Dad Post #213

My last post was #212 and it made me think, which is scary but I do it anyway. I was thinking and remembering that water boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Around Michael's age, I heard a super-inspiring talk from a guy who made one simple point: At 211 degrees you have hot water, that's all, only hot water, but at 212 degrees it starts to boil! Bam! You get bubbles, steam, waves, a chemical reaction. You get action, motion, change. So... sometimes you're very close, if you press on, push a little further, things start to happen! It was an awesome lesson. Your passion, your effort, your energy, your focus, your faith, your generosity... don't stop at 211. Don't be 211. Boil. It can be difficult to tell if you're only one degree away, but keep at it, keep on, keep moving. Of course, one should be aware that water boils at a lower temp at altitude, and a higher temperature if impurities are present.... Wow, I went nerdy there for comedic effect – yes, I know, fail – but give me credit for the metaphorical richness! Climb, soar, and keep impurities at bay. Bam!

Speaking of lessons.... Kids are awesome. They are exultant over things like Halloween and swimming pools. They love presents; they love getting gifts, sure, but also giving them. They draw. They play. They are bouncy and excitable and sometimes run from only one side of a room to the other. I always notice when Megan does this; I know she's inspired and happy. She skips and hops and still flaps her arms like a bird in moments of pure excitement. Fly Megan, fly! I love it when she's happy. It's so much better than pouty and crabby. Which is neither frequent nor rare, but always annoying. Sadly, Michael is showing signs of growing up, and leaving the impulses of childlike joy and creativity behind. This, of course, is bullshit and I intend to subvert, deter, and obstruct this kind of over-followed attitudinal maturation in my son. It simply won't do. Even Jesus said so, a radical teaching in his day, but just as difficult in ours: If you want to know heaven, remember the ways of children. Amen.

Dad Post #212

I love it when Megan steps out of her room looking like Elton John. A poor comparison overall, but I'm referring to her use of glitter, sequins, flowing garments, and big shoes. (Relative to her feet, Megan's skinny body has some catching up to do.) Meg wears jeans, t-shirts, and sweats also, but on other days she pushes the limits of fashion and costumery. She is bold and experimental. She is frequently and fabulously shod, bejeweled, be-scarfed, hatted, or accessorized, sometimes all at once. Of course, 'bold and experimental' is bad if we're talking about bad things, but we're not talking about bad things, we're talking about good things, we're talking about clothing. Lots of clothing. Conservative clothing. It seems the joys and fears of parenting always challenge each other for supremacy. Indeed, they are both exquisite. But the joys always win in the end.... Right?

My kids will never take photos with film and have them developed at a drugstore, or talk on a phone tethered to a horribly wallpapered kitchen wall, or see an NBA player in tight shorts or an NHL'er without a helmet. How sad. They will never know the unpleasantness of cigarette smoke from a neighboring table wafting into their faces at a restaurant. They'll never memorize phone numbers or use a big, unruly, outdated, shitty, impossible-to-fold state map. As adults, they, themselves, will be 'tethered' to smartphones; they won't know what it's like to live – to function even mimimally or temporarily – without a slick, sleek, whiz-bang electronic mobile device that does everything for them except wipe their butts. (Although they might use the Peapod app to get more toilet paper, and there's probably an app to control a bidet.) And they'll feel unarmed, incapable, bewildered, alone, helpless, and naked if they lose this device for even five minutes. By the way, there's one more 'never' I would've included before last night, another thing I was certain of: "I know M 'n' m will never see the Bears defense give up six touchdowns before halftime in Green Bay." Anyway, nevermind, take that one off the list. Good lord that was ugly. Mercy. Uncle. Make it stop. Michael is a Vikings fan. Smart kid. I'm not smart, but I'm loyal. Bears and Cubs will be champs again someday. I'm serious. It's not nice to laugh right now. You're mean.  

Dad Post #211

Uh-oh, the accusations of Megan-centricity here might hold water; I just gazed lovingly at my last two posts. But I have a son also, and he's very awesome. It both pains and relieves me to think his awesomeness could be attributable to the ways he is unlike his father. For example, he is self-assured. He continues to conduct himself with impressive aplomb and success. He likes school. He does his homework quickly but carefully. He inhales books. He asked for – and was given – two important tools this year, a pocket knife and a phone number. He’s a talented musician. He loves to fish and wants to learn to shoot and hunt. He flashes a measure of attitude that has me unworried about the extremes; he is neither a jerk nor a milquetoast. I am guilty of both at times, but more often the latter, and so I find myself more fearful of this tendency in my children. As for baseball, Michael was a force in final two games, reaching base in every at-bat. He even legged out a triple, a 'stand-up three-bagger' to be exact, because he drove it so deep into right field he had about the length of a commercial break to get to third. And he needed all of it. Imagine a “Most Interesting Man In The World” spot followed by some hearty political mudslinging and Michael’s still rounding second. As his third base coach I was the first to congratulate him. I confirmed he wasn’t hyperventilating, only grinning irrepressibly, and then I whispered in the earhole of his batting helmet, “Hey man, that was awesome, you crushed it, now remember how it feels.”

Michael asks me every year, "What are you going to be for Halloween, Dad?" And every year, I am only myself, in all my horror, majesty, monotony, whatever. He doesn’t seem to notice that I never wear a costume. Maybe it’s his way of encouraging me to do so, year after year. If we are lucky, our children and grandchildren keep us young. This generational service, however, is so far unnecessary for Papa Mike, who is showing no signs of a slowdown; he still appears very youthfully zealous for living, achieving, adventuring. I know Michael wants to emulate his dynamic and successful namesake (minus a bad habit or two, I hope) because I helped Michael buy an expensive pair of shoes a month ago, and he already wants to spend his money on another pair of more expensive shoes. When I asked him why, he said, “Because I’m like Papa Mike.” I didn’t point out that even if he strikes up a frantic pace, he’ll likely remain thousands and thousands behind his grandfather in watches and sunglasses and, yes, shoes, but, as is always the case with kids, whatever is spoken to temper or challenge is only seized as cement for their resolve. I will at least suggest to Michael that baseball – as in professional baseball – might be necessary to quickly match Papa’s earning and spending proficiencies.