Dad Entry #180

Grandma, Papa, and Anna (their Golden Retriever) are staying with us for a few days while Mom is in the Philippines. The kids adore Anna, and there’s a lively reciprocity, I’d say, based on all the licking and tail-wagging. Michael asked me, “What do you think Anna would say if she could talk?” I answered, “Can I have some bacon, please?” Michael laughed but then frowned at my cynicism. I said, “What? Bacon is good! What’s wrong? You think she’d say, ‘The capital of Vermont is Montpelier?’” Michael indicated that he did, in fact, expect Anna’s thoughts to be more sentimental or cerebral if she abruptly voiced them, intelligibly, in English. (Yeah, because if she spoke Russian or German, I’d be even more impressed; although – I love irony – that is absolutely true.) I don’t know if Anna’s a genius, but I’m certain she’s a wonder-dog and sacred cow in the eyes of my kids. Feeling bad about my bacon slander, I reminded Michael, “Don’t forget Anna’s an exceptional birddog too, you know, so she might say, ‘When are we goin’ huntin’ again, fellas?’” That smoothed things over.

The other day I asked Michael, “Do you know what Pi is?” Michael said, “Yeah, it’s that three-point-fourteen number, right?” I was excited, my son, the math whiz. I said from memory, “It’s three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six. But it goes on forever, technically. It’s an infinite decimal.” Me, the math whiz. Suddenly, my excitement vanished and I felt mildly depressed. I asked Michael if they’ve talked about Pi already in school and he said no. I felt relieved. Only half-joking, I said, “Good, then you have no business knowing what Pi is yet. Go back to playing Legos or cars or whatever.” Michael smiled.

Megan is still a gleeful farter. I sense more pride than embarrassment. She’s very comfortable with me, of course, but I’m wondering when girls become more furtive about this. Other than with Megan, I’m pretty sure I have a better chance of seeing Bigfoot, or a Cubs World Series. Like Jon Hamm said in a YouTube clip I saw recently, “I was under the impression that girls never farted.” Even I blame it on the dog in mixed company. It's just another profound, parent-related thing I ponder daily.

Dad Entry #179

Megan was crabby this morning. She generally lacks the inspiration or staying power to make it memorable. She loses steam and just isn’t willing, if we put her crabbiness on a scale like hotwing hotness, to go for habanero or ghost pepper. Today, however, she was really displeased. I sensed an uncommon, burgeoning potency! I braced for a sustained episode, but, alas, we didn’t get there; we pretty much never get there. It was off to school as usual, with smiles and I-love-you’s and nothing spectacularly negative. For one thing, I’m no help. I stay composed. It’s entirely up to Megan to hit any kind of hysterical crescendo. And she’s never been very conniption-y. She’s just a crab sometimes.

Our fish tank is thriving. There is a gross and scary amount of refuse in the blue gravel, and every surface is mossy – kind of like my unbrushed teeth when falling asleep with books has perpetrated lengthy neglect – but without exception, all of the creatures and plants in our 25 gallons are flourishing. I am referring to our real plants, whose serpentine roots can afford to be lazy; there is nutritious poop everywhere. But in all fairness, our fake plants look very happy too, like smiling mannequins, with green, fuzzy algae for hair. The umpteen snails and three plecostomuses are all very active and plump, and the non-suckerfish fish look healthy also, as they dart and glide this way and that. It’s been forever since I had to flush any rigid remains. On one side of the tank, there’s a house that triggers territorial behavior and turf wars, and on the other side, some Roman column ruins (a replica, unfortunately). The rest is foliage. It’s just a very messy and wonderful little world.

My kids don’t use the fan. Twice this week I’ve been unpleasantly surprised. I’m referring to the bathroom fan, if you haven’t jumped there already. “Guys, it’s easy,” I tell the kids, “Just flip the switch, you know, whenever you can describe your situation with a number that is plural.” Does Megan think I’m talking about math? Is Michael that oblivious to his gut-punching, tear-jerking aftereffects? I tell them, “I don’t care if you’ve eaten asparagus; I’m not calling for courtesy flushes; I’m not demanding you replace empty TP rolls; I’m not asking you to scrub the toilet; I just need you to TURN ON THE FAN! Flip the switch! And leave it flipped when you’re done and gone; it will do its work, yes, and also give us a little WARNING!”

Dad Entry #178

Sometimes I smell Megan's shirts. There are hints of shampoo, perfume, body wash, fruity lip gloss, art supplies, and whatever meals I’ve cooked badly. I suppose if the olfactory traces are too faint, I notice some of these things visually; Megan’s sleeve cuffs, for example, are often like stain rainbows, or Jackson Pollock paintings, done in paint, yes, but also marker, glitter glue, barbeque, marinara, and chocolate. I’m afraid smelling Megan’s shirts is not the strangest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t do it – inhale her shirt-captured, subtle, aromatic essence – when she’s with me; in that case, I kiss her on the head and stick my nose into her hair. I'm not a sommelier. Or a canine. Or a crazy. I don’t think so, anyway; I think I’m just a dad. I pine for her a little – even as a sense of freedom-from-whining lifts me – when I’m doing her laundry, after she’s rotated back to Mom’s following a few days with me.

I held Megan's hand yesterday. Her mitts are still pretty little, dainty and thin-fingered, and entirely neglected; even the grubbiest of men would notice her cuticles are crying for help. Anyway, I’m happy Megan’s still small. Years ago, I heard a wise person say, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” I stop and look around once in a while.

I'm sheepish about making this a bragging forum, but my kids are smart. That’s it. That’s all. Michael's halfway through 5th grade and his teacher notified us she’s ordered 7th grade reading material for him and two other students, his good friends Alexa and Megha. (Figures, mostly girls.) I’m excited for Michael, you betcha, nerds are the rage! It's been that way for years now. Think Zuckerberg, Jobs, Bezos, Bill Gates, Larry Page, Mark Cuban, etc. Nerdy is the new cool! Nerdom is the place to be! I think. I hope. I mean, it seems that way. It's cool, right? :)

My car is filthy. At this point, I just think of it as a crumb-filled commuter pod. Dive bars that give away unshelled peanuts are ten times cleaner. The exterior is even worse, of course, coated with that salty, oily film so richly layered by showers of brown slush and passing-car spray. It’s winter in Chicago.

Dad Entry #177

I’m happy Christmas is over. I feel a tremor of shame in admitting so, because it was a very wonderful and Christmas-y Christmas – we engaged in marvelous gluttony, and there were snowfalls and tender moments – but I’m kind of happy it’s a warm memory now. We raced to Minnesota ahead of a snowstorm and then I raced to finish shopping and wrapping. As always, there was substantial bustle and expectation. And there was one teeth-gritting moment – when Megan adamantly noticed Ellie had more gifts in our first of many exchanges – which I nipped in the bud with an avalanche of threats. Come to think of it, maybe our gift etiquette prep was too flippant this year; before all the action, I said, “Megan, what do you say if someone gives you a neatly wrapped, if slightly fragrant, box containing a dead rat?” and Megan answered too flatly, “Thank you, I’ve always wanted a dead rat.” Correct, Megan, but we also need enthusiasm, genuineness, and a smile.

The kids received Nooks from Grandma and Papa Mike. They are very nice HD Android tablets, and I’m afraid reading eBooks on them will be something akin to, I don’t know, going the speed limit when you can always go five over, or actually using duct tape on air ducts, or… am I making any sense? I suppose to illustrate my point I’ll note the incredible swiftness with which both kids got Minecraft up and running. (Turn on Nook. Enter Gmail address and log into Google Playstore. Download Minecraft. Launch game and play until brain turns to mush or Dad takes away Nook.) Minecraft is a pretty cool game though, for aspiring designers and architects. And creators. And we are all creators. But despite its brain-development-feel, there is also a sense, or response, like a vein is being tapped. My kids do love books though, and are often caught reading them. In fact, Santa brought them a big pile of books. Used books. Hey, at Michael's consumption rate it seems crazy to buy only new ones; a Barnes & Noble hardcover goes for eighteen bucks and he'll read it in two hours. Am I over-explaining myself and revealing insecurities? Obviously.

So happy 2014 everyone!