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."