Dad Entry #171

Yesterday, Megan said, “Daddy, can I dumpster dive with you?” I was stepping out of our condo with a bag of recyclables, empty bottles and junk mail and so on. I felt a twinge of emotion but I can’t remember if it was shame or pride or both in some confusing seesaw. I want my sweetheart to be grounded and real, although garbage-picking in crusty, smelly dumpsters is surely pushing it. Regardless, I said, “Of course you can come, Honey-Bunny, but I doubt you’ll see anything you wanna keep.” The recycling dumpster – shared by everyone in the building and almost as gross as its abutting and identical neighbor, the garbage dumpster – occasionally yields a within-reach, unsoiled treasure. For example, someone gets ESPN The Magazine; someone else gets The New Yorker. If the Bloomberg cover is tempting and not damp or sticky, I will consider it. I pulled a True Blood DVD box set out not long ago, which I immediately gave to Sara who was just arriving with the kids. Unabashedly, I tossed it into her car and used the unfortunate phrase ‘dumpster dive’ in my honest recounting of how I came to possess it. I was excited. Megan remembers things.

Megan has the habit of picking up pamphlets when they are displayed at pharmacies, for example, or at interstate rest areas. I find them in my backseat. They say things like “Explore Wisconsin” or “Save Money On Your Medicare” or “What You Need To Know About Your Colonoscopy.”

I saw a bobcat. I was driving home from work at dusk and it ran in big strides across the road. It stopped in some grass and looked sideways at me and was unmistakable. I enjoy nature as much as anyone; I fish and hunt every year. But my excitement was surprisingly intense, to the point I felt an impulse to self-criticize for being childish. I was as excited as Michael would be. Although, am I that foolish? I mean wild bobcats are cool, right? So are red foxes. Those hawks circling overhead? Yeah, they’re pretty kickass too, let’s face it. Bears, wolfs, whales, giant squids? You betcha! Ancient Egypt. Dinosaurs. Outer space. One Direction.... just makin' sure you're payin' attention. As for the rest, however, it's nice that kids remind us.

Dad Entry #170

Michael hit a baseball that hasn’t landed yet in his last game. It was a high pitch and he crushed it. I had a nice view of the sequence – the pitch up in the zone, the swing, the contact, the beautifully-trajected, long flight of the baseball over the leftfielder’s head – since I was coaching at first base. I barked at Michael, as he ran toward me, to go to second, and faster for heaven’s sake, although I didn’t utter any silly appending phrases like that, I only thought them and with more intensity and pungency I’m sure. My son runs like he’s pulling a plow. Or he has a piano on his back. Or both. My commands, as he rounded first base, were likely more spirited than normal because I was elated. I was surprised too, frankly, and I wasn't the only one. I’m pretty sure a dozen jaws dropped, including those on Mommy and Grammie and Coach Lee and several players. We expect Michael to hit well but not launch the ball into orbit. Of course, Michael only got a double. Holy shit is he slow. I know turtles that could’ve taken three bases. The kid in left field nearly ran to the next town to retrieve the ball (there's no outfield fence to corral things) but Michael only ambled into second on the play. Oh well. He’ll never leg out a triple unless he hits one into a passing train car headed to Canada or something (in a league with no ground rule doubles). Speaking of big, lumbering guys who crush the baseball, Papa Mike caught an Adam Dunn foul ball for Michael at the White Sox game a few weeks back.

Michael’s lethargic, leisurely baserunning seems very purposeful and swift, actually, compared to Megan putting on shoes. Oh my God, turtles are rocket ships, snails are race cars. (I mean snails other than Turbo.) In Megan's defense, I’m referring only to her glacially paced routine with a specific pair of high-top gym shoes that just can't be thrown quickly onto my sweetheart’s socked little feet. They're sneakers with panache, I'll admit; they have rhinestones and gems on them, the patterns of which I've nearly memorized as I wait and sometimes help with the unknotting and loosening of laces, followed by sock-straightening and the actual donning of the shoes with exertive pulling accompanied by teeth-gritting and soft grunts, followed by shoe-tongue unbunching and arranging, followed by lace tightening, untangling, and tying. If Megan does every step by herself – and she usually does because she’s eight now and should really put her shoes on without parental assistance – it feels like a lifetime. It takes forever. The sun could rise and then set again. I notice new leaves on my plants. My fingernails are longer. Okay, my jokes are overdone and poor but it can’t be overstated. And I consider myself a patient father. Wait… that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Dad Entry #169

The growth of my children seems to be accelerating. They are both very tallish these days, and Michael has a nice, proportionate thickness to him, also. He'll lean out some, but I'm certain he'll never be as sinewy and stork-legged as I am (or used to be). This is good. And his weight is north of 100 pounds which, I’m pretty sure, already precludes him from riding at the Kentucky Derby or modeling for Guess.

Last week, Michael made an interesting offer; he said, “Dad, I’m going to invent the perfect life for you.” My first thought, of course, was, thank you for assuming I need an upgrade. But I responded, “Okay, what’d you have in mind?” He said, “Well, for the perfect life you would live in the Storellis’ house.” Hmm, I would hate for the Storellis to vacate or share, but it’s true they occupy a beautiful home, very big and full of character. “And it would have a trampoline and a pool,” Michael added. So these are things for your perfect life, Dude, not mine, but go on. “And a basketball court.” Now we’re gettin’ somewhere! “And you would drive a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport.” Okay, so I needed Wikipedia for this one. Although I’ve heard of Bugattis, I didn’t realize how fast they are. The Super Sport version of the Veyron is actually the fastest street-legal production car in the world, with a top speed of almost 270 mph. Michael is refreshingly well-informed. But then he said, “Actually, no, I guess you wouldn’t like the Super Sport, Dad, since it uses a gallon of gasoline every minute.” *Bubble burst* Yeah, and routine maintenance will cost tens-of-thousands, and a new transmission after we grind it to smithereens will run us only two-hundred grand, but… doesn’t the phrase 'perfect life' assume we aren’t troubled by the trivial cost of things?

Michael has a calm, cool, almost sleepy demeanor on the baseball diamond. He’s a little like DiMaggio, I think, based on what I’ve read and seen in grainy, old videos. I'm not sure what I think of DiMaggio's wife, though. I had a poster of her – a very classy one – come to think of it, so that says something. I wonder what Michael will hang on his walls in a few years? Speaking of favorite posters, my uncle flew Farrah Fawcett loud and proud until I was at least Michael's age, in his old bedroom at my grandparents' house. Does anyone recall the poster I'm referring to? I'm pretty sure it was commonly owned or coveted back in the day, during an era when people somehow survived without a zillion images to choose from. Although, I liked another Charlie's Angel even more than Farrah. And I'm not referring to Cameron Diaz, Lucy Liu, or Drew Barrymore. This poor generation; like so many things, the remakes and reboots just don't measure up to the originals. Oh my, do I sound like a parent, or what?!

Dad Entry #168

Megan forgets things. I do too, of course; there is a beam in my eye, sure, but let’s talk about the splinter in Megan’s. Way too often, after we’ve cheerfully and comfortably settled in the car for a smile-filled, pleasant ride to school, Megan will blurt, “I forgot my fleece!” or “I don’t have my gym shoes!” Or she forgets her homework or snack or water bottle or a library book. This triggers an avalanche of annoyances, like a rambling lecture from Michael, and then my condemnation of his condemnation (if he cuts too deep, which he often does), followed by a flailing defense by Megan that torches everything, Michael, Daddy, the condo, school, life in general. Pretty soon, crabbiness and chaos have stolen our morning. This is frustrating since I repeatedly ask Megan if she has everything she needs (and so does Michael now, often condescendingly, and then I snarl at him to butt out) before we leave the condo. But I’m a silver lining kinda guy – once in a while – so I gleefully spring out of the car and take the stairs two at a time back up to the fourth floor. I retrieve what’s missing and sprint back down and… voila, I’ve worked out! My cholesterol is elevated but not for lack of extra cardio.

Michael is playing fall baseball in a league of 5th and 6th graders. He’s in 5th and he’s holding his own and I think he feels good about it; he should feel good about it. He’s shown zero signs of intimidation or discouragement when facing hard-throwing pitchers – there are some very good, older players in the league. He stays with pitches and has all the appropriate stride-beginnings; good hitters lean and shift their weight and move their head a certain way to follow the baseball while deciding in an instant whether to put a swing on it. Michael does all of this quite beautifully, even if the pitch is blazing past him from some hotshot hurling from a shortened, little-league-distance mound. And he hits the not-overpowering pitchers hard, and has made a few plays on defense, and has even pitched a little himself. Michael is decidedly NOT a dominating pitcher. On Sunday he pitched and struggled and I had to pull him. (I am one of the coaches.) Of course, I love these moments; I stand next to my son on a pitcher’s mound, with a game on, with two teams and an umpire and fans waiting on us. I say things to him like, “Hey Bud, you’re having trouble finding it today, so I’m gonna bring in Adam, but who cares, you’re a big kid, a strong kid, and you’re only going to get better as a pitcher, and everything else you put your focus on, and you’re a hitting machine, and an awesome son, and what movie should we watch later, anyway?” I think I lose him at about the second compliment but get his attention back at the mention of a movie.

Megan has seven thousand pairs of leggings. Or so it seems. I didn’t even know what leggings were for the first 30 years of my life. A clear understanding of leggings, their place in young female wardrobes and varieties of, their tendency – if earth-toned and tightish – to remind me of old Robin Hood productions and two funny Cary Elwes movies, their general casualness but ability to spice up – or ‘clash up’ – an outfit, their ease of laundering and folding, their use as an extra layer (under skirts, for example), and the availability of so many outrageous patterns (like gray and pink leopard print) are all details I’m well-versed in as the father of a fashion-adventurous little girl.