Megan is skinny. I’m afraid she’ll need jeans with elastic tighteners forever. I’ve done battle with several pairs of them, on her behalf, getting the buttons through the elastic bands and then un-bunching the stubborn waist in sections. It’s like a little built-in belt. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, good for you. Of course, jeans that are un-tight are the favorite of fathers everywhere, for their precious daughters, but I don’t want Megan’s pants to sag in an entirely unattractive way, only in a sort of unattractive way. There is a precisely achievable difference. I want her pants snug at the waist and baggy through the butt and thighs. Golf knickers, for example, are perfect.
Megan said to me yesterday, at the dinner table, in a kind of scholarly tone, “I think I just have gas pain, or I have to go poop right now.” I said, “Okay Baby, sure thing, go take care of business.” She scampered off, seemingly surprised or pleased or enlightened by her self-diagnosis. It’s always oxymoronic for expressions of this kind to come from such a sweet little girl. Although, let’s be honest; Megan’s not always sweet or prone to propriety when dealing with bodily functions. Megan, for example, is a very skilled gas-passer and not at all one without pride. She will almost always giggle and sometimes even pump her fist. Okay, I’m exaggerating now…. As for Megan’s stomach issue detailed above, it was in response to the visible shock, on my face and Michael’s, when Megan declined dessert. This NEVER happens. So Megan felt the need to explain unequivocally. In the future, however, in the long, long distant future – like if she’s on a date – I hope she just excuses herself from the table, flashes one of her beautiful smiles, and maybe retrieves her lip gloss from her purse before departing. There’s nothing wrong with misdirection, or harmless deception, at moments like this. Got it, Meg?
I want my kids to be polite and positive. If I had to distill it all into two main points or focuses, if I had to do some kind of catch-phrase-y sloganeering to summarize it, I would go with “The Two P’s of Parenting.” Regarding politeness, I mean the obvious, but also the possession of a sense of decorum and professionalism (when they get older), and a sense of respect. The world has been around a long time, and so have certain people, and certain types of people. I want them to respect it all, because it will all reward them and fulfill them and then, often without warning, knock them on their ass. And both cycles have great purpose. Uh-oh, can I make it “The Three P’s of Parenting?” And the second P – shoot, I think I’ve gone overboard, this is like a cleaning-product infomercial now; no, I’m not yelling – is really very simple. People who are optimistic and grateful are happier, healthier, and more successful. We can argue about definitions and semantics and science, but I simply want my kids to get in the habit of leaning in one direction and not the other. And I think when you’re positive, you work harder; you’re passionate. Four P’s?
Monday, September 16, 2013
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Dad Entry #166
My sweet, little daughter doesn’t flush the toilet. I don’t get it; I view this activity as necessary and courteous, of course, but also relatively urgent. I am big and male – not insignificant factors here – but even when perpetrated by the cute and tiny, an unflushed toilet is an unpleasant surprise. Megan has her own bathroom, and I would stay out of it in between cleanings but she doesn’t turn off the lights either, or pick up her wet, wadded towels, so I am frequently reminded to check for things undone or out of place.
Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.
I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.
Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.
Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.
I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.
Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.
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