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.