Dad Post #217

Michael asked me, "Did you have YouTube when you were a kid?" Of all the wise, sarcastic, are-you-kidding-me-when-I-was-a-kid ways I could've answered, I simply said, "Nope." But ESPN, MTV, and HBO were in their infancy, and I could watch a scrambled channel and, if lucky, catch partial, provocative glimpses and sounds. Things have changed.

Megan was in a symphonic mood this morning and I've been thoroughly confounded ever since. I should accept the miracle and move on, but I can't stop wondering.... An unmoody Megan is so tantalizing. Was it a happy dream or the peanut butter cups or the movie before bed? (Diary of a Wimpy Kid 3, hilarious.) Was she touched by angels or taken by aliens or struck by lightning? I know indoor lightning doesn't make sense, but neither does a chipper Megan in the AM. I want desperately to sustain this phenomenon.

For the record: While I prefer happy-Megan to crabby-Megan, I love them both. And, if ever truly obstructed, even temporarily, I would move heaven and earth to be with either one of them.

Happy Holidays!

Dad Post #216

Megan's taste buds are broken. They are oversensitive or under-sensitive or somehow backwards, preferring the boring and bland to anything delicious. She loves white rice, bread and butter, and little else. Perfect casseroles and salads are frowned upon. Bites of meat are picked at. Main courses are nibbled, veggies get cold, and the freshest fruit is appraised as if it were rotten, poisonous, or possessed. I assure her we don't need an antidote or exorcism, and her food isn't from a dumpster. I tell her, "We are lucky. Our food is good and healthy," and then, less emphatically, so my relevant shortcoming doesn't steal the show, "And thank God we have Jeanette to cook for us." Unless Meg becomes a food journalist, celebrity chef, or restauranteur, I'd prefer this outrageous pickiness shifts to something else in the coming years. Yes, that. Boys.

Meg loves to watch Cupcake Wars. This is good. Otherwise she might love the Simpsons, for example, or something about wives and Beverly Hills, or shows with cute little stars who become harlots. That was harsh; I sound old-fashioned. But class isn't old-fashioned. I hope. I hope it's old-, new-, now-, always-, and forever-fashioned. I like art, but I think people are poor if all they have are fame and money. M 'n' m and I would be different, of course, if we had fame and money. Yeah right. I believe it's okay and quite wonderful, in fact, to be human, but it's best to remember this very fact and what it means. Vigilance, kids. Build your house on rock. Money is good, and I pursue it everyday (without much success, unfortunately) but I want M 'n' m to experience real wealth, and know the difference.

Dad Post #215

What I have long feared – even before she was born – has come to pass: Megan has a crush on someone. There is evidence in her own handwriting, which is unflawless but still perfect, because everything about Megan is perfect; dads everywhere hold and defend a similar paradox. Yes, on a piece of paper, that I would like to both burn and frame, Megan's tender affection is in full, vulnerable view, etched softly in pencil by her angelic fingers. She is under a powerful spell, and the sorcerer – if I may – isn't Jesus, or John Lennon or James Dean, or Hiccup or Prince Charming. (Maybe you notice, as do I, the awesome impossibilities in these, my ideal candidates.) No, it's a real boy, a very cool and nice one, but a guy nonetheless. The good news: He's more interested in sports than girls right now. Courting my daughter is low priority, which, oddly enough, has me alternately relieved and then like, "WTF kid, are you blind or dumb or both?" And when the time comes, 20 or 30 years from now, Megan will be the priority; the dude better give two shits about sports when it's time to rub Megan's feet. Even I DVR the Iowa State game if Meg needs me.

Dad Post #214

Megan is the Bobby Rahal of backseat drivers. (To me, Rahal is a racing name as renowned as Andretti, Petty, or Earnhardt, and Bobby is also a longtime friend and business partner of Papa Mike's.) On Chicago's glutted, spaghetti-like highways, Megan will kindly offer, "Dad, you should switch to that lane over there, it's all spread out and nice, and it's going much faster, but don't go too fast, cause it's not safe, but you're going too slow right now, and I won't have enough time with Sophie tonight unless you go faster, Dad." Thanks, Megan. And then if I follow her instructions: "Dad, I think you're speeding now, you know you shouldn't speed too much, you'll get in trouble, Dad." And so on, until I find a song that nine-year-old girls love to lip-sync, which I play loudly even though – unless it's something like early Taylor Swift or Disney – it's inappropriate for nine-year-old girls. But I treat my concerns about this inappropriateness like Chicago drivers do posted speed limits; they're nice but unactionable. Follow them and you'll get runover, and the world will pass you by.

Megan is a slasher like her daddy. With respect to the masterpieces of cinema that comprise the genre, I am not referring to anything in a horror movie. I'm talking about basketball. So far, Megan has a knack for handling and shooting the ball. She has an eagerness to get to the rim and score, and the body control and athleticism to do it prolifically (if she keeps her head on straight, which, of course, is the hard part when people are aggressively trying to stop you). Someday soon we'll see how stubborn and driven she really is. I know she's stubborn. I don't know how well this translates to resilience to discouragement. Girls play stingy, suffocating defense. Girls are catty. Girls are mean. (Have I made my point?) When fussing with me, Megan doesn't give up easy; she gets mad and ornery and spirited and I hope it's the same when some opposing girl on the court starts pushing and bumping and pissing her off. I hope she grinds them to dust and stays with it until she wins at least six championships like that other scoring machine from Chicago who was unstoppable.