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.
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