Dad Entry #204

I am so enamored with Megan that I stopped and stared lovingly at a bundle of her hairs today. It's crazy. I'm crazy. I stood there with a knotty, staticky hairball that I had just plucked from the fabric upholstery in my car. I was tidying up the passenger-side backseat. That's where Megan sits, which is evident based on crumb proliferation and the things in her door compartment (hair bands, barrettes, stickers, markers, plastic gems and jewelry, lip gloss, mosaic craft pieces, little stuffed animals, and so on). It's astonishing really, how very excellent my daughter is at generating and depositing crumbs. It's embarrassing also, if I ever have backseat passengers other than my kids. Oh Megan, I love you so much. I'm happy you're only eight, still very bouncy and girlish and cute. And crabby as shit sometimes, but oh well, you're a woman; it's like trying to control the weather. I better change the subject....

Michael's baseball team is on a roll. It's my team also, I suppose, since I'm the head coach. The regular season was hard on us. We took the lowest seed into the playoffs, but Michael and company stayed upbeat, and now we're tough as nails. We've won 4 of our last 5 including playoff victories over the #2 and #3 seeds. Let me put it this way: We're headed to the championship game. We're getting the bounces now and playing great baseball. My consistent encouragement and optimism wore them down, even as we joked – therapeutically, uproariously, awkwardly – about the Bad News Bears. The tweaks we made to swings and throwing motions, among other things, helped, but I'm sure it's only because we have a good clubhouse, as they say in the bigs :) Good vibes, good chemistry; we couldn't be held down for an entire season. Michael is a hitting machine. And my assistant coach is awesome, as are the dads who help. I'm mostly sitting back now and watching the team kick butt, from worst to first.

Dad Entry #203

The kids rode Chicago's 'L' subway for the first time. We hopped on the Blue Line at Clark and Lake. It was perfect; we boarded underground and ended up on elevated tracks at our stop near North / Damen / Milwaukee in Bucktown. Megan and Sophie were excited. City girls! I think Michael was intrigued by some of the urban eccentricities and folks around us. Cole took a seat and asked, "Is anyone driving this thing?" Good question, I thought, since, at O'Hare recently, a train plowed through a barrier and up an escalator when the driver dozed. But I said to Cole, "Yes, there's a driver, somewhere, I promise."

Megan still believes in some fanciful stuff. The Easter Bunny, for one thing – although there were traces of incredulity this year – and why doubt the Christmastime guy who dresses nice and leaves presents? The flying reindeer part is an imminent tipping point, but she's onboard for now. Whatever the case, I've been wondering lately what crazy things TV is steering my kids to believe in. I'm not talking about religious fanatics, like Armageddon- or Rapture-selling evangelists. I'm not even talking about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. Believe it or not, I'm fretting about channels like Discovery, Nat Geo, and Animal Planet. Seriously. They have shows about Bigfoot, Loch Ness, yetis, mermaids, ghosts, UFOs, and unicorns. I've seen ads for Ghosthunters, Finding Bigfoot, Mermaids: The Body Found, Russian Yeti: The Killer Lives, Looking For Sasquatch, you name it. Viewers must be flocking. I know Area 51 exists, I just think it hides classified technology (not Martians). And an idyllic place like Atlantis could've thrived long ago, but maybe not in a glass bubble on the seafloor? Aladdin's lamp? Sure, awesome; where can I get one? And I've thought about Bigfoot while hunting patches of forest alone. As for the mystery or mysteries: I believe the universe is very far from random. I believe in a creator, in God, and so do the vast majority of us according to surveys. From there it's no crazy leap to consider souls, spirits, and angels. But Megan believes in the Tooth Fairy, and that one is a stretch for me :) And yet, my cousin Joe saw a winged thing by his pillow when we were kids. I said, "Are you sure it wasn't a mosquito?" No, he insisted it was something magical. "Like a lightening bug?" I said. No again; he was certain. Of course, Joe – Megan's Godfather – ran a 50 mile race for fun, a few weeks ago. Who does that? Clearly he can't be trusted. When the dust settles, I think M 'n' m will be just like the rest of us, a perfect mixture of weirdness and brilliance.

Dad Entry #202

I've mentioned before how I am chagrined to realize my kids exhibit flaws I'm plainly responsible for, either genetically or environmentally. Pointing this out as a phenomenon feels obvious and unnecessary, but I'll go on.... Genetically, my brain chemistry comes to mind. Sorry, kids, that acronyms like OCD, ADHD, and SSRI may enter your life, although I was about three or four times your age when I took them seriously, and fairly panic-stricken and desperate for answers by then. If you Google them someday, with more than a passing interest, just know they aren't excuses or crutches, figments or fallacies. Michael has an outlier brain, which, though powerful, can act like an unbroken horse. He was so smart and verbal as a toddler, we had moments of real concern; it was freaky when he stood in his crib and articulated the genus and species of rare dinosaurs, or rattled off 25 types of whales without pause, or repeated five-hundred-word books from memory after very few reads. But he seems well-adjusted now. Phew. His EQ is just fine; he's quite normal socially. As for flaws I've induced in my children environmentally, via suboptimal situations, choices, or exposure to unsavory moments, emotions, media... well... which amendment is it? Actually, I have nothing to hide. My flaws are legion; it's already documented. I have modes of people-pleasing, vanity, anxiety, perceived - but not real! - disingenuousness, absent-mindedness, and disorganization, to name a few, although I'll stop there so I don't sound like a loser, and a shitty parent. Too late?

I know Megan, like her father, can be needy and timid. Michael is not similarly afflicted, or if so, he hides it well. But Megan's social sensitivity is evident, and I know it can render her aloof or offbeat. She will act showy or funny, and immediately throw a sidelong glance at Michael in search of approval. She wants to impress her brother, always. Michael is pretty ungenerous, though, when it comes to applauding and validating his little sister's awesomeness. This annoys the crap out of me. Megan LOVES her big brother. He's a massive moon in her young life, and I wish he was less frugal with praise and support. I know, however, that if push comes to shove, he has her back sincerely and absolutely; I have experienced this as stark fact. And when Megan's in a foul mood, the frequency of which we'll leave unspecified here, she needs the very opposite of praise.

Regardless of our flaws, glaring and otherwise, I know all three of us have good hearts, big and grateful, and two of us can be excused as prepubescent. And for the record... I take full responsibility for a small piece, or slice, of this flaw pie, as I'll call it, but I blame my own parents for the rest of our issues! Not true. Not true at all. In fact, before I mercifully stop, I'll mention something exceptional my parents did for me, that I haven't paid forward to M 'n' m yet: When I was Michael's age, in a single vacation we visited the football, baseball, and basketball halls of fame, in Canton, OH, Cooperstown, NY, and Springfield, MA respectively. Yeah, it was kickass. Jenny wasn't as thrilled as I was, but she's always been generous and protective (take a lesson from your aunt, Michael, on how to be an older sibling), and she let me bask in it. Now it's my turn to roadtrip to these incredible, historical places, with my kids, and on the way, we can always catch a monument or something boring in Washington DC.

Dad Entry #201

Megan is no longer very hypochondriacal. This is good, because Bandaids aren't free, and self-mummification after the slightest nick was sort of her MO for awhile. Michael, on the other hand, is pretty reluctant to fuss over injuries, physical or otherwise. I've sent him the memo about sharing hurts and feelings, even if you're a dude, although maybe the fine print is still there, the part about being quiet unless a tourniquet or transfusion or ambulance is needed. Sadly, I've noticed the fine print in deals is always strictly adhered to, negating the good intent, which is superficial anyway. Sorry, that sounded cynical. I do my part though, to set a soft example for my son; I am occasionally a sensitive and emotional wreck. I weep, for example, when Michael drives the ball into the outfield, or Megan gets a double-double. I cried when Iowa State won this year's Big 12 basketball tournament, and again a week later when they beat North Carolina for a trip to the Sweet Sixteen. You don't always have to be manly, Son.

Megan's softball pants hang off of her like a toga. She is indeed a baby giraffe, taller everyday, and this exacerbates her impressive skinniness. She's built like her lanky daddy. Which is okay I guess. For chicks.

Speaking of my sweet, skinny thing... she had a bit of a meltdown this AM because I bought the wrong brand of chocolate chip granola bars. I'm prone to hyperbole when mentioning Megan's disagreeableness with things like mornings, early bedtimes, and skipped desserts, but I'm sure I can't overstate her displeasure with Nature Valley granola bars. They're terrible? They're gross? Really, Megan? You'd think I asked her to eat tripe or tendons or toenails or something. Megan is a faithful Quaker Chewys girl, one thousand percent! She's devoted, impassioned, and very good at trashing their competition. I should write Quaker a letter and ask for some scholarship money.