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.