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.
