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.