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!