Dad Entry #208

My longtime friend and co-worker, Marge, thinks Michael is underrepresented in my writing here. "He's going to read M'n'm someday," she told me, "And say 'Why didn't you love me, Dad?'" It's hard to trash Marge's credibility when it comes to raising sons; she has a terrific one at home a little older than Michael. In fact, when she hinted at understanding male youth better than her husband, in particular, and most men, in general, I failed to compose a counterargument. I started wondering how a woman could understand a man better than a man. Mercifully, before my head exploded, the subject changed to something easier, like baseball or the weather. In some ways, it's hard to dispute what a favorite writer, Michael Chabon, says of dadhood, "The handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low." Well, I think the fathers before me erred differently than I do, not necessarily more or worse. Sadly, I think my Megan-centric blogging is one of the smaller blunders I appear fond of committing and repeating as a father. And Meg-Pie's my little girl! She's impossibly cute, for one thing, and a good student, good person, and good daughter to boot. What's a guy to do? But let me tell you about my son for a second, about the day he was born: There were lots of tears, and most were mine. I was so happy. I cried like that other Michael (Jordan) did after winning his first NBA title, when he hugged the trophy and sobbed. Is that a poor comparison? Of course. Because there are no metaphors, no words. I love my son indescribably.

Getting back to my favorite child.... Megan combed my hair the other day. It was heaven. (Although it occurred to me that the kid is supposed to seek attention from the parent, not the other way around.) I sat on the bed and Megan knelt behind me and combed. It was massage-like and I was suddenly, utterly relaxed and content. Megan said, "Your hair looks nice, Dad." I waited for a comment on the obvious deforestation, but she didn't say a word. How sweet of her not to poke at a sensitivity, even though we joke about it. Eventually she asked, "Do you put anything in it?" I told her I use a kind of styling lotion to provide some hold." She said, "Yay, magic hair stuff! Can I have some?" Before I could answer, she added, "Is that how you got Miss Jeanette to like you?" I smiled. "Yes," I said, "And I brush my teeth, and I try to be very, very nice to her."

Dad Entry #207

Michael turned 11 last month. The awkward years are no longer on some distant horizon, they are close; I feel them encroaching, reaching, grinning. I will honor Michael's privacy as much as possible. I will know his voice even if it changes into Louis Armstrong, or Jimmy Durante, or Darth Vader. I went through puberty too, and I'm pretty sure it's never perfect seas for anyone, not for participants, of course, but not for parents either, unless they suffer from unmindfulness or naivete or memory loss. I, for one, remember those years and it's frightening to be on the parent-side now. How do you encourage respect and gratitude, versus ignorance and suppression, when dealing with this very sensitive, human thing that can add to happiness, health, and love, or, sadly, go down a path of dysfunction? Oh man. This is heavy. If Michael always drains the hot water heater, or if his lingering glances turn into overlingering and leering – at passersby or magazine covers or who knows what – or if he is frequently distracted or disrespectful or dishonest... hmm, I guess we'll have to sit down and talk about it. I'll try to counsel or reprimand him appropriately. We'll sit down and talk about things regardless. I'll reiterate the expectation that he remain the conscientious and well-mannered person he has always been. In short, we'll talk about class. I have trouble imagining Michael as that guy, but assuming he'll be a perfect angel seems unwise; we'll see how it goes. I would prefer he be neither a bore or a boor, if that makes sense, although the latter is decidedly more ignorant in my view. Thankfully, life is about living and learning, and also, hopefully, loving and laughing, through it all, in all sorts of ways. I pray for respect, health, and happiness. Gosh, that sounds easy. I told Jeanette to brace herself for 'the awkward years' with Cole, also. I think it's especially awkward for moms.

Michael at Paul's

Dad Entry #206

Megan has a Barbie Fairytopia butterfly pillow. It is pink and purple with sequins and that fine plastic, net-like stuff I believe is called tulle, which photos indicate was once ubiquitous in wedding ensembles, in splendid folds, fluffs, trains, and veils, and, regrettably, in fashion-courageous headpieces and wrist corsages. (Wait, why am I talking about wedding dresses? I have very few rules for 'aboutmnm' but I'm sure this is one of them.) Megan's butterfly pillow is a sleeping companion, worn and torn and deeply loved. It's been in her life for years, kind of like me, and I wonder: What will happen when this cherished pillow is no longer needed? 'Butterfly Pillow,' once taut, smooth, and bright, is now lumpy, faded, and acutely showing its age. Megan might look at it soon with pity and a kind of condescending amusement. It doesn't look as sharp as it used to. It doesn't look as smart as it used to. Maybe it was never very smart to begin with. I hope I'm not like Butterfly Pillow :) If Megan always needs me, that would be wonderful, because I'll always need her, as my daughter, my friend, and the impossibly cute thing I am overwhelmingly, eternally grateful for. I frequently say so to God. Thank you for Megan. I saw her pulled from the womb, and I've seen her through everything since. I have plenty to share with her – if I don't annoyingly overshare – although I've learned that life is a lot about getting on with it as an individual, and everyone else must do the same, even when surrounded by amazing love and support. We are in it together, and we are in it alone. Oxymoronic, sure, but how else can it be said? One thing I know for certain: I love my daughter so much I will gladly relive some of this in a granddaughter someday, or maybe ten. I think I'm breaking the rules again.

Dad Entry #205

It's the 4th of July – as I write this – and I'm going to mention two men who are like lions to me, the paternal great-grandfathers of M 'n' m. One of them they knew until he passed recently; the other we lost when I was in high school. The former, my dad's dad, was signed by the Chicago Cubs but went to Korea instead. There was a war on, and he joined the Army. He married a very young and breathtaking brunette, before he went to war, and fathered a baby he didn't hardly see until his son was a toddler. But Grandma Marilyn (who, at the time, was teenage Mother Marilyn), showed their son a picture of his father every day, while narrating, I presume, stories of his lionhood. The other great-grandpa of M 'n' m went off to foreign battlefields, also. He did so in 1945. He survived intense combat in the Siegfried Line in Germany. They still talk about his General. A guy named Patton. Tough stuff that my Grandpa refused to speak of. He saw a lot of boys killed right alongside of him (one of only two details he ever wrote about combat), and then, very sadly, his unit liberated a concentration camp. I can't imagine.... But he was an affectionate grandpa and, of course, a hero. Oh, and he was a helluva baseball player, too. Oh, and he also married a stunning brunette. Like I said, they are lions to me.

Now to lighten the mood... of the thousand or so random thoughts I had on the 4th of July, not about my superhero-to-me grandfathers, one of them was conspicuously troubling and deep. I stumbled onto a real puzzler and I'll share it with you: Whatever happened to water beds? We had three of them when I was a kid, every member of the family a proud user, and we weren't the only ones; friends and relatives all around were filling giant bladders for mattresses, and berating ignorant children – like me – who insisted that the water, though impossibly confined, could still be forcefully rocked into surfable barrels or waterpark-worthy wave pools. I wonder what gimmicky things will be powerfully associative to my children's 'wonder years,' only to vanish and leave them viscerally nostalgic 25 years later?

I have a lot of summer memories, and my children are in Minnesota creating their own at this very moment. They are with their beloved Grandma Barb, and her sidekick Papa Mike. It's a little like visiting Willy Wonka, I'm afraid, or Donald Trump, although my dad's hair isn't nearly as thick, dyed, swirled, or plastic. My dad and I intend, however, to investigate the latest in hair technology. We'll keep you posted.

Great-Grandpa with baby Grandpa