Dad Entry #198

Megan is very stingy with kisses. This is super-okay, I decided, after thinking about it for a half-second.

I scrubbed the toilets today. Time for a discussion with Michael about aiming. Megan's not a suspect. She's a girl, for one thing, although I don't know if this exonerates her completely. I don't know what it's like to be pregnant, either. We have two lavatories in our condo - one for the boys and one for the girl - and Megan's loo was just fine. And I know it's not me; I'm like Robin Hood.

I'm not sure the impulse to hoard money is innate in humans. Look around and it may seem so, but with Megan I have witnessed the contrary; she frequently earns or receives dollars as gifts, and I find them lost and scattered in random places. She puts zero effort into tracking, stacking, securing, monitoring, managing, or multiplying her money. She doesn't lock it up; she doesn't steal, hide, skim, scheme, and justify all of the above (like corporations, bankers, zillionaires, and governments worldwide). No offshore accounts, no tax evasion for Meg-Pie. Apparently, it's an obsession taught and learned. I like reading about native societies notorious for their disinterest in 'property' and its insatiable pursuit. I like stories about people who share. And yet, on rare crummy, cynical days, I fear it's a disservice to my kids to downplay the importance of money. Is it? Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Money doesn't buy happiness, sure, but it buys other things, travels, experiences, and awesome gifts for Dad. Ah, that settles it. Kids, I want you to work on Wall Street.

Dad Entry #197

It's funny to hear an eight-year-old wax nostalgic. Megan says things like, "When I was little, I liked the monkey bars." I think, when I was little, I went to high school, and then college, and then I settled in Chicago and got married.

Megan can be snippy and snarky, and I don't like it. I don't like soggy toast either. Dealing with soggy toast, however, might be easier. At different times, I have tried sending Megan to her room, lecturing her, screaming at her, or letting things slide (in hopes she'll cheer up). I have employed these methods, as well as variations and combinations thereof, and have achieved positive results exactly never. Is it too ambitious to think win-win here? Megan is only crabby sometimes, and it's very uncommon for Michael, but crabbiness is a nails-on-chalkboard thing for me.

I live on the 4th floor of a condo building. To get there, we typically take stairs, unless overburdened with stuff to carry, in which case - not being Sherpas capable of such things - we cheat with the elevator. Yesterday, Michael and I took the elevator; we had a ton of groceries, his backpack, my work bag, my coffee mug, his lunch bag, and the usual jumble of books, papers, mail, and garbage to lug. Megan took the stairs, despite my hollering at her as I stumbled through the lobby doorway with plastic grocery bag handles cutting into my fingers. Of course, up on the 4th floor, I couldn't find Megan. She wasn't waiting at our locked condo door. She wasn't by the elevator or in the stairwell, either. It's really not a feeling to joke about. I've felt it before, briefly, following unplanned separations in stores, for example, or crowds. It's a doozy, a real humdinger. I frantically enlisted Michael to help. He could plainly see I was freaked. He said, "Dad, when we find her, please don't yell at her." I didn't yell at her. She quickly reappeared and explained she had gone to the 5th floor to peak through a glass-plated roof access door. It won't happen again unless I know, and approve, and probably join her.

Dad Entry #196

Other than minor manipulation of his sister, I'm proud to say I've never caught Michael bullying anyone, or crossing the line I imagine exists between rare orneriness and recurrent meanness. I've never seen him gleefully massacre insects, or chase frogs with the intention of stomping on them. I tend to be naive, but even I'm inclined to think there are kids who, for whatever reason, are prone to these types of curiosities and tendencies, almost as if predisposed. So far, not so with Michael. He is innately a gentle and self-possessed person, which I view as a sign of self-esteem and security. When playing sports, for example, Michael is painfully placid and nice – bordering on lethargic, actually. He's competitive with Megan, as I alluded to above, and occasionally bossy with friends, but he's a far cry from domineering. And yet, like all of us, Michael has an ego. He swings like DiMaggio and knows it. He has a confident, brainy side, and (as I proudly mentioned before) is on a path to superstardom with the cello. Hendrix. Page. Clapton. Cox. My sister's father-in-law is a tremendous man who grew up with Bob Dylan in smalltown Minnesota. He took second place behind Dylan in their high school talent show, and we frequently, incredulously, facetiously berate him for it. He says the 'everyday,' private Dylan was good-natured and mellow. Michael is good-natured and mellow. But he's also very focused and diligent about the things he loves and finds interesting, things like reptiles, learning, fishing, the cello, hitting baseballs, playing with friends. Michael's homework is done carefully and never at the last minute. He can lose himself in Minecraft, but he's surprisingly with-it about things that matter. Apparently Dylan never went anywhere without his guitar; he walked to school with it; he walked home with it; he played it constantly. Michael has a little of that OCD, too. Overall, I love Michael's disposition. And I love what lies beneath it. I love every layer and dimension of my son.

Easter (and the impossibility of a good pic of four fidgety kids)

Cole, Michael, Sophie, Megan

Dad Entry #195

Megan still can't eat a chocolate donut without getting it all over her face. I love her so much.  

My children have taught me many things, and one of them is this: I am a terrible negotiator. Some parents say, "Ha, we run a tight ship, we never negotiate with our kids." Sure. Sounds good. I never adjust or acquiesce, never bargain or compromise, either. I wish. Totalitarian parenting, without repressing or crushing little souls, would be terrific, but I'm not capable. I believe parenting is a dictatorship, not a democracy, but a benevolent one, with room for occasional haggling. And so I'm taken advantage of, sometimes, and left exasperated and flummoxed. It's why I like sports; it's easier to know where you stand. Did you hit the ball into the woods or into the fairway? Did you make the shot or miss it? Hell if I know, when it comes to parenting.

I want my children to flourish. That's it. It's a buzzword in the positive psychology movement because it's a good word, flourish, as a sort of comprehensive and compelling aim. Are we hitting it into the woods or into the fairway? Are we flourishing? There will be some enduring, some obstacles, some sinking (accompanied, hopefully, by lessons in 'swimming'). Pain is a good teacher, but love is a better one. A little of the former, a lot of the latter. Same goes for failure and success; we need both for growth. And through it all, I want my kids to flourish.

He resembles Mom, but swings like Dad

Dad Entry #194

Megan comes out of her room sometimes in an outfit that just doesn't work, for whatever reason, like the sporting of brown leggings with ankle socks and black loafers, and I feel a pinch of something in my heart, and in that instant I love her just a tiny bit more, which isn't even possible. I'm no fashion oracle, no metrosexual trendsetter, but I have a sense and awareness (and my share of insecurities). Speaking of appearances, I wonder if Michael will ever:

1) Refuse to go a day without hair styling products
2) Be obsessed with shoes, sunglasses, and watches
3) Moisturize, exfoliate, and shape his eyebrows
4) See a stylist instead of a barber, because barbers don't do highlights
5) Wear Calvin Klein boxer-briefs under designer trousers
6) Put thousands of dollars on a Banana Republic card
7) Get rich and still not buy a pickup truck
8) Drink wine instead of beer, and only after loud pronouncements about estate and vintage
9) Spend more time fluffing, buffing, and staring in a mirror than his date
10) Make her lamb shanks and risotto for dinner and eggs Benedict for breakfast, all from scratch

I plagiarized some of these, and I'm guilty of a couple of them. I groom and tweeze; I grow hair on my earlobes now. My kids, who miss nothing, are aware of my routines. Papa Mike is batting even higher against this list. He owned an impressive pickup recently, but has a biannual habit of trading and buying new, expensive vehicles. His collection of watches and sunglasses is kingly. I would be worse too, if I had money. I am not making fun; style is important. Because confidence is important. Image is important. My children, like everyone, will consider how they appear, and what qualities, identity, and essence they project. At least I hope so. I think everyone does, especially those who say otherwise, like badasses with spectacular boots, wallet chains, tatts, and intimidating – but fanatically pampered and accessorized – trucks. I betcha those guys can also braise a nice lamb in a red wine reduction with rosemary over almond rice pilaf and julienned vegetables. Or something like that. I don't know what I'm talking about again.

Dad Entry #193

Michael was bumped from beginner to intermediate orchestra. Michael Cox, Master Cellist. He will be Slash before we know it.

My girls team won their last two basketball games in memorable fashion. They had a doubleheader, back-to-back toughies, and we proudly watched our daughters edge the league's only undefeated team in game two. I nearly wept, I was so happy. The girls were tired, but we kept 'em revved during the second game with Skittles. I should keep that on the down low; Skittles might be on the PED list for 2nd grade competitors. We moved to .500 on the season. Respectable. I am not the worst coach in the world after all. We got better and finished strong. And Megan is a scoring machine.

And Michael is a hitting machine. Baseball season has arrived, although the weather refuses to turn un-miserable. I drafted Michael's team last weekend. It's his third season, and my second as a manager. I only picked coachable kids and families I'm familiar with. So I'm pretty sure we'll have only one crazy dad. Me.

Megan painted her toenails last night. Blue. A kind of aggressive, punk blue. I was terrified. I imagined nail polish in the carpet, on the furniture fabric, on Megan's clothes. I thought of how polish – or remover – might wreck the surface finishes of everything in the condo (cabinets, counters, tubs, sinks, tables, tile) if Megan ran around with wet nails. And surely polish destroys eyeballs. But, alas, other than a tiny spattering on Meg's paper towel drop cloth, there was fresh paint on exactly nothing but little toes. Ten of them, to be exact; I counted when she was born. Mark Twain said, "I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened." I wonder if he had kids.