpster dive’ in my honest recounting of how I came to possess it. I was excited. Megan remembers things.

Megan has the habit of picking up pamphlets when they are displayed at pharmacies, for example, or at interstate rest areas. I find them in my backseat. They say things like “Explore Wisconsin” or “Save Money On Your Medicare” or “What You Need To Know About Your Colonoscopy.”

I saw a bobcat. I was driving home from work at dusk and it ran in big strides across the road. It stopped in some grass and looked sideways at me and was unmistakable. I enjoy nature as much as anyone; I fish and hunt every year. But my excitement was surprisingly intense, to the point I felt an impulse to self-criticize for being childish. I was as excited as Michael would be. Although, am I that foolish? I mean wild bobcats are cool, right? So are red foxes. Those hawks circling overhead? Yeah, they’re pretty kickass too, let’s face it. Bears, wolfs, whales, giant squids? You betcha! Ancient Egypt. Dinosaurs. Outer space. One Direction.... just makin' sure you're payin' attention. As for the rest, however, it's nice that kids remind us.

Dad Entry #170

Michael hit a baseball that hasn’t landed yet in his last game. It was a high pitch and he crushed it. I had a nice view of the sequence – the pitch up in the zone, the swing, the contact, the beautifully-trajected, long flight of the baseball over the leftfielder’s head – since I was coaching at first base. I barked at Michael, as he ran toward me, to go to second, and faster for heaven’s sake, although I didn’t utter any silly appending phrases like that, I only thought them and with more intensity and pungency I’m sure. My son runs like he’s pulling a plow. Or he has a piano on his back. Or both. My commands, as he rounded first base, were likely more spirited than normal because I was elated. I was surprised too, frankly, and I wasn't the only one. I’m pretty sure a dozen jaws dropped, including those on Mommy and Grammie and Coach Lee and several players. We expect Michael to hit well but not launch the ball into orbit. Of course, Michael only got a double. Holy shit is he slow. I know turtles that could’ve taken three bases. The kid in left field nearly ran to the next town to retrieve the ball (there's no outfield fence to corral things) but Michael only ambled into second on the play. Oh well. He’ll never leg out a triple unless he hits one into a passing train car headed to Canada or something (in a league with no ground rule doubles). Speaking of big, lumbering guys who crush the baseball, Papa Mike caught an Adam Dunn foul ball for Michael at the White Sox game a few weeks back.

Michael’s lethargic, leisurely baserunning seems very purposeful and swift, actually, compared to Megan putting on shoes. Oh my God, turtles are rocket ships, snails are race cars. (I mean snails other than Turbo.) In Megan's defense, I’m referring only to her glacially paced routine with a specific pair of high-top gym shoes that just can't be thrown quickly onto my sweetheart’s socked little feet. They're sneakers with panache, I'll admit; they have rhinestones and gems on them, the patterns of which I've nearly memorized as I wait and sometimes help with the unknotting and loosening of laces, followed by sock-straightening and the actual donning of the shoes with exertive pulling accompanied by teeth-gritting and soft grunts, followed by shoe-tongue unbunching and arranging, followed by lace tightening, untangling, and tying. If Megan does every step by herself – and she usually does because she’s eight now and should really put her shoes on without parental assistance – it feels like a lifetime. It takes forever. The sun could rise and then set again. I notice new leaves on my plants. My fingernails are longer. Okay, my jokes are overdone and poor but it can’t be overstated. And I consider myself a patient father. Wait… that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Dad Entry #169

The growth of my children seems to be accelerating. They are both very tallish these days, and Michael has a nice, proportionate thickness to him, also. He'll lean out some, but I'm certain he'll never be as sinewy and stork-legged as I am (or used to be). This is good. And his weight is north of 100 pounds which, I’m pretty sure, already precludes him from riding at the Kentucky Derby or modeling for Guess.

Last week, Michael made an interesting offer; he said, “Dad, I’m going to invent the perfect life for you.” My first thought, of course, was, thank you for assuming I need an upgrade. But I responded, “Okay, what’d you have in mind?” He said, “Well, for the perfect life you would live in the Storellis’ house.” Hmm, I would hate for the Storellis to vacate or share, but it’s true they occupy a beautiful home, very big and full of character. “And it would have a trampoline and a pool,” Michael added. So these are things for your perfect life, Dude, not mine, but go on. “And a basketball court.” Now we’re gettin’ somewhere! “And you would drive a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport.” Okay, so I needed Wikipedia for this one. Although I’ve heard of Bugattis, I didn’t realize how fast they are. The Super Sport version of the Veyron is actually the fastest street-legal production car in the world, with a top speed of almost 270 mph. Michael is refreshingly well-informed. But then he said, “Actually, no, I guess you wouldn’t like the Super Sport, Dad, since it uses a gallon of gasoline every minute.” *Bubble burst* Yeah, and routine maintenance will cost tens-of-thousands, and a new transmission after we grind it to smithereens will run us only two-hundred grand, but… doesn’t the phrase 'perfect life' assume we aren’t troubled by the trivial cost of things?

Michael has a calm, cool, almost sleepy demeanor on the baseball diamond. He’s a little like DiMaggio, I think, based on what I’ve read and seen in grainy, old videos. I'm not sure what I think of DiMaggio's wife, though. I had a poster of her – a very classy one – come to think of it, so that says something. I wonder what Michael will hang on his walls in a few years? Speaking of favorite posters, my uncle flew Farrah Fawcett loud and proud until I was at least Michael's age, in his old bedroom at my grandparents' house. Does anyone recall the poster I'm referring to? I'm pretty sure it was commonly owned or coveted back in the day, during an era when people somehow survived without a zillion images to choose from. Although, I liked another Charlie's Angel even more than Farrah. And I'm not referring to Cameron Diaz, Lucy Liu, or Drew Barrymore. This poor generation; like so many things, the remakes and reboots just don't measure up to the originals. Oh my, do I sound like a parent, or what?!

Dad Entry #168

Megan forgets things. I do too, of course; there is a beam in my eye, sure, but let’s talk about the splinter in Megan’s. Way too often, after we’ve cheerfully and comfortably settled in the car for a smile-filled, pleasant ride to school, Megan will blurt, “I forgot my fleece!” or “I don’t have my gym shoes!” Or she forgets her homework or snack or water bottle or a library book. This triggers an avalanche of annoyances, like a rambling lecture from Michael, and then my condemnation of his condemnation (if he cuts too deep, which he often does), followed by a flailing defense by Megan that torches everything, Michael, Daddy, the condo, school, life in general. Pretty soon, crabbiness and chaos have stolen our morning. This is frustrating since I repeatedly ask Megan if she has everything she needs (and so does Michael now, often condescendingly, and then I snarl at him to butt out) before we leave the condo. But I’m a silver lining kinda guy – once in a while – so I gleefully spring out of the car and take the stairs two at a time back up to the fourth floor. I retrieve what’s missing and sprint back down and… voila, I’ve worked out! My cholesterol is elevated but not for lack of extra cardio.

Michael is playing fall baseball in a league of 5th and 6th graders. He’s in 5th and he’s holding his own and I think he feels good about it; he should feel good about it. He’s shown zero signs of intimidation or discouragement when facing hard-throwing pitchers – there are some very good, older players in the league. He stays with pitches and has all the appropriate stride-beginnings; good hitters lean and shift their weight and move their head a certain way to follow the baseball while deciding in an instant whether to put a swing on it. Michael does all of this quite beautifully, even if the pitch is blazing past him from some hotshot hurling from a shortened, little-league-distance mound. And he hits the not-overpowering pitchers hard, and has made a few plays on defense, and has even pitched a little himself. Michael is decidedly NOT a dominating pitcher. On Sunday he pitched and struggled and I had to pull him. (I am one of the coaches.) Of course, I love these moments; I stand next to my son on a pitcher’s mound, with a game on, with two teams and an umpire and fans waiting on us. I say things to him like, “Hey Bud, you’re having trouble finding it today, so I’m gonna bring in Adam, but who cares, you’re a big kid, a strong kid, and you’re only going to get better as a pitcher, and everything else you put your focus on, and you’re a hitting machine, and an awesome son, and what movie should we watch later, anyway?” I think I lose him at about the second compliment but get his attention back at the mention of a movie.

Megan has seven thousand pairs of leggings. Or so it seems. I didn’t even know what leggings were for the first 30 years of my life. A clear understanding of leggings, their place in young female wardrobes and varieties of, their tendency – if earth-toned and tightish – to remind me of old Robin Hood productions and two funny Cary Elwes movies, their general casualness but ability to spice up – or ‘clash up’ – an outfit, their ease of laundering and folding, their use as an extra layer (under skirts, for example), and the availability of so many outrageous patterns (like gray and pink leopard print) are all details I’m well-versed in as the father of a fashion-adventurous little girl.

Dad Entry #167

Megan is skinny. I’m afraid she’ll need jeans with elastic tighteners forever. I’ve done battle with several pairs of them, on her behalf, getting the buttons through the elastic bands and then un-bunching the stubborn waist in sections. It’s like a little built-in belt. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, good for you. Of course, jeans that are un-tight are the favorite of fathers everywhere, for their precious daughters, but I don’t want Megan’s pants to sag in an entirely unattractive way, only in a sort of unattractive way. There is a precisely achievable difference. I want her pants snug at the waist and baggy through the butt and thighs. Golf knickers, for example, are perfect.

Megan said to me yesterday, at the dinner table, in a kind of scholarly tone, “I think I just have gas pain, or I have to go poop right now.” I said, “Okay Baby, sure thing, go take care of business.” She scampered off, seemingly surprised or pleased or enlightened by her self-diagnosis. It’s always oxymoronic for expressions of this kind to come from such a sweet little girl. Although, let’s be honest; Megan’s not always sweet or prone to propriety when dealing with bodily functions. Megan, for example, is a very skilled gas-passer and not at all one without pride. She will almost always giggle and sometimes even pump her fist. Okay, I’m exaggerating now…. As for Megan’s stomach issue detailed above, it was in response to the visible shock, on my face and Michael’s, when Megan declined dessert. This NEVER happens. So Megan felt the need to explain unequivocally. In the future, however, in the long, long distant future – like if she’s on a date – I hope she just excuses herself from the table, flashes one of her beautiful smiles, and maybe retrieves her lip gloss from her purse before departing. There’s nothing wrong with misdirection, or harmless deception, at moments like this. Got it, Meg?

I want my kids to be polite and positive. If I had to distill it all into two main points or focuses, if I had to do some kind of catch-phrase-y sloganeering to summarize it, I would go with “The Two P’s of Parenting.” Regarding politeness, I mean the obvious, but also the possession of a sense of decorum and professionalism (when they get older), and a sense of respect. The world has been around a long time, and so have certain people, and certain types of people. I want them to respect it all, because it will all reward them and fulfill them and then, often without warning, knock them on their ass. And both cycles have great purpose. Uh-oh, can I make it “The Three P’s of Parenting?” And the second P – shoot, I think I’ve gone overboard, this is like a cleaning-product infomercial now; no, I’m not yelling – is really very simple. People who are optimistic and grateful are happier, healthier, and more successful. We can argue about definitions and semantics and science, but I simply want my kids to get in the habit of leaning in one direction and not the other. And I think when you’re positive, you work harder; you’re passionate. Four P’s?

Dad Entry #166

My sweet, little daughter doesn’t flush the toilet. I don’t get it; I view this activity as necessary and courteous, of course, but also relatively urgent. I am big and male – not insignificant factors here – but even when perpetrated by the cute and tiny, an unflushed toilet is an unpleasant surprise. Megan has her own bathroom, and I would stay out of it in between cleanings but she doesn’t turn off the lights either, or pick up her wet, wadded towels, so I am frequently reminded to check for things undone or out of place.

Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.

I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.

Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.

Dad Entry #165

There are moments in fatherhood when it’s best to recuse oneself, admit ignorance (or at least unfamiliarity), or say, “Ask your mother.” I’m not referring to matters of permission. Although, I suck at those too. I’m talking about impossible questions with futile answers, analogous to Zen koans, perhaps, or appeals from Cub fans approaching nonagenarian-hood, “Really? Not even once in my entire LIFETIME?!” So the kids and I were discussing superheroes again (see my last post). Michael can be a ruthless debater when facing his little sister. He luringly paints her into logical corners, which is often condescending and ugly – and very common among siblings – but Megan artfully holds her own, with name-calling or withdrawal, or in this case, a diversion. It was a diversionary question, in fact, and it froze us all. Megan said, “And where does the Hulk get his pants, anyway?” Good one, Meg! Michael, who was probably winning an argument about, say, the inefficacy of Clark Kent’s disguise – only eyeglasses?! – was summarily silenced. There is no good explanation for the Hulk’s pants. This is immediately, awkwardly, painfully obvious. Kryptonite? Sure, makes perfect sense. Spider bites, gamma rays, mutant genes, Norse mythology. Yep, yep, sure, no problem. All are very palatable. And my favorite, adamantium skeleton and retractable claws? Of course, everyone knows how Wolverine was deeply in love – and only sort of invincible – until he undertook the coolest self-improvement project ever when his heart was broken. Perfectly plausible, and admirable to boot! But the Hulk’s pants? How can we believe they’re from the diminutive and pasty Bruce Banner?! Even Hollywood can’t reconcile this one. Putting baggy trousers on Edward Norton? Feeble. The Hulk’s waist size doubles, and his thighs quadruple! Megan, sensing she’d really kicked the jukebox, tried to lighten the mood. She added, “The Hulk would need like ten grandmas to sew him some pants.” My sweetheart. So there are creative predicaments in life, and there are tough questions. But I know a tough little girl too, a girl who counts superheroes and apparel among her many interests, a smart girl who can spot bullshit a mile away. (Yes, I realize I’m caricaturizing.) She’s my sweet Meg-pie. And regarding bullshit, there are too many people – I even see one in the mirror sometimes – who spend this unfortunate currency.

I read this today: “There comes a time when you realize everything is a dream, and only things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” I'm not sure I agree, but I hope my children know why I’ve done this, 165 times. I can’t NOT do it; I love them too much. But writing is untameable. It bounces between uplifting and agonizing for me, during hours of sculpting sentences, ones I’m certain are clumsy or confusing or over-written or under-written or grammatically dreadful or just plain bad, and even heavyweights like Hemingway said, “Writing is easy, you just sit at a typewriter and bleed.” My attempts at writing combine love and a vicious vulnerability. Although, do we ever get one without the other? I guess the first one trumps the second here. Oh man, I just got way too serious! Somebody tell a fart joke. Hurry!

Dan Entry #164

Megan lost another tooth, and when the bleeding stopped, her focus shifted to the Tooth Fairy. We were readying for a night’s sleep on mattresses in the family room (a Saturday custom), and Megan wondered if she should transact the matter in her real bed, in her bedroom. We chatted. We examined the issue of temporary pillows with profound thoroughness and respect. Would the Tooth Fairy be inconvenienced or confused or less generous? Michael was there too, and it struck me as odd. He knows it’s all a charade now, and I winked at him, but without a doubt he’s never seen me lie with such grace and ease. We still play jokes on each other, but with considerably less duplicity and duration. Of course, I did the same song and dance with Michael not long ago, but he didn’t know I was lying then, and this struck me as different. A pinch of discomfort registered. Maybe I’m crazy. I know I’m weird. I just want the kids to be honest. It’s difficult. No one achieves a perfect record of honesty, but there are varying levels of subscription to the general principle, I’ve noticed.

Michael came to my softball game last night, and for the first time ever, he was intent on watching. There are usually ringers on both sides, and plenty of action all over the field, great plays, long drives, big fellas crushing the ball at opponents who, in some cases, must react instantly or be seriously harmed. Michael said, “You look pretty good out there.” Thanks, Bud.

We are Iron Man fans. Even Megan. I was sold the moment I saw Robert Downey Jr. over solder irons in the first movie. Early in my career, I spent many hours soldering microelectronics, inhaling flux fumes and suffering burns, and incautiously exposing myself to lead. All for a modest salary. But back to superheroes…. We also like Hulk, Thor, Captain America, Wolverine, and pretty much every other Avenger, mutant, Justice-Leaguer, or tights-wearing ass-kicker. We loved the Superman reboot “Man of Steel,” even though it was too long. We’re addicted to “The Ultimate Spiderman” cartoon (not to be confused with “The Amazing Spiderman," but what kind of idiot would make that mistake). And we have yet to reveal, even furtively, any kind of disproportionate appreciation for the button-busting-cleavage-wielding heroines of some shows and comic books. This is good. Megan harbors no instinctual favor for females either, no sense of gender solidarity, no preference for “girl power.” There are, of course, some incredible superheroines, and we know and love them, but we appraise simply; it’s about superpowers, bad guys vanquished, and world-takeover-plots foiled. Humor, charisma , and costume hold little sway. Only sheer awesomeness matters to us!

Michael asked me, “Do you think I could make a real Iron Man suit someday, like Tony Stark?” He asked with a kind of sheepish awareness of the grandiosity of it. But I didn’t blink or smile or do anything but answer seriously, “Yes, absolutely, with focus and hard work you can do impressive things, Michael.” He seemed satisfied with my answer. He’ll need to assemble a very talented and well-funded engineering team, and maybe enlist the help of Larry Page or raise Steve Jobs from the dead, but it’s possible.

Dad Entry #163

On a flight to Minnesota this year, Michael said, “I’m no expert on clouds, but I think we’re flying through some cumulonimbus.” He says things like this with convincing aplomb. I wonder how his targets at the bar will react, a dozen years from now, to these kind of breezy, brainy comments. The answer, of course, has everything to do with how handsome he is. And, according to surveys, how white his teeth are, and maybe his shoes. Shoes?! Puffing up the arms and chest are surprisingly low on the list. I wasted so many hours doing that, I’m afraid, and I didn’t even succeed. My son’s a bit thicker than I am; he'll have better luck. He'll never cut like his old man though, like lightning! "I'm so quick, I flip the switch and I'm in bed before the lights go out!" Muhammad Ali said that; he had plenty of both, quick and thick. So does Lebron. Speaking of chest-puffery, Michael’s taken a shine to cars lately. He points out Panameras, Carreras, Camaros, you name it. He likes Maseratis. He spots the occasional Ferrari and calls Lamborghinis, “Lambos.” And his stumbles are understandable; Ford fusions do look like Aston Martins now, and Chryslers like Bentleys. Michael doesn’t really confuse things unless they’re confusing. It’s why I drive an Accord; it’s never mistaken for something nicer.

Michael knows Papa Mike has owned nice cars over the years; he’s had Mustangs, a BMW, an A6 turbo, a Cayenne. But Michael wants a Ferrari in the family. “Could Papa Mike buy a Ferrari?” he asked me. “Yeah, but that would really dent the budget, and he wants to retire soon and play golf everyday, and he likes to buy watches and shoes too much.” (There’s ‘shoes’ again.) So Michael said, “Maybe we could all pitch in and help him get a Ferrari!” Good idea! I can afford a slice of a fraction of a percent of the lowest possible Ferrari payment! Kids are dreamers, creators, artists, sharers, and that’s why, in some ways, they’re wiser than adults.

Dad Entry #162

As of this morning, my son is 10 years old. Holy shit! I cried more than he did, as I recall, 10 years ago today. I was so happy. A decade with him has me certain my emotions that day were of appropriate magnitude; I was elated and overcome. He has lived up to the hype! Anyway, I'm grateful. I love him. That is all.

Dad Entry #161

I wonder if there are any sort of time-stamped activities or accessories, things unique to Michael and Megan’s childhood era, that will seem antiquated to their kids, to the next generation. Young people today might struggle to conceive of things like life before cell phones, or life before the internet, or life before the internet on cell phones. Attempting to imagine this, they'll feel pity. Which is odd because I don't recall being vexed whatsoever when I couldn’t be texted or called directly when I told my parents I was at Dave’s house, and Dave told his parents he was at my house, and we were both actually at Maggie’s house, along with twenty other high-schoolers, for the entire night, none of us feeling slighted or grievously inconvenienced by the absence of mobile devices; we were untethered, and having a blast.

Internet access via dial-up sucked though. We should be pitied for that, the glacial speed and horrible screeching, although that sound had a happy association for us; it meant maybe we'd finally connect.

Will the class of 2050 talk less? I’m referring to conversation of the face-to-face variety, without digitizing intermediaries like smartphones, Skype, or social networks. One has to wonder. But I assume they’ll jabber as much as every generation prior. It'll get worse, in fact, if media prominence is any indicator; every day sees more channels and talking heads added to TV. In other words, talking too much is so very human, as in pervasive and permanent, not apt to change any sooner than the tradition of being born with arms and legs, and mouths, and overactive, judgmental minds. Now I sound cynical.

Speaking of arms and legs, I hope my kids’ kids do as many activities that require movement of these fantastic things we’re born with, our physical bodies. They are, after all, our only material possessions at birth, and also the most utterly impressive and valuable ones we'll ever own, our bodies, but each is different, of course, and in varying degrees of disuse, disrepair, deterioration, or decrepitude (and that’s only the D’s) but all exponentially more amazing and complex than anything the world's finest engineers have created. I’m so happy Michael and Megan still dig in the dirt, once in a while, and write on the sidewalk with chalk, and suffer other distinctly non-technological distractions; they wrestle, play catch, swing, jump rope, and poke at insects. They love parks and ponds and Reptile Fest. They do, however, bear some stunning deprivations their children may never know, things like TVs with only 480p resolution, and DVRs incapable of recording unlimited channels simultaneously. For shame! I think there was a commercial that spoofed this. Funny.

I remember playing in garbage dumps when I was a kid. My children have never enjoyed this very safe and sterile luxury. The first dump was a decades-old heap in the virgin, forested acreage owned by my grandparents in Iowa. My Grandma Bev still owns it. It’s an island of trees surrounded by cornfields. Unadulterated beauty. Except for the dump. My ancestors used it before we had rackets, I mean companies, like Waste Management. Yes, my family hauled their own garbage! And in the process they amassed a treasure trove of old license plates, beer cans, medicine bottles – glass medicine bottles, as was the practice in lieu of plastic back then – old appliances, and lots of rusty, crumbling, razor-sharp indistinguishable debris. Tetanus shot, anyone? I loved that trash pile. Unfortunately, they had it bulldozed and buried when I was still a kid.

The other spot I’m referring to was a fascinating assemblage of scrap from road and home construction, but it also, to my delight, contained spare auto parts and pieces. Or so I thought and bragged to my buddies. I was suddenly a mechanic. Spark plugs come from cars, right? We rode our Huffys to the site several times, excavating more nuts and bolts every visit. Jackpot! I filled a whole shoebox with miscellaneous screws, brackets, clamps, and old batteries that leaked skin-eating acid. I was in heaven, and I sincerely hope these types of experiences are always available to future generations.

Dad Entry #160

We have a new car. Thankfully, Megan is impressed with Honda Accords, even ones at the lowest trim level. I think this is okay, her tolerance for modest vehicles. As long as there's no tolerance for mediocre men. And maybe reliability is high on her list; it's high on mine, and I'm not talking about Honda's anymore. "This car is awesome!" Megan shouted at first glance. "Hop in, Sweetheart," I hollered back. Megan, however, is never one to be totally pleased; eventually she criticized the color. The car is black. Megan likes red. Or pink. But it's all very new and shiny, with a fancy command console, and Bluetooth, so we can dial and talk to Grandma and Papa together in the car as if by magic, and – even more amazing – I can play YouTube videos on my phone and pipe the audio through the car speakers. I asked Megan, "What's your favorite song, Baby?" She answered cheerfully, "Thrift Shop!" I was unfamiliar but I found the video on YouTube and hit play, and the beat was catchy as it ricocheted around the car, and we were bouncin' in our fabric-upholstered seats (the leather trim package costs two or three thousand more) when the F-words started. Geez, I tell ya....

Megan, referring to our condo, said, "Dad, our house here is just so, like, for boys. We need more pictures on the walls or something." She has a point. It doesn't help that we play baseball in the family room. But we don't use real baseballs. And we haven't broken anything yet. And there are things to break; there is art, and vases, and other glass and ceramic thingies of some kind or other. Rare and valuable pieces all. There are potted plants, lamps, ornamental bowls on glass tables, sculptures and candles and, yes, pictures in frames. It's a bunch of stuff Megan apparently doesn't notice or she wouldn't disparage the decor. I'm no Martha Stewart (I'm not a felon, for example) but I'll consult with Megan and maybe we can freshen things up a bit.

Michael laced a bases-loaded single through the right side last night, his first hit of the young season. It drove in two big runs, but more importantly, it gave Michael a potent dose of confidence. He'll relax a little now, and so will I. Yeah, to say I was unaffected would be absurd; I was elated. He's got an average now, baby! But I keep things in check. I know he has a beautiful swing. And a beautiful mind. We are the Palatine Youth Baseball Mustang Yankees. My reign as head coach is underway. So far it's been wonderful and interesting, the latter mostly because my players have parents. I suppose this isn't the place for a treatise on positive psychology, or the Losada ratio, or emphasizing mastery over winning. Did I mention I have a dominant lefty pitcher? The kid is filthy, nobody can touch him! That's baseball talk, if you're uninitiated, and has nothing to do with hygiene.

Dad Entry #159

The kids and I flew to Texas for spring break. Grandma, Papa, and Uncle Bill scooped us up at the airport and we all sobbed a little over Iowa State's last second NCAA tourney loss to Ohio State. The game ended only minutes before we landed and – a frustrating thing in many sports – the outcome hinged on a controversial referee decision, a charging / blocking call. Charles Barkley was livid and insisted, in post-game TV commentary, that Iowa State was robbed. I'm not one to disagree with Charles Barkley. So we shook off disappointment and headed straight for the Fort Worth Stockyards, a place that looks and feels – and smells – like a real cowtown. Real cowboys and cowgirls ride up and down the streets – they ride horses, I mean, not Harley's or in cars, although those were mixed into passing traffic also. The horse-riders appeared very capable and authentic, with all the proper accessories and tools; they had worn and dusty boots and hats, spurs, chaps, ropes, and Wranglers. They had humongous belt buckles. Yosemite Sam comes to mind, and not as a caricature or exaggeration. And many had holstered guns, which really consummated the image until I noticed they also had holstered cell phones. The area gets its name from cattle drives that still pass through the town and into nearby sale barns and pens, aka stockyards. We saw wagons and steers and several mustaches. We heard twangy voices and sounds – I'm pretty sure they aren't words – like y'all, reckin', fixin', and pardner. People were very nice. And I was relieved to see exactly zero cowboys squinting at Google Maps on saddle-mounted Android devices. Yee-haw!

I am Megan's sherpa. If we go for a walk, or to a store, or a restaurant, or anywhere at all, Megan will say, "Dad, will you hold my chapstick?" Sure. Then, "Dad, will you carry my scarf, please?" I guess, followed by, "Dad, I'm hot; will you take my coat," and "Dad, can you carry my sweater?" and "Dad, here's my hat." We go through everything after that – purse, book, water bottle, paint chips, stupid pamphlets she picks up, (which I discard immediately) – until finally, "Dad, will you carry me?" I oblige, because I won't be able to do it forever, and I don't get to snuggle and sniff her much otherwise. And it's good exercise. And, I don't know, shit, do I need more excuses not to sound like putty?

At dinner last night, Michael said, "Do we ever vacuum the kitchen floor?" I said, "As a matter of fact, Michael, we do not ever vacuum the kitchen floor, but I do." Sometimes. Maybe not super-often. Maybe not often enough. Okay, I get it. Although, in my defense, I just vacuumed last weekend (after a minor, month-long hiatus) and I am definitely not one of the two people who leave mountains of crumbs every time a cracker, cookie, or chip is consumed, or a slice, piece, or bite of anything whatsoever is handled, or, rather, mishandled. And, for the record, Michael has never complained about the toilets. I clean those often. Maybe it's time he clean those often. I still have the dishes, laundry, sinks, counters, tables, mirrors, tub, and shower to keep me busy. And the floors! Don't forget the floors!

Dad Entry #158

It's been a long time since I recorded any lies about my children. Or, rather, any lies about my patience and unwavering optimism as consistent response to all they do. Maybe that sentiment is fictionalized the most here, in over-glowing commentary. Because I'm pretty certain – my favorite oxymoron – that everything I've written about the kids is true. Have I embellished? Maybe a smidgen. Have I selectively remembered and edited? Sure. Will Iowa State go to the Final Four this year? Hell yeah!

Megan has not received more notes from her admirer named Will. Accordingly, I've taken some staff off of retainer. No longer on the payroll are the private investigator, for example, and Megan's two bodyguards. Speaking of money, Michael is very clear and adamant he'll be lavishly-heeled someday, richer than a pharaoh. I was probably adamant – and self-assured – about that also, at Michael's age. Then life happened. Now I tell myself money's not important. Did I mention 'lies' above? Michael is already making plans, though. He'll find and examine some long-forgotten toy or knick-knack on his shelf. He'll squint his eyes or tilt his head (whatever mannerisms indicate that he's ruminating, plotting), and he'll say, "I bet I can sell this online for tons of money."

Meg has an American Girl diary. She writes in it, and sometimes wants to share what she's written. I know the feeling.

I drafted Michael's baseball team last Saturday. It was difficult; I tried to get a team of nine-year-old Jeter's (he's a good clubhouse guy, has great baseball skills, and only dates A-list movie stars and models). We'll see. Maybe I got a Cabrera. If so, I get a triple-crown-capable prodigy, but I gotta keep him from partying all night. I can't wait to coach again; they are good kids, and decent ballplayers, too.

Recently, Michael's attention was caught by a black-and-white photo of the Greek restaurant we were eating at. The picture showed the place when it opened. Michael studied it. It was dated 1989. Michael said, "Oh, back in the 80's everything must've been in black-and-white. And there were probably no TVs." The second part of this revelation, especially, was uttered with an absolute sadness for the poor souls who endured this decade. I didn't respond; I didn't even know where to begin. I think we each pitied the other for a moment. No one commemorates the 80's for fashion, or hairstyles involving bangs, but it might go down as the last great decade, the perfect blend of humanity and technology.

Dad Entry #157

A few weeks ago, Megan wiped out on a snow hill and sledded on her face for a distance, or so it seemed according to her wounds, which included a big scab over cheekbone and temple, and some black-and-blue around her eye. The damage was impermanent; all signs have vanished already. Kids heal fast. I wasn't there for the accident, but Megan cried out for me, Sara said, which makes me both happy and sad.

Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.

Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?

Dad Entry #156

Michael is pretty tidy when it comes to schoolwork. I'm most aware of things that require my involvement, of course, things like his reading log which I bless with my autograph. Not so valuable, my autograph, but it's nice to give it. Michael puts papers I need to sign (his reading tracker, yes, but also stuff like permission slips and notes about curriculum) in front of me like an attorney at a closing, neatly ordering, stacking, and sliding them across the table. "Oh, and here's a good pen, Dad," he'll say, clicking one to arm it and handing it over with a smile, pleasantly, expectantly, ready to sweep away each paper once signed. He's a pro. Instead of asking him appropriate questions about the upcoming field trip, or school subjects, I pretend I'm Lebron or Verlander with a Sharpee signing posters. (I wonder if my son realizes how juvenile most adults are. Probably not. I didn't realize this until I was about 35.) Well, it seems logical, or chronological, to talk about Megan next, in this context, but I'm unenthusiastic. Oh, Meggie. Unlike her brother, Megan will ask me if I've signed her stuff before she's even taken anything out of her backpack. And sometimes her backpack is still in the car. "Umm, Honey, I'm not going to dig your papers out for you, if I can even find them. Get your binder, and bring it over here, and we'll review things together, please and thank you." We're working on it. But, this part is equally true; Meg practices her spelling words over and over again, and she asks for math problems to do on her whiteboard. She's a good student, also.

Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.

Dad Entry #155

Before Christmas, Megan received a note from a classmate: "Dear Megan (with at least one letter partially scribbled out and rewritten), Here's my phone number (omitted for security reasons) Call me over break, Love, (we'll call him Richard)" Aunt Gretchen was highly critical of everything about Megan's suitor, including Richard's choice of paper. Aunt Gretchen's response: "Dear Richard, a. Get her name right. b. Equipment rental stationary, really? c. You've just ruined any chance you had in high school. Her dad considers you a predator. Move on." God bless Aunt Gretchen! My response, if I gave one, would've been simple and kind: "Richard, I trust this was an accident. You are forgiven. Once." Others in the family, like Uncle Scott, while not approving of Richard whatsoever, were still impressed by his boldness. It's hard to discount; I was in my third decade before closing letters to women (who weren't members of my family) with "Love, Dan."

The baby fish in our tank died. We had several, actually, that didn't make it. They are born so tiny it's common practice to sequester them for a spell (so they won't be snacked on). We did this, but something went wrong. Obviously. Megan coined a word describing what happened; she said the little ones, in their isolation, died from "unloveness." That sounds like a terrible affliction (and reminiscent of the very real and documented "failure to thrive" syndrome). My kids are lucky to have an incredibly loving array of family and friends. We have other concerns and challenges, but I'm not worried about unloveness right now.

Michael discovered Youtube a while back. There are great things on Youtube (fishing clips, tutorials, science videos, sports highlights, sharks!) and some things not so great (angry people, cutting commentaries, rambling nonsense, occasional lewdness). Michael knows there's a monster called the media, powerful and many-tentacled, and he knows it's impressive as both a service and disservice; it's a lavish furnisher of information - and Michael loves information - but it tends to be clownish and to hyperventilate in its insatiable eagerness to caricaturize, sensationalize, and profit from everything. Even the weather. But we like entertainment. Everyone does. The media may seem far-reaching and omnipresent, but there are places to hide from it. And we will hide from it. Often, I hope. I don't want my children to live the media's values. I want my children to live their own values.

We still sing Christmas carols at bedtime, cheerfully but softly. We are far from raucaus. It will be February soon, after all. Michael will tell you the Earth has to rotate over 300 times before we get Christmas again. Bummer. But carols are familiar songs, and Megan has a sweet voice. It's not uncommon for her to lose the melody reading lesser-known verses (from pages of lyrics) but she sings on unvexed. It might be painful if she wasn't so earnest and cute, and snug in her bed with her stuffed animals, fleece blanket, and bowling pin picture frame.

Dad Entry #154

Michael is a bit averse to chivalrous concepts like "ladies first." Of course, the lady in question is very often his little sister, gorgeous and sweet, unless she isn't, which can happen, and nearly every offending episode - an unladylike lapse into name-calling, for example, or farting - is witnessed by her brother. So I understand Michael's confusion, frustration, often exasperation, when I instruct him to get the door for Megan, simply and only because of her femininity, even if she's just acted blatantly impolite or inelegant. "Be a gentleman, Michael," I tell him. And then I add, because self-interest is a great motivator, especially for nine-year-olds, "You won't regret it; it will pay you back tenfold." He really doesn't understand that part.

I often wonder what Michael "will be when he grows up." I wonder the same about Megan. I don't think about it as a demanding, expectant, or prideful parent. Life can be so full, so much comedy, tragedy, and romance, whether we are pothole-fillers or brain surgeons, both very necessary jobs. Potholes wreak havoc on tires, axles, and alignment. And brains are useful. We are not defined by our occupations, in my opinion, or our habits, hobbies, and other pursuits, or even our friends, families, or bodies. We are something deeper, something, somehow, ethereal and yet more real than the material, the physical. Blah, blah. I've digressed. Megan is really cute in skinny jeans.

A few times in my life, very serious and anxious times, my father has said something like, "Don't worry about that," or "That will not be a problem for you," or "That will never happen." Such pronouncements from him carry impressive weight for me, following an accident, a scare, a moment of error or embarrassment (they happen to us all), a teaching moment or impetus for growth (nicer ways to put it). I believe him when he says, "You'll be fine," with a finality, authority, and confidence that remarkably allay some of my worst doubts, and bolster me in the face of these rare, severe scenarios. And this despite his notoriety for embellishment (insert smile). My father has resources, influence, and presence in these moments; I want to possess these for my children, also. I hope they view their father the way I do mine.

Dad Entry #153

Michael asked for a glimpse inside Papa Mike’s gun safe. This is a touchy subject, always, and especially following the unspeakable horror in Newtown. It’s too early to show him, but someday I’ll ask Papa to open ‘er up and have a moment with his grandson. We hunt and handle guns. Some awareness of them – and their use by militaries, hunters, our pioneering ancestors, and, frankly, criminals, gangs, and terrorists – is entirely appropriate for my children, in my humble opinion. I will teach them how to use guns, with extreme safety and not even the tiniest speck of glorification.

Michael and I listen to AC/DC to get fired up for his basketball games. "Back in Black" and "Thunderstruck" both trigger the urge to metamorphose into the Incredible Hulk, a little bit impossible for me, but a potent feeling nonetheless, and one Michael agrees is repeatable and powerful, when the guitars kick off, and the sound and energy lift us. I struggle with the impossibility of the Hulk’s pants (shredded perfectly into shorts that still fit), but I love the associated invincibility, the feeling I can run through brick walls, like high school athletes through decorated paper hoops held by cheerleaders. I wonder if high schools still do these silly – but memorable and important – things. Michael, possessing the heart of a young artist, likes the thought of being green-skinned more than tough-skinned (and able to plow through masonry and pound it to dust). To each his own.

Listening to Megan sound out words, and learn to read, is one of the great pleasures of my life. I appreciate the recitation and rhythm of sentences, their construction and variety; I like sentences that are blunt and crisp, and sentences that wander. And I like Megan.

Megan will stop in the middle of something - tying shoes perhaps, or eating – and just stare ahead, peacefully. Apparently I do this too (impossible for me to believe because I feel self-harried and riddled with anxiety so often), and if noticed in this state, I’m accused of going to “Planet Dan.” Megan spaced-out last night, and when she finally came back to us, she credited a voyage to “Planet Megan” for her absence. I can’t decide if Planet Megan, which I proudly announced must orbit Planet Dan, is a healthy and safe place, and not inhospitable or barren, entirely gaseous, volcano-covered, radiation-blasted, 800 degrees, and hammered by asteroids. Or frozen and grey. No, I think Planet Megan is restful and welcoming; I think it's a happy place.

Dad Entry #152

Santa brought Michael a gecko. An Eyelash Crested Gecko, to be exact (Michael is often annoyed by imprecision, no doubt signaling a budding - but hopefully mild - case of OCD, not uncommon in his extended family). The gecko is called Nick; named by Michael in honor of the giver. I like Nick. He has mottled, earthy coloring and watchful eyes and five-toed feet so much like human hands I wonder if he can dribble and shoot a little basketball. Maybe I've seen too many Geico commercials. We all have. But lizards are cool. Kids are right after all; running with dinosaurs would be amazing (until they ate you, or crapped, or exhaled a big plume of moist, rotten breath in your face). Nick’s a jumper. He will leap from a shoulder all the way to the ground without injury. At least we think he’s okay; no bones are sticking out; everything appears connected at appropriate angles, unlike, for example, Joe Theisman’s leg.

I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the news, an after-midnight missed call from my mom and a voicemail she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, consistently, confidently; he became a tough out. From then on, he was comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fought and fouled off tough pitches and made good contact on meaty ones. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War.

There has been some discussion among my family (never initiated by me!) about my longish – and dwindling – hair. Megan has been listening, apparently; the other day, out of nowhere, she blurted, “I like your mullet, Daddy.” Yes, it was spoken sweetly, believe it or not, with a kind of compassionate assurance; I think she knew hers was a differing opinion, a positive one. But clearly she missed the term’s previous connotation, the mean-spirited, injurious, poisonous, hateful – okay, that will do :) - way it was used to denigrate my hair before. Of course, I burst out laughing, even as the accused; the word possesses a delightfully enormous amount of comedic power. It simply cannot, however, be used in a compliment. But Megan tried.