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!