Dad Post #217

Michael asked me, "Did you have YouTube when you were a kid?" Of all the wise, sarcastic, are-you-kidding-me-when-I-was-a-kid ways I could've answered, I simply said, "Nope." But ESPN, MTV, and HBO were in their infancy, and I could watch a scrambled channel and, if lucky, catch partial, provocative glimpses and sounds. Things have changed.

Megan was in a symphonic mood this morning and I've been thoroughly confounded ever since. I should accept the miracle and move on, but I can't stop wondering.... An unmoody Megan is so tantalizing. Was it a happy dream or the peanut butter cups or the movie before bed? (Diary of a Wimpy Kid 3, hilarious.) Was she touched by angels or taken by aliens or struck by lightning? I know indoor lightning doesn't make sense, but neither does a chipper Megan in the AM. I want desperately to sustain this phenomenon.

For the record: While I prefer happy-Megan to crabby-Megan, I love them both. And, if ever truly obstructed, even temporarily, I would move heaven and earth to be with either one of them.

Happy Holidays!

Dad Post #216

Megan's taste buds are broken. They are oversensitive or under-sensitive or somehow backwards, preferring the boring and bland to anything delicious. She loves white rice, bread and butter, and little else. Perfect casseroles and salads are frowned upon. Bites of meat are picked at. Main courses are nibbled, veggies get cold, and the freshest fruit is appraised as if it were rotten, poisonous, or possessed. I assure her we don't need an antidote or exorcism, and her food isn't from a dumpster. I tell her, "We are lucky. Our food is good and healthy," and then, less emphatically, so my relevant shortcoming doesn't steal the show, "And thank God we have Jeanette to cook for us." Unless Meg becomes a food journalist, celebrity chef, or restauranteur, I'd prefer this outrageous pickiness shifts to something else in the coming years. Yes, that. Boys.

Meg loves to watch Cupcake Wars. This is good. Otherwise she might love the Simpsons, for example, or something about wives and Beverly Hills, or shows with cute little stars who become harlots. That was harsh; I sound old-fashioned. But class isn't old-fashioned. I hope. I hope it's old-, new-, now-, always-, and forever-fashioned. I like art, but I think people are poor if all they have are fame and money. M 'n' m and I would be different, of course, if we had fame and money. Yeah right. I believe it's okay and quite wonderful, in fact, to be human, but it's best to remember this very fact and what it means. Vigilance, kids. Build your house on rock. Money is good, and I pursue it everyday (without much success, unfortunately) but I want M 'n' m to experience real wealth, and know the difference.

Dad Post #215

What I have long feared – even before she was born – has come to pass: Megan has a crush on someone. There is evidence in her own handwriting, which is unflawless but still perfect, because everything about Megan is perfect; dads everywhere hold and defend a similar paradox. Yes, on a piece of paper, that I would like to both burn and frame, Megan's tender affection is in full, vulnerable view, etched softly in pencil by her angelic fingers. She is under a powerful spell, and the sorcerer – if I may – isn't Jesus, or John Lennon or James Dean, or Hiccup or Prince Charming. (Maybe you notice, as do I, the awesome impossibilities in these, my ideal candidates.) No, it's a real boy, a very cool and nice one, but a guy nonetheless. The good news: He's more interested in sports than girls right now. Courting my daughter is low priority, which, oddly enough, has me alternately relieved and then like, "WTF kid, are you blind or dumb or both?" And when the time comes, 20 or 30 years from now, Megan will be the priority; the dude better give two shits about sports when it's time to rub Megan's feet. Even I DVR the Iowa State game if Meg needs me.

Dad Post #214

Megan is the Bobby Rahal of backseat drivers. (To me, Rahal is a racing name as renowned as Andretti, Petty, or Earnhardt, and Bobby is also a longtime friend and business partner of Papa Mike's.) On Chicago's glutted, spaghetti-like highways, Megan will kindly offer, "Dad, you should switch to that lane over there, it's all spread out and nice, and it's going much faster, but don't go too fast, cause it's not safe, but you're going too slow right now, and I won't have enough time with Sophie tonight unless you go faster, Dad." Thanks, Megan. And then if I follow her instructions: "Dad, I think you're speeding now, you know you shouldn't speed too much, you'll get in trouble, Dad." And so on, until I find a song that nine-year-old girls love to lip-sync, which I play loudly even though – unless it's something like early Taylor Swift or Disney – it's inappropriate for nine-year-old girls. But I treat my concerns about this inappropriateness like Chicago drivers do posted speed limits; they're nice but unactionable. Follow them and you'll get runover, and the world will pass you by.

Megan is a slasher like her daddy. With respect to the masterpieces of cinema that comprise the genre, I am not referring to anything in a horror movie. I'm talking about basketball. So far, Megan has a knack for handling and shooting the ball. She has an eagerness to get to the rim and score, and the body control and athleticism to do it prolifically (if she keeps her head on straight, which, of course, is the hard part when people are aggressively trying to stop you). Someday soon we'll see how stubborn and driven she really is. I know she's stubborn. I don't know how well this translates to resilience to discouragement. Girls play stingy, suffocating defense. Girls are catty. Girls are mean. (Have I made my point?) When fussing with me, Megan doesn't give up easy; she gets mad and ornery and spirited and I hope it's the same when some opposing girl on the court starts pushing and bumping and pissing her off. I hope she grinds them to dust and stays with it until she wins at least six championships like that other scoring machine from Chicago who was unstoppable.

Dad Post #213

My last post was #212 and it made me think, which is scary but I do it anyway. I was thinking and remembering that water boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Around Michael's age, I heard a super-inspiring talk from a guy who made one simple point: At 211 degrees you have hot water, that's all, only hot water, but at 212 degrees it starts to boil! Bam! You get bubbles, steam, waves, a chemical reaction. You get action, motion, change. So... sometimes you're very close, if you press on, push a little further, things start to happen! It was an awesome lesson. Your passion, your effort, your energy, your focus, your faith, your generosity... don't stop at 211. Don't be 211. Boil. It can be difficult to tell if you're only one degree away, but keep at it, keep on, keep moving. Of course, one should be aware that water boils at a lower temp at altitude, and a higher temperature if impurities are present.... Wow, I went nerdy there for comedic effect – yes, I know, fail – but give me credit for the metaphorical richness! Climb, soar, and keep impurities at bay. Bam!

Speaking of lessons.... Kids are awesome. They are exultant over things like Halloween and swimming pools. They love presents; they love getting gifts, sure, but also giving them. They draw. They play. They are bouncy and excitable and sometimes run from only one side of a room to the other. I always notice when Megan does this; I know she's inspired and happy. She skips and hops and still flaps her arms like a bird in moments of pure excitement. Fly Megan, fly! I love it when she's happy. It's so much better than pouty and crabby. Which is neither frequent nor rare, but always annoying. Sadly, Michael is showing signs of growing up, and leaving the impulses of childlike joy and creativity behind. This, of course, is bullshit and I intend to subvert, deter, and obstruct this kind of over-followed attitudinal maturation in my son. It simply won't do. Even Jesus said so, a radical teaching in his day, but just as difficult in ours: If you want to know heaven, remember the ways of children. Amen.

Dad Post #212

I love it when Megan steps out of her room looking like Elton John. A poor comparison overall, but I'm referring to her use of glitter, sequins, flowing garments, and big shoes. (Relative to her feet, Megan's skinny body has some catching up to do.) Meg wears jeans, t-shirts, and sweats also, but on other days she pushes the limits of fashion and costumery. She is bold and experimental. She is frequently and fabulously shod, bejeweled, be-scarfed, hatted, or accessorized, sometimes all at once. Of course, 'bold and experimental' is bad if we're talking about bad things, but we're not talking about bad things, we're talking about good things, we're talking about clothing. Lots of clothing. Conservative clothing. It seems the joys and fears of parenting always challenge each other for supremacy. Indeed, they are both exquisite. But the joys always win in the end.... Right?

My kids will never take photos with film and have them developed at a drugstore, or talk on a phone tethered to a horribly wallpapered kitchen wall, or see an NBA player in tight shorts or an NHL'er without a helmet. How sad. They will never know the unpleasantness of cigarette smoke from a neighboring table wafting into their faces at a restaurant. They'll never memorize phone numbers or use a big, unruly, outdated, shitty, impossible-to-fold state map. As adults, they, themselves, will be 'tethered' to smartphones; they won't know what it's like to live – to function even mimimally or temporarily – without a slick, sleek, whiz-bang electronic mobile device that does everything for them except wipe their butts. (Although they might use the Peapod app to get more toilet paper, and there's probably an app to control a bidet.) And they'll feel unarmed, incapable, bewildered, alone, helpless, and naked if they lose this device for even five minutes. By the way, there's one more 'never' I would've included before last night, another thing I was certain of: "I know M 'n' m will never see the Bears defense give up six touchdowns before halftime in Green Bay." Anyway, nevermind, take that one off the list. Good lord that was ugly. Mercy. Uncle. Make it stop. Michael is a Vikings fan. Smart kid. I'm not smart, but I'm loyal. Bears and Cubs will be champs again someday. I'm serious. It's not nice to laugh right now. You're mean.  

Dad Post #211

Uh-oh, the accusations of Megan-centricity here might hold water; I just gazed lovingly at my last two posts. But I have a son also, and he's very awesome. It both pains and relieves me to think his awesomeness could be attributable to the ways he is unlike his father. For example, he is self-assured. He continues to conduct himself with impressive aplomb and success. He likes school. He does his homework quickly but carefully. He inhales books. He asked for – and was given – two important tools this year, a pocket knife and a phone number. He’s a talented musician. He loves to fish and wants to learn to shoot and hunt. He flashes a measure of attitude that has me unworried about the extremes; he is neither a jerk nor a milquetoast. I am guilty of both at times, but more often the latter, and so I find myself more fearful of this tendency in my children. As for baseball, Michael was a force in final two games, reaching base in every at-bat. He even legged out a triple, a 'stand-up three-bagger' to be exact, because he drove it so deep into right field he had about the length of a commercial break to get to third. And he needed all of it. Imagine a “Most Interesting Man In The World” spot followed by some hearty political mudslinging and Michael’s still rounding second. As his third base coach I was the first to congratulate him. I confirmed he wasn’t hyperventilating, only grinning irrepressibly, and then I whispered in the earhole of his batting helmet, “Hey man, that was awesome, you crushed it, now remember how it feels.”

Michael asks me every year, "What are you going to be for Halloween, Dad?" And every year, I am only myself, in all my horror, majesty, monotony, whatever. He doesn’t seem to notice that I never wear a costume. Maybe it’s his way of encouraging me to do so, year after year. If we are lucky, our children and grandchildren keep us young. This generational service, however, is so far unnecessary for Papa Mike, who is showing no signs of a slowdown; he still appears very youthfully zealous for living, achieving, adventuring. I know Michael wants to emulate his dynamic and successful namesake (minus a bad habit or two, I hope) because I helped Michael buy an expensive pair of shoes a month ago, and he already wants to spend his money on another pair of more expensive shoes. When I asked him why, he said, “Because I’m like Papa Mike.” I didn’t point out that even if he strikes up a frantic pace, he’ll likely remain thousands and thousands behind his grandfather in watches and sunglasses and, yes, shoes, but, as is always the case with kids, whatever is spoken to temper or challenge is only seized as cement for their resolve. I will at least suggest to Michael that baseball – as in professional baseball – might be necessary to quickly match Papa’s earning and spending proficiencies.

QB Meg

If I can teach her to yell 'Omaha' and take snaps (and read defenses, follow progressions, throw perfect bullets, and run for her life once in a while), she's gonna make history. Replacing her bunny ears with a helmet seems doable, also.

Instant Messaging with Meg-Pie

I am in Brazil for work and had this IM exchange with Megan last night across continents. I mentioned I bought her a few souvenirs from an outdoor, craft market near my hotel. This made her happy, and her responses – even if intoxicated with materialism and the expectation of gifts :) – gave me goose-bumps and moistened my eyes. I had a Brahma Chopp in my system, and I miss her terribly, of course, but there was something about the simplicity and purity of her responses, including her stream of end-all, high concepts. Maybe she was in the greeting card aisle today, or on Pinterest; I don't know and I don't care. I was moved.