Dad Entry #209

I can still lift and carry Megan without bulging a disc. God is good. Meg's been good too, lately. No complaining except at breakfast. She wants waffles but I don't like to cook in the morning. We're talking about toaster waffles, sure, but that's cooking to me, that's using appliances and heating food. You don't agree? You're with Megan on this one? Well don't worry about Meg-Pie; she needs to hear 'no' more often from her soft, adoring father. Using a coffee-maker, by the way, is not cooking. No one 'cooks' beverages. Not even Starbucks. So Meg and I have standoffs over breakfast. The fact that Michael often skips isn't helpful with Megan, or healthy for him. I'm pretty sure Michael wouldn't carp about it if he was a breakfast-eater, although, crap, quietly skipping could be his way of complaining, tacitly. That would be very Michael. He dabbles in passive aggression, which, wouldn't ya know it, is one of my flaws too. Nothing like fatherhood to expose a man in all sorts of new ways. At least I have a sense of humor, even if Meg isn't amused when I offer her a big faux smile and her uncooked choices, "Good morning Sweetheart, would you like cereal, a granola bar, or cereal?" Miss Jeanette makes better breakfasts, of course, and it's not like I never toast bread or bagels or make eggs (although the kids don't like eggs). And dinners are always cooked and good, and I make the best school lunches ever, so maybe I'm not doing it all wrong after all. What a relief. Anyway, despite her breakfast woes, Megan is sprouting like a weed. I won't be able to hold her like a little girl much longer unless I take up Crossfit or the Atlas Stones. Maybe I will. Because she puts her head on my shoulder and relaxes; she slumps and sags into me and I can smell her hair and feel her breathing. A kind of spiritual joy comes over me. Then she hops down too quickly and skips away. It's always brief but I relish it, a flash of heaven, nirvana, a step into the halls of Valhalla. Did I mention God is good?

Michael wants a cell phone, and it's probably a good idea finally. He's been using devices with WiFi, the internet, apps, and Google Hangouts for years now. I guess it's okay to add a phone number to the mix. Michael's growing up and I can't wait to know him as a young adult. But most days I wish he'd slow down.

Grandma Barb was raised in a little town called Clemons, a tiny patch of houses in rural Iowa. They have a school, a ball field, a post office, and a grain elevator. It's very small; I think "Game Of Thrones" has more main characters than the population of Clemons. In days of old, they also had a small grocery, a gas station, and a tavern my grandpa paid many visits to. My dad tells stories of late nights there with his father-in-law, and I hang on every word. My grandparents left the town about the time I finished grade school. We visited Clemons a few weeks ago and it pushed memory buttons from when I was M 'n' m's ages. We walked through the old house where I played and slept and grew and celebrated holidays. We visited cemeteries and reminisced about loved ones. The kids were only mildly interested, but I'm happy they've seen it. It's not what they're used to. If they're like me, someday they'll wonder about their family tree and all the places it has spread a branch, and they'll have a sense and feel and an image in their mind's eye of Clemons, Iowa.