#255

M 'n' m like a show called "Fresh Off The Boat." It can be painfully inappropriate. As can "Modern Family," another show we love and devour together, as I otherwise pretend to be a high-principled dad. It's an act I've never tried, the unswayable father. "Can we do that?!" "NO!" "Can we watch this?!" "NO!" The anti-pushover. I don't even play one on TV. Which is an unfunny joke that doesn't make much sense, but there it is, and I contend life itself is often the same, inappropriate and nonsensical, but when it gets that way, we're ready for it, M 'n' m and I, desensitized, grounded, and only a little maladjusted! On a lighter note, we love life, and find that it very often does make sense. Take sports for example. Sports make sense. When Michael hits one over the fence, it makes perfect sense. When Meg is making shots, I get it. Life is good. Anyway, the father-of-the-year award goes to... not me.

Speaking of Meg making shots, she asked if we could go to the park and shoot around. I wept. She wants to practice! We grabbed a ball, hopped on our bikes, and pedaled off to a hoop. She shot while I rebounded and kept feeding her, and then I mock-defended her while she drove to the basket and scored. She has a nice little first step, and a decent touch around the rim. Watching her, I nearly wept again. Basketball with Megan is heaven. 

#254

I saw an internet meme the other day that said, "The first 40 years of childhood are the hardest." Coincidentally, I turned 40 last month and also have two children safely within the bounds of their own 'first 40.' So I thought, that's funny. Then I thought, no it's not. I know my parents still have an eye on me - and contemplate intervening, with words if nothing else, during moments of spectacular irresponsibility, which are less regular now but not extinct - and it'll be the same for me with M 'n' m. And so it goes, until we get a call-up to the big ballpark in the sky, where there are no bad hops or errors. Until then, I agree; there's a first 40, a second, and hopefully a third. Then Papa Mike will insist on something like cryostasis, from which he'll be revived, when technology permits, to enjoy a forth, fifth, and sixth 40. He'll be like Darth Vader, mostly mechanical and terrifying and coolly effective and cape-wearing and weapon-bearing and still my father. 

Megan's eyelashes are beautiful. They are curved and precisely bunched and fanned like I imagine the finest brushes of the High Renaissance were, which is cheesy and not true; the three great masters probably used rags and sleeves, as much as anything, especially Michelangelo on his back in rickety scaffolding going on five years in the Sistine Chapel.... No thanks. I guess it's why we know his name. Anyway, Megan's lashes are long too, and I mean long like daddy longlegs, like spiny lobster antenna, like Kyle Schwarber homeruns. I love Megan. Go Cubs tonight, NLCS game 3.

Grandpa is teaching the boy to hunt

He is officially a tough out

#253

Megan dutifully went to Michael's baseball games today, and she dutifully went last Sunday, also. Five games and a dozen hours of baseball and her only complaint? "Daddy, Michael likes to play 1st base and he doesn't get to play 1st base every inning. WHY DOESN'T HE GET TO PLAY 1ST BASE EVERY INNING?!" We were sitting near the dugout and her voice kind of crescendoed until Michael's coaches heard her. They turned and smiled at me. They know that I know they're doing a great job with my son. But Megan... God I love her. She can be a little shit to me, oppositional, sour, crabbier than a wet cat, stubborn as a mule, but she stands by her brother, boy; she adores and defends him, and will share with him even if it's something she's hoarding or hiding from everyone else. It's a powerful bond, and I'm grateful for it. I could credit some infelicitous events – namely, the divorce – but I'm not sure; it's always been there, so I'm not sure it was sparked or even cemented by joint custody, which means, of course, that Michael is her physically present constant – not Mommy, not Daddy. Megan splits nights and time with Mom and Dad – even if the other parent is only a phone call or 10 minutes away – so Michael is her rock. Michael, as I've mentioned before, doesn't initiate conflict with Meg, but his failure to initiate anything with her pisses me off sometimes. I hear myself saying, "Michael, you're sister is talking to you, please acknowledge her, she wants to show you something she's proud of." She pines for his attention at times and it's precisely then that he's stingy with it. Bad big brother! But I'm happy he doesn't antagonize her, unless she's really crabby, which, unfortunately, is pretty often. Man, I'm trashing both of my kids now! Well, in truth, they are perfect. I love them. And I love that Megan always has an eye on her brother, even when he's on the baseball field.

Long ago...

Post #252

Megan turned 10 yesterday. I'm suddenly without a single-digit child. My mom says she feels old on my birthday, not her own. I understand now. M 'n' m are growing up, and it's finally registering in my gut, which is always more forceful and effectual than any thoughts that float up-top for me. And there are always thoughts up-top; my mind is like a big wave pool. At the base of Niagara Falls. In Hurricane Katrina. Thankfully, Megan and I are both September babies – how cute, to phrase it that way – so if another plus-one to my age is a downer, followed by a reminder-smack on Megan's birthday... well, I guess it's a nice, compact beating. It's over in a few weeks. Then I'm back again, feeling young and happy for the 11 months that aren't September!

Michael's busy. He's in 7th grade, takes high school math, plays the cello, plays on two baseball teams, lives in two houses (a challenging reality for joint-custody-burdened kids like M 'n' m), and, AND! – this is what really siphons away attention, as I recall – there are 8th grade girls at Michael's school. Yep, it's true; they exist. It seems everyday I forget where my keys are, but I remember the crushes, notes, dances, parties, and phone calls that characterized my 7th grade 'relationships.' It's crazy-different now, I imagine, with smartphones, social media, and the controversial shit I'm not even aware of, but I'm certain nothing is better than a hand-passed note in a junior high hallway. Will Michael ever be instructed, in real, human handwriting, to circle 'yes' or 'no' if he likes a certain someone? I hope so. A non-texted, non-electronic note is very satisfying. My heart leapt at every one, with its cute, loopy lettering and origami-like folding. My nerves leapt, too. Even if I never touched or saw my note-giving girlfriend once we were 'going out.' I was dumped and rejected by notes also, of course. But still. Only fond memories. How is Michael handling this part of junior high? I'm not sure, I'll have to ask.

Champion

Some old excerpts…

I put M 'n' m in a bath together. Things didn't go well. (6-year-old) Michael said, "Megan kicked my penis and that is really terrible for my penis." True. It's also true that a pronoun can be used to avoid repeating the noun.

M ‘n’ m and I were eating at a diner and some college-age women walked in. Excited by her new membership, (6-year-old) Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!”

Whenever (3-year-old) Megan sees baseball or football or any sport whatsoever on TV, she says, “Look, Daddy, the Cubs!”

(4-year-old) Megan still puts her shoes on the wrong feet. It should be 50/50, right? As in, half the time she gets it right, half the time wrong? No. We’re not even close to that success rate. ...... Megan is not fooled by cars, however; she’s a loud backseat driver. “Don’t speed, Daddy,” and “You have to stop at red, Daddy,” and “Daddy, when it turns green you can go.” Thank you, Sugar-Pie, how did I manage 15 years of driving without you?

(7-year-old) Michael asked me, “Do Jedi take baths or showers?”

I told (5-year-old) Megan that Grandma and Papa picked out a new puppy. A little girl. Megan liked that! She did NOT, however, like it when I mentioned the puppy has to stay with her mommy at the breeder for another month. Megan said, “A month?! How many minutes is that, Daddy?”

(5-year-old Megan) decided to teach me about ‘the birds and the bees.’ She said, “Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?” I was confused and said, “Pipe?” She said, “Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it’s a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one.” I pictured this important, iconic discussion going a little bit differently...

(5-year-old Megan) learned the Hail Mary prayer. She recited it correctly except for, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for the scissors.” (A benign alternative, I suppose, to “pray for us sinners.”)

When Michael gives (5-year-old) Megan a command like, “Pick up your mess, Megan,” or “You need a jacket, Megan,” she says, “You know Michael, you’re not the daddy!” That’s right, Honey-Bunny! Good girl! I’m the daddy!!

(From 2010) I am off to China again for work. The kids will visit Houston while I’m gone. “Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Houston?” No Lovebug, but I wish. ...... We play T-ball in the front yard. Of course only the kids hit. Finally, Michael said, “We should let Daddy hit too.” Megan said, “Oh no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa.” ...... I took Megan to school and must’ve deviated from the usual route. She said, “Daddy, you’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Oh, okay My Love, can you show me how to get to your school?” She said, “Yes, I will show you when I see it.”

(6-year-old Megan) read to me last night. "Go, Dog. Go!" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want." ...... We were watching the Cubs and Meggie said, "Dad, the baseball players spit on their court. It's crazy, right? You can't spit on your court!" ...... Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn't wear underpants? I said, "Really, that's interesting, how do you know?" Megan said, "I saw it at the museum, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked."

From the top of the Sears Tower looking down at massive, busy Chicago, (7-year-old) Michael said, “I can’t believe God has this all under control.” ...... I started the shower for (8-year-old) Michael. He said, “I don’t wanna take a shower.” I said, “Five minutes ago I asked you, and you said you’d shower instead of bathe today.” Michael said, “Well, do you ever answer a question without thinking?” “Yes,” I admitted. “Well I do too,” he said. ...... (7-year-old) Michael said, “For some reason, I have an effect on girls. I don’t know what it is.”...... (6-year-old) Michael asked me, “Daddy, does looking at cake make you want to eat cake?” Deep, Michael. Very deep.

(From 2011) The other day I heard, “Daddy is always happy.” It was Megan’s sweet voice in the backseat and she said it again, “Daddy is always happy, Michael.” One of my proudest moments as a father….

Post #251

Michael pedaled his way to junior high today. His first day. He was excited, decidedly un-nervous, and I thought about plucking a hair for DNA, veiled by a familiar kiss on top of his head, a nonchalant affection-practice I subject him to frequently, which he doesn't seem to mind, even though he's a dude and seemingly six feet tall now, and there's my awareness – and still vivid memory – that junior-high means horror at anything uncool, and public preening by one's father is quite possibly the very definition of uncool. But Michael's not hyper-vigilant about coolness yet, sartorially for sure, except regarding shoes; he likes shoes that cost slightly less than plane tickets to places warm and foreign. Otherwise, it's mesh shorts and some kind of clashing upper-wear, and he's off to kick the day's ass with a smile. Unless he's loaf-y and lollygag-y, a disposition he sags into sometimes when there's labor to be done, and then I suppress urges to berate him, and instead toss razors of condescending sarcasm. Hey, my dad was harder on me, and every generation previous a step backwards down a kind of staircase of parental nastiness – if you take their word for it – at the depths of which, the beginning and the bottom, there was discipline by caveman club or abandonment in the wild. Or something. It seems every generation before had it rougher. I know my mom, when younger than Megan, did heaps of laundry everyday and looked after infant and toddler siblings, and my dad cut the lawn – with scissors, he'll tell you, if there was penance to pay for the slightest mouth-off or oversight – when younger than Michael. Now, kids are exasperated whenever our modern-day, American fire hose of amazing, exorbitant materialism is shut off for even a second. Nevermind arguments about diminishing responsibilities at home. Although, really, it's not that bad; it's just different. In fact, it's better! But it's more difficult for me every year to conceive of this 'Greatest Generation' bygone era stuff I bring up for comedic, dramatic comparison. In other words, the life my ancestors must've lived as children – and then as the parents of children – is officially more fantasy, in my mind, than Game Of Thrones.

Addendum to Post #250

Hey, 250 posts. I cringe if I reread any because I've over-shared, overwritten, or, in general, sucked at the writing part. But it's fun. I will keep practicing (writing) and parenting.

Writing is hard. I know some of you agree, and I'm grateful when you say so. I hope M 'n' m write. Letters, stories. Anything. Except rants about how shitty their father was. Or is, 'is' is better there, present tense, because I'll want to read their stuff, even rants about their old man. See, now I've gotten all melodramatic, confusing, wordy, and – sin of sins – I mixed tenses. And I used 'is' three times in a row?! Oh my god, that can't be good. Fail. My hair is thinning. I mean this instant. But before I just post and get it over with, I should probably agonize over every word. Melodramatic? You think 'melancholy' is better there? And Megan will go to prom someday? How crazy will I be then?! Because this is just writing.

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter – it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. – Mark Twain

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Hemingway said that. There's nothing to parenting either.

Post #250

I asked Michael to scribble Uncle Bill a thank-you for a special birthday gift. Michael nodded, busied himself, and later handed me six envelopes, for Bill and five others. My son, the epitome of unspoiledness. Maybe not, but he's generally grateful and optimistic, and I love him for it. His completion of six thank-yous instead of one is a sure sign that decades from now, his lucky spouse won't have to apportion his duties, tell him twice, or bug the shit out of him. He'll never have to be over-reminded or threatened. He'll be proactive, thoughtful, and attentive. And he'll leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Megan and Michael played in their respective All-Star games. They both played well. The Cox kids can hit. It was maybe my proudest day since their births. I'm not kidding, even if I sound shallow and dumb, even if I radiate fatherly folly and misguidance. When Michael hit one over the fence this year, my eyes welled with tears. Just last night, in my softball game, I took a screaming grounder off the face. I know it's better to use my glove, and not my face, but it was a bad hop and it split my chin. And now I'll wear my scar with pride. Shallow and dumb, but proud.

I'm undecided whether to celebrate or censure certain behaviors in my children. If Michael takes out a bully at school, in spectacular UFC fashion, do I applaud or admonish him? The easy answer is the former, of course – I'll feel like buying him a steak and new shoes – but temperance and awareness of consequences are advisable. Imposing physicality isn't Michael's way, but who knows. I was wary of schoolmates who had a militant streak, even if its appearance always seemed justifiable. I would peg Meg as the more likely to attack and scold those who do her wrong, and isn't this an important skill in our seemingly dog-eat-dog world? A 'willingness to close with the enemy,' as they say in the Army, is admirable and predictive of good things. Papa Mike possesses this in spades. So does Grandma Barb. I wouldn't say it's a dog-eat-dog world entirely, though. Empathy is important. Relationships are important. Selfishness, greed, and neediness can be very ugly. What makes some of us more susceptible than others? I dont know, but the Cubs have won six in a row. That's good.

Post #249

I wonder where the wild wanderings of M 'n' m will take them, not just geographically, but in every other conceivable way, frankly, if I may express that curiosity – or several curiosities – without sounding weird, obsessed, paranoid, possessive, vicarious, or too much like myself. A wise and loving man once said, "Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone." Let he who is without weirdness...? So, I'm curious. M 'n' m and I share DNA, ancestral roots, family values, a Midwestern USA upbringing, and stunning good looks. Why wouldn't I be interested? Oh, and I'm their dad. Starting with the obvious...
Geographically: What continents and countries will M 'n' m visit? How will these experiences change and expand them?
And some other 'conceivable ways'...
Professionally: Will Megan be a veterinarian? Will Michael be Magic Mike?
That's wrong, but as Chris Pratt, says, “It’s appalling that for a long time only women were objectified, if we really want to advocate for equality, it’s important to even things out.” Chris Pratt doesn't say much that isn't ironic or humorous.
Academically: Future Cyclones? Or will some other lucky place get them, the military, police academy, art school, the stage....
Psychologically: How will they see and process the world? How will they see themselves?     
Spiritually: Will they lean to orthodoxy or exploration? There are things to sink one's teeth into, and there is mystery; I hope they embrace both. At a minimum, I hope they 'sink their teeth' into kindness. They know Christianity and ritual, charity and prayer. They can go deeper and wider as adults.
Intellectually: What subjects and books will light their fire?
Physically: Will they be health and fitness nuts? Or normal people? (I aspire to be the former, and probably succeed and fail in equal measure.)
Artistically: Every kid is an artist, everywhere and everyday, at school, at home, on restaurant tables, on chalk-covered sidewalks. Kids sing. They are photographers and filmmakers (with smartphones and YouTube). They create things. I hope M 'n' m sustain and nourish their creative drives. Michael is already an excellent cellist. 
Sartorially: Will Michael's shoes, ties, or T-shirts be the most obnoxious? (So far, shoes.) Will Megan wear a one-piece or a one-piece? Under her baggy shorts. (Honestly, I don't have a big hangup about this.)
Recreationally: Will they compete, play, run, ride, row, swim, climb, camp, fish, hike, hunt, shoot, dance, fly, sail, travel, you name it? 
Romantically: Commenting here would be weird. So I will. Love is wonderful. Heartbreak and betrayal are tough teachers, but they are honest and soul-stirring. There is no energy like the energy inspired by love. Thus endeth the sermon. Amen.

Post #248

Megan is stingy with 'Pleases' and 'Thank-yous' and it irritates me. I have a tendency to overuse them and gush (and I abuse 'Sorry' to the point, I'm afraid, of annoying superfluity) but I believe in the elegance and power of politeness. 'Please' is always deserved and appropriate when asking for something. Why is that so hard, Megan?! Just say it! Your middle name is 'Grace' goddammit! :) As for 'Thank You,' I am not especially prim, proper, or British, but I use it simply, genuinely, and without exception. (I think. If you're reading this and at any point in my long life I forgot to thank you for something, please forgive me, I'm sorry.) See Megan, I just dropped a please, a thanks, AND a sorry all in one pitiful plea! THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE! ... Am I crazy?! Don't answer that. Am I over-sensitive, at least, wasteful with civility, at times corny, syrupy, overzealous? Maybe. But Megan's way is NOT wiser. It's not even cooler. This is not a currency we can overspend. Yet I wonder: When Megan finally shows gratitude, does it have more meaning and pop because of its scarcity? No. It just reminds me she's fickle, and her behavior, for example, may get a smile, a smirk, or a gum-smack from our restaurant server who may or may not feel appreciated. I remind myself that Megan's only nine years old and I'm her dad; it's our destiny to be familiar and lock horns. When I pursue other perspectives, everything comes up roses. Megan's teachers assure me she's a perfect angel at school. I call bullshit – at least a little, begging them to admit they've seen flashes of her attitude or impoliteness – and they earnestly, honestly insist that my daughter is delightful. Delightful! Then they go too far, pining for an entire class of Megans, twenty of them; they wish all their students were like Meg. She's perfect to adults and fellow students alike, they laud and praise and then, noting the perplexity on my face, chuckle and explain, "Oh, every child acts differently around family than they do at school." I shouldn't be surprised, they say, if she's challenging and moody at home. Thank you, but it's not a surprise, it's a pain in the ass. Megan also tests high and gets good grades, and has nice friends, and is a good player and teammate during softball. If I could just get more 'Pleases' and 'Thank-yous' I'd be satisfied.

Post #247

Megan is impressively tall and twiggy. She's a beanpole, in the parlance of my rural ancestors. It's very noticeable when she takes the field in her saggy-bottomed softball pants. I love baseball/softball trousers because they have back pockets. What other sport affords you this wardrobe luxury. Football pants? No. Basketball? Uh-uh. Sand volleyball? They don't even cover their butt cheeks. Anyway, as I was saying: Meg is tall and gangly, but even if she shoots up higher than the Eiffel Tower, or Ginormica – who she kind of fine-featuredly resembles, actually – she will always be diminutive next to her older brother. Michael is a big boy.

Michael went 3-for-3 with a walk in our first playoff game. I batted him 2nd (in the order) and he delivered, reaching base in every at-bat against tough postseason pitching. It's hard to describe how this makes me feel. Christmas comes to mind, as do the best parties and celebrations I've ever been a part of. Roaring, bouncing crowds. Buzzer-beaters. Clenched, pumping fists. Hands in the air, goosebumps, trophies, champagne. Maybe space travel as the epitome of extreme accomplishment. The admiration I feel when thinking of the great strengths and accomplishments of the forebears I share with my son. Do I sound cheesy? I hope so. To sound uncheesy would do this feeling no justice whatsover. Michael and his teammates played great and beat a higher seed. There is nothing better.

Michael earned the President's Award for Educational Excellence. A chip of the old block, I say. 

Post #246

The kids are in Gulf Shores, Alabama for a week. Without me. There's a scene in the movie Jurassic World where two brothers are discussing their parents' brewing divorce. The younger brother is in tears, appropriately and deeply upset. His older brother tells him to look on the bright side; divorce means they'll get two of everything, two Christmases, two birthdays, etc. Michael saw Jurassic World with two buddies as one of his 'two birthdays.' The movie is right. M 'n' m get more trips and vacations, also. It's a lousy trade-off for divorce, obviously. For me to suggest there are benefits and concessions, a silver lining, is somewhere between absurd and ridiculous. But it's our reality, and we're livin'. We're livin' pretty well, in fact. Anyway, what I intended to express here is how I miss M 'n' m when they're gone for long periods, days and weeks, for too many axis-spins as we race through space to our deaths, around a very big, four-billion-year-old star that you could fit a million Earths inside of if it was an empty sphere. The sun is very bright – despite being 93 million miles away – but it's always less bright when M 'n' m are off on some adventure without their old man. Awww. And did you know the sun is only average-sized for a star? Seriously. Consider, for a moment, the enormousness of it all. And you are part of it. I hope melodramatic nerdiness is still in vogue. (The Big Bang Theory? I've never seen it but it rates in the stratosphere, and Grandma and Papa were starstruck when they shared a restaurant with one of the show's actors recently in Manhattan.) My longest without M 'n' m is three weeks in China for work. I began to feel like I was 93 million miles away. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a soldier on deployment with babies, toddlers, or kids back home. Going weeks without holding and kissing M 'n' m is a little like being carsick; it creeps up and wet-blankets you with a shitty feeling in your gut and your skull, and it only goes away when the ride stops. The ride stops tomorrow for me. M 'n' m fly home.

Post #245

Michael has acne. Hopefully, he'll never know I announced it online. I had acne, too. I still do, in fact, but I'd say the war ended with armistice in my 20's, and the treaty is only broken now by guerrilla skirmishes or the solo fighter who just attacks my nose, for example. I wake up and there's a zit, a pimple; there is no charming word for it. Blemish? A little better but inadequate if it's Vesuvius and throbbing, and – like Michael will deal with soon – calling in reinforcements. Breakouts are never timely, and in youth the war is multi-front and the battlefields vast, raging over entire cheeks, temples, and forehead. My forehead is massive, and Michael is similarly blessed. We will marshal our allies for Michael, the various, over-marketed soaps, cleansers, washes, astringents, strips, swabs, cover-ups, and creams. It's really nothing to joke about. I even saw a dermatologist as a teenager. Some of my friends did the same. It's life, and what is life without uncomfortable humor. Ill-advised and documented. And the best joke of all... our family acne is not from steroids. I know, surprising; our killer physiques are natural. Papa Mike's first and foremost. Truthfully, Michael will settle into a sturdier build than is showcased in his paternal lineage (I'm visualizing at least four generations). No bird legs for Michael. Lucky guy. Maybe he'll escape the lovely follicle recession I'm enjoying, also. Otherwise, the family forehead only gets bigger, another fine feature he can thank his genetics for.

I decided to get Michael a cell phone. Now I pay 40-some bucks a month for a device that is often uncharged or switched off when I call it. It's an expensive paperweight. I said to Megan yesterday, "Please gently remind Michael to keep his phone on." Without hesitation, Megan said, "Do I have to be gentle?" We both laughed. When she's funny and smiley, I love her a little more than usual, which, of course, is impossible.

Post #244

Michael can be very quiet, and in these moments I assign to him a kind of noble bearing; in my mind, he is poised, stoic, brilliant. I wonder how far I am from the truth. According to experts, the male brain is fully developed by age 25. I'm guessing the 'experts' are male and flattering themselves. Even within the bounds of pure chemistry and biology (nevermind new findings on neuroplasticity), I'm still calling bullshit. A man's grey matter complete and developed? In retrospect, I was alarmingly immature, insecure, and ignorant at age 25. I'm taking the nickel if asked how I am at 39. I hope Michael is less of a late-bloomer than I am. I'm certain he's clever. Of course, I've found that the more I know, the more I know I don't know. That's a mind-bender, of course, especially for a scatterbrained worrier like me. I wonder what 'life lens' Michael looks through; I wonder how big of a picture he sees. Bigger is better to a point; then bigger becomes inimical. Distractions abound; thinking too much about eternity or injustice or ISIS is a surefire way to go crazy. Michael doesn't seem crazy; on the contrary, he seems self-possessed and outwardly calm (most of the time). Good for him. I hope it's not a happy accident; I hope he actively cultivates a constructive and optimistic mindset and internal dialogue. As they say, "It's worth a great fortune to look on the bright side of things." I love Michael. I think he knows with a solid certainty that he's deeply loved, supported, not alone. He knows that Grandma Barb is a huge advocate of his, a kind of guardian angel. He knows that others in his family love him just as much. He knows that the sun rises every day and even if hidden by clouds, it's still there. Megan is more uneasy about things; 'clouds' are more disruptive to her. Why? I wish I knew. I love Megan too, obviously, very, very powerfully. Maybe I should think about the female brain. Or not, if going crazy is a concern....

I'm reading the autobiography of Theodore Roosevelt. Of his grandmother, he says she "was distinctly overindulgent to us children, being quite unable to harden her heart towards us even when the occasion demanded it." I've never heard a better definition. I have amazing grandmas, and M 'n' m struck gold here, also. Grandmas are one of life's frostings; I can't overstate my gratitude for mine, and M 'n' m won't be able to either.

Time to teach Megan...

... that 2nd place is the first loser. I'm kidding, of course. I'm proud of her. She's a smart little creature. And gorgeous. She's a little fussy at times, but nobody's perfect. So I congratulated her on besting all but one of her classmates in timed multiplication. Attagirl. And maybe I added, "If you can't catch Richard, at least put some distance between you and Connor."

Post #243

Bowing to the whims of Megan is another glaring flaw of mine. I'm especially bad on days that end in 'y.' That's silly, of course, but so am I as Megan's marionette. There is a good caveat I offer in defense, however; I'm only a positive-energy pushover. If Megan is rude or disrespectful, I bark at her; I've even brought her to tears and only felt a little horrible. It's the other Megan that pulls my strings and runs the show, the happy, inspired, creative Megan. Suddenly I'm spineless, bouncing and hovering like a jellyfish. Or, indeed, a marionette. Bedtimes come and go unobserved, safety becomes ever-so-secondary (like when Megan wanted to saw boards recently), and if there's a burning desire to practice softball, I will squat and catch pitches until my legs are broken.

In Florida earlier this year, Papa Mike endeavored to advise Michael on matters very sensitive and personal. He said, "So you're in sixth grade, Michael, hmm, when I was in sixth grade" – this is exactly where I tensed and held my breath – "I kissed Becky So-And-So" – I don't remember her name but Papa sure did – "and then she dumped me, but let me tell ya, she really regrets it at our high school reunions!" Papa Mike is hilarious, and Michael seems intent on imitating his grandpa and namesake; Micheal's looking for his Becky So-And-So as I write this, no doubt. There are worse people to exalt, I suppose, than remarkable grandfathers.

Post #242

All signs indicate my habit of over-disclosing is a recessive gene in M 'n' m. Or dormant or untriggered DNA or whatever. Forgive me; I took AP Chem and not AP Bio. Both M 'n' m are seemingly loathe to talk about themselves. At least to me. You wouldn't believe the stimulating questions I pepper them with only to hear "no" and "fine" and, exclusively from Michael, "what's for dinner?" I noticed the kids are talkative about Minecraft and Clash of Clans, though. Little bastards. (Good thing I have small readership here.) And Michael isn't little anymore. He officially makes Jeanette look small, although she is small.

I ask the kids what mind-blowing people and histories and theories and things they're talking about in science and social studies and literature and their eyes glaze over. They are bored. Maybe it's the caffeine; the fact I'm on it and they aren't. "Your lives need to be sung about!" I tell them. They look at me like I'm crazy which is appropriate, good modest kids, M 'n' m, but I need some shit for writing practice here :)

When I see the wear-and-tear that my kids put on my car after a few years of ownership, only a few years, I think, "Dear God, what are kids doing to me and every parent I know?! The upholstery in my car is stained and trampled. It's stretched in some places, sagging and balding in others. It looks nothing like the day I bought it. There is stuff and garbage everywhere the day after I clean it out. My car looks worn and beaten and worth a fraction what it once was. But you know what? I think the car is happy.

Post #241

Megan loves a show called Shark Tank where entrepreneurs seek investment from a panel of zillionaire businesspeople, aka the sharks. I'm curious why Megan loves the show (more than every smashing preteen hit on the Disney Channel, for example). She's only nine years old. I recognized one of the investors, Mark Cuban, because he owns the Dallas Mavericks and attempted to buy the Cubs; I wish he would've succeeded. Another of the investors is so unfriendly, unhappy, unattractive, and unhumble that I found myself praying, for the sake of his family, that it's only schtick. And so I wonder: Does Meg prefer trainwrecks or triumphs, because the show offers both. Is she drawn to the seemingly green pitch-givers at their most eager and vulnerable? Does she like it when smart people argue? Or is it the showcasing of innovative products? The presentations are brief and informative. The deal-making gets testy, but so what; human nature is on full display in life, not just in 'reality' shows. Even so, perhaps the riddle is unfogging.... Jeanette and I never watch reality TV and so our kids don't either. Is that what Megan wants? The Bachelor? Maybe later. Or never. Survivor? Is that still on? The Real World, Amazing Race, Big Brother? The singing, dancing, and talent shows on every network? I've seen a few, and they are, indeed, less interesting than Shark Tank. (Although, there's something about Dancing with the Stars that I hope my daughter isn't sensitive to yet.) I don't know why Megan loves Shark Tank but I approve if she's absorbing an education in sales, marketing, startups, presenting, negotiating, finance, and professionalism (and sometimes its antithesis), as well as the science and industries represented by the products. Good girl, Meg.

Some other anecdotes and questions: Megan has a pink bat, and she knows how to use it. When I was a kid, tequila had a worm in the bottle. Megan has cute toes and ears and the most amazing eyelashes I've ever seen. Michael is very huggable and I love that about him. Do kids still play tug-of-war with those rough climbing ropes that burn soft hands, in gym class or during picnics or whenever it was that we enjoyed this shining example of simple, primal, team sport? I wonder what it feels like to be a grandparent. I know what it feels like to be a divorced father, but I wonder what it feels like to be a divorced mother. I am only 90% certain now that college and professional football will survive long enough for me to enjoy the Chicago Bears and Iowa State Cyclones with my grandchildren. Conversely, I am still one thousand percent certain that no one will ever succeed at being the modern breed of do-everything (with a smile) superdad. I wonder if the skyrocketing costs of a college education will stop skyrocketing. Because, if trends continue, my bankroll will only cover one book, one class, and one month in a dorm; the rest is up to you, kids, which might be a very good thing, come to think of it. After nearly 40 years, the memories I possess and recall from my youth are still my most vivid; I need to remember this in everything I do with M 'n' m and S 'n' C.

Post #240

Papa Mike and I are fans of a TV show called Justified; we fancy ourselves of similar character, nerve, and shooting ability as the hero (Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, a creation of the brilliant Elmore Leonard). We also admire the show's antihero (Boyd), but that's beside the point and not to be admitted. Raylan has an infant baby girl now, and this piece of indubitable truth from an episode's dialogue hit me so squarely in the head and heart that I transcribed it. It's quite beautiful, despite the whole drugs-and-guns context. Raylan has a suspect dead to rights when the suspect's father sees a way to take the fall for his son. The father insists, even as Raylan advises him that doing so is pointless and foolish. The father, who knows a little about the younger Raylan, eloquently explains his impulse, and pretty much the actions and impulses of every father – and I think it is, in fact, every father – who has done a thing perceived as foolish for the sake of a son or daughter.

Father: "You say you got a baby girl of your own?"
Raylan: "That's right."
Father: "Right now I reckon she's not much more than a lump, that cries and shits and makes baby noises."
Raylan: "It's like you've met her."
Father: "Yeah, and you're gonna tell me that absent even any personality that she might one day cultivate there ain't one thing in this world you wouldn't do for that gob. That don't stop, son. And it don't get any easier."

Amen. It don't get any easier. But as the challenges mount, so do the moments of grace and gratitude, so does the richness and depth of being a parent. My daily prayer is the same: God, thank you for my children.

Megan Cabrera

Post #239

Megan is unassailably cute in her softball getup. The seat of her pants is appropriately saggy, and the rest is very professional-looking, her back pockets and occupied belt loops below a tucked-in jersey, her visor and Under Armour cleats, and – best of all – her game face. I have never felt more hopeful, charged, anxious, and blessed than I do watching my kids in a batter's box. If that's misguided, so be it; at least I'm honest. I love it. I love them. And I love softball and baseball. Of course, they are doing impeccably well in school and other things; we do have priorities.

As for Michael, he took the mound last night for the first time this season. He's a pitcher now, and a respectable one. He scattered a few runs but was sharp, pounding the strike zone with decent velocity. He's a horse of an eleven-year-old. Learning to leverage his height and heft is a big focus. He worked very deliberately from the stretch, staring down runners, and was warned by the umpire for working too slowly, taking too long between pitches. That's Michael. I love him fiercely and I'm proud; he's been putting in the hours, drilling and pushing to get better. Good man.

If Meg was in charge...

Post #238

This week, my eleven-year-old boarded an airplane and flew to Minnesota. By himself. I was impressed; he didn't voice any concerns. I've flown as a twenty- and thirty-something-year-old with more anxiety. Many times. It was scary right after 9/11, but even since then I've entertained all kinds of fantastic fears. I'm more aware of common and uncommon air travel issues, but it's enough for me – compared to me, at least – to think of my son as calm and brave. Michael also loves Minnesota so much he'd probably hitchhike there if permitted, unfazed by the crazies and hazards he'd dodge on the road. He'd get there; I wouldn't bet against him. It's moot, of course. People don't hitchhike like they used to (according to Papa Mike who thumbed and mooched many a long, strange ride, apparently, in his erstwhile youth).

And it's time for another fart joke... I was tucking Megan in last night when she rolled onto her side – for optimum, undampened firepower I presume – and made a sound less melodic but more emphatic than the percussion in Sophie's band concert earlier in the evening. Yeah, the noise came from her backside. It's true what they say: Women do it better! Megan's flatulence has length, depth, and range. I was dazzled. And damaged. It was an incredible blast and Meg giggled triumphantly. I gave her a look of mock horror, which I couldn't hold, and then we laughed and roared together.

Every day, for months now, Megan has worn two bracelets I bought for her in Brazil. They're of the thread friendship variety, nothing special, but it's funny how I began to notice them and feel flutters of pride, as if her devotion to the bracelets is devotion to me. People-pleasers are an interesting breed, and I'm pretty sure I'm a card-carrying member. It's often an unappealing arrangement for me and those around me, so I'm not bragging. The impulse is very strong, and consequences vary. When it comes to M 'n' m, I can't decide if I'm more or less eager and weird than usual, and how this impacts them. Simply put, we're back to the agonizing, "Am I a good or bad parent?" Who knows. No biggie, it's only the most important thing to me.

Post #237

I did laundry yesterday and was momentarily saddened. I was struck by a harsh and looming fact while I was un-inside-outing Megan's pant legs (if that makes sense; perhaps your kids, like mine, somehow remove their clothing while simultaneously twisting, balling, and tying it in knots). The cruel fact I speak of has everything to do with adjustable waistbands. You know the kind; they're sewn-in elastic strips with buttonholes that mate to buttons on the inside of little waists. Mostly I see them in Megan's jeans, but they're in other items too (shorts, capris, skirts, skorts... yeah, I just said skorts). Anyway, I suspect they'll be gone soon; Megan's laundry will be adultlike (and scary). And I won't notice and smile at the little-girl things. Where did the puppies go? Where are the rainbows and unicorns? I remember when Megan loved giraffes and butterflies....

Speaking of cute, I don't watch the kids sleep as much I used to. I don't wish to be labeled an over-adoring-gushing-loony parent (too late), but I often peeped in on their little sleeping selves years ago. Just briefly. I didn't put match to pipe and sit at a crib-abutting rocker puffing on Virginia Vanilla or whatever, gazing lovingly at my handiwork. Ha, what an untrue and arrogant way to put it. It's God's handiwork, of course, or Mother Nature's if you're so inclined. We'll leave it at that. But I watched 'em snooze a bit when they were younger; I recall enjoying the fact they were still. Just still. They had stopped, taken a break, they were no longer crawling, crying, jibber-jabbering, eating, pooping, and so on, all of which required exhausting supervision. Not anymore.

Post #236

I had an impromptu dinner date with my finicky princess the other day, before her softball practice, and I let her choose. She chose two drumsticks from Popeyes. This seemed like a swerve from the normal humdrumness of Megan's food choices. Bread, bagels, English muffins, rice, noodles. And it's white rice and plain noodles, by the way. So drumsticks? I was puzzled. But I remained silent, as I often do waiting to be hit between the eyes at the ease with which I'm manipulated. By women, especially. I was a little distracted because I love me some Lousiana cookin', also! I ordered green beans and slaw with strips and barbecue. And then we were unpacking our dinner and it all made sense. Sitting in Megan's food box was a beautiful biscuit, buttery golden and flaky, and delicious as hell. The 'delicious as hell' part is speculation, because I didn't feel like asking for a bite and skirmishing. We had a nice dinner and then an awesome softball practice.

It was great but Popeyes chicken did a number on the interior of my car. I know; letting the drive-thru detail slip renders the phrase 'dinner date' a goodly embellishment. Yes, Meg and I feasted in my car, not at a cloth-covered table, but it must've been fun because we apparently, happily, touched the dash and every single dial, button, and surface in the vehicle. We left a thousand greasy fingerprints on everything. Even the slowest cat from CSI could tell that two clumsy folks ate a shit-ton of dripping chicken and biscuits and fumbled for napkins in the glove box, fiddled with the AC, rolled down windows, and did some party-bumpin' DJ'ing. Hellz to the yeah! All the while eating Popeyes chicken. Case closed.

Post #235

What is my 'job' as a father? Caregiver? Sure. (Some moms bear the brunt, but dads provide care, too.) Guardian and protector? You betcha. Self-explanatory. Worker and earner? Yes. (I'm referring to work outside the home and this can be Mom too, of course.) Entertainer, comedian, tour guide? Absolutely. I want my kids to smile, laugh, and explore. And then there's the job I agonize over most of all. The other roles are more natural and clear to me; this job, not so much. I'm unsure of its definition, priority, and execution. I am sure that it's a delicate thing, like catching a soft-mouthed fish; it's easy to blow it and the fish won't bite again. I'm talking about the role of teacher and coach. Some of it's easy; we show our mini-me's how to tie their shoes. Under our tutelage, they learn how to use forks, toilets, and bikes. Useful stuff. But what about less traditional things? What about teaching them intentional practices involving optimism, gratitude, grit, willpower, and meditation? Science, as an institution I mean – which can be very curmudgeon-ish, despite its brilliance – has recently proved and praised things that were formerly, in my circles anyway, dismissed as mumbo-jumbo. Even mainstream medicine – which bafflingly postponed earnest study of the well-observed and documented placebo effect – is now studying cool stuff like mind-training, neuroplasticity, and epigenetics. Positive psychology – the study of human flourishing instead of just disease – is a recent movement. But I digress. There are countless other examples of things we may or may not want our children clued into. We teach them to work hard, make friends, be respectful, be positive. I taught my kids how to pray. But we can, of course, go deeper in every aspect. Should we? What, when, and how can we teach them the finer points of optimal living? Even as we, ourselves, fail in many ways, our kids can benefit from our coaching. Right? Part of the answer lies in teaching and coaching by example. But even so, children are notoriously attention-deficient; should we direct their focus to the underlying habits of the folks they look up to (which, hopefully, includes us)? I think so. I'll keep coaching M 'n' m to give thanks and stay positive, two proven pillars of happiness. This seems like enough for now. (And it's a struggle with Megan!) We'll emphasize breathwork, mantras, malas, crosses, and baseball curses when they get a little older.

Post #234

Michael is named after his paternal grandfather. It was an instant, easy decision; I never considered anything else. Names like Bubba or Moose – or Daniel – never crossed my mind. Neither did Zeus or Romeo or Rambo. Achilles and Attila are good ones, come to think of it; beware of my son, he's a badass! or, uh, he WILL BE once he's potty-trained. But that's not my thing. I'm more of an Obi-Won-philosophy guy; if you strike me down, Darth, I will only be more powerful. Michael is similarly reserved, and quietly confident; Attila wouldn't fit. And if I had another son, he'd be Michael too, or more precisely, Michael II, like George Foreman's sons (all five of whom are named George). But I only have one Michael and he's the best; no need for more. Regarding names, Proverbs 22:1 comes to mind, although that's more about reputation. My son has a good name. His namesake has a good one, also; it's 'Papa Mike' these days, unless he's in a boardroom in California or London, for example, where he loses the 'Papa,' I imagine, but still brags about being a superhero grandparent. Papa Mike is a brilliant, magnetic, imagineble-not-to-like guy who my son keenly admires. This is both awesome and terrifying. (See Post #233 about F-words.) It's mostly great, of course, but some interesting emulation is underway and rising. Papa Mike has more shoes than Imelda Marcos and Michael is similarly motivated and striving. Papa loves to shop. Papa also loves, despite his thinness, eating luxuriously – a practice he has wholeheartedly earned over decades of hard work and success – and Michael is following suit. "The Surf 'n' Turf sounds great," Michael will say to our bow-tied server, "but what's this about market price, and can I get an extra lobster tail?" When Papa's at the table, we work it out. If not, this causes tension between Michael and his father's wallet, and therefore his father altogether. I'm kidding mostly; Michael has an appropriate conscientiousness about the price of things. He wants a 'big house' someday, but understands it has to be earned; his grandfather has shown him both sides of this equation. I'm happy Papa also loves sports, movies, traveling, hunting, and fishing, as these are affinities shared by all three of us. Papa Mike drinks fully from the cup of life; his energies and obsessive powers are considerable. This will cause a few headaches if his grandson assaults life with a commensurate gusto. And Michael is showing signs. If the dust ever settles enough to assess it, I will be both tear-jerkingly proud and teeth-grittingly worried, if the prophecy plays out, like-grandfather-like-grandson.

Post #233

Michael is fond of using a certain four-letter-word that starts with an F. Of course, if you know Michael – or me, for that matter – you know it's not that (the 'Queen Mother of Dirty Words' as Ralphie puts it in A Christmas Story). Michael knows that F-word also, and probably all of its emphatic derivatives, thanks to movie clips, song lyrics, YouTube, and two offending adults in his life. The unheedful F-bomber on my watch (versus his mother's) won't be unmasked publicly. Although my sweet Meg-Pie heard him too – Papa Mike! – when he let it fly once around perked, tender ears. I was supremely annoyed. It's another F-word, however, that really gets under my skin. Michael overuses it. It's a passive, tepid, ugly thing to me, this word, utterly uncaring and spineless. It's ungrateful, unarmed, and uncommitted. It's dull and defeated. It lacks taste, authority, power, and choice. And, on top of everything else, it's lazy. Yeah, it's lazy and it scares the crap out of me because I use it too, in my thinking if nowhere else. It's a term and sentiment that easily disguises itself as accommodating and considerate. But in the end, it serves no one. There's a TED talk about it, the dangers and prevalence of the attitude it encourages. (I love TED, by the way.) It's a flimsy and feeble word, according to TED speaker Mel Robbins, and it's spelled F-I-N-E. Yeah, that's the one. Fine. "How was your day, Michael?" Fine. "You look upset, are you okay?" Yeah, I'm fine. "Do you have any thoughts on the matter?" No, it's fine. I slump shoulders or wring fists when I hear this, depending on my own energy, which is sometimes only 'fine.' I want him to be better than fine, and say so, and if not, then especially say so. But he's a kid. And then he'll be worse, a teenager. Jeanette is wonderfully expressive, and in her growing wisdom she skews to optimism and enthusiasm, even when it's not fantastically warranted, as is the case with some of the challenges we face as divorced parents. But life is good, and Jeanette is an adult, a somewhat seasoned one like myself, so maybe I shouldn't expect the same from Michael. Yet. I want his ship to point that way, even if it's turning and traveling slowly.

Should we talk about Megan for a second? Because if we do, the F-word in question is not a problem; if Megan says 'fine,' it's with dripping displeasure. I know she is precisely, unequivocally, and negatively expressing herself. I know exactly what she's thinking, or rather, complaining about. So we're all good; no hard feelings with Megan on this one, being fine or not fine. I could throw in the same wish about her developing more optimism, though. Megan, our little crabby-apple....

Bob Gibson? Nolan Ryan? No, Michael.

M 'n' m and A! (for Anna)

Dad Post #232

Megan is pretty terrified of throwing up. I realize the phrase 'pretty terrified' is a touch noncommittal and oxymoronic, but I won't diagnose her with emetophobia just yet. For several reasons. I'm more of a doctor like Julius Erving than Mehmet Oz, for one thing. (Funny how arrogance feels good even when confused with self-deprecation and totally unfounded.) There's also my hesitation to use the word 'vomit.' Dictionaries prefer it to its wonderfully vivid alternatives (puke, hurl, heave, blow chunks, toss cookies, and so on) but 'vomit' is like 'penis' and 'vagina' to me; I would rather use other expressions. For example, 'private parts' and 'reproductive anatomy' and 'you know, what I'm talking about, right?' are my go-to substitutes when treading carefully among the birds and bees with M 'n' m. Yes, I'm very clear. So Megan and I use 'throw up' instead of vomit, and if a threatening symptom arises, Megan will shudder and shake and recite like a mantra, "Am I going to throw up, Daddy, am I going to throw up?" I hold her and kiss her hair and assuage her fears. Poorly. She remains terrified. The primary harbinger, of course, is a stomachache, and unfortunately this agitates, when one is anxiety ridden, a kind of self-feeding, self-fulfilling death-spiral of queasiness. At that point it's like a roller coaster ticking up its steepest incline. Slowly, tauntingly, it sends the message: The 'drop' is inevitable. Wow, has there ever been a better metaphor? I have mentioned my discomfiture with everything M 'n' m are hereditarily predisposed to. They are sensitive. They will not have unfeeling lives. And an unfeeling, unthinking moment is exactly what you want more than anything ever when you're anxious and nauseous. I'm still learning to quiet some of my thoughts and fears also, Megan. My mind is indeed a monkey, distracted and jittery and double-fisting two of the four wisemen (Jack, Jim, Johnnie, Jose). Although monkeys use their feet differently than we do; they can probably sip all four. But someday our minds will slow just a teeny-tiny bit. I hope. And pray.    

Overactive minds, panic, and OCD aren't strangers to my family. I've noticed that achievement and creativity aren't strangers, either, when those 'other guys' are around. But those other guys can be intrusive and rude; so it's best to observe, oppose, and manage them.

Speaking of the four wisemen (which is a way-uncool reference to them I'm sure), there's a particular answer to Megan's question – "Am I gonna throw up, Daddy?" – that she's not quite ready for: "Yes, Honey, I'm afraid you will throw up someday when you and your friends get a five-gallon pot and a ladle and a bag of Solo cups. Oh, and you'll excitedly splash together a super-fun mix of Kool-Aid and Everclear." I did it with my friends. And I spent the night – except for some unpleasant and violent interruptions – sleeping on an exquisitely cool bathroom floor. I'll never forget the coolness of the ceramic tile on my cheek, as I sweated, groaned, and curled myself into the fetal position. Don't do it, Megan, but if you do, you better call me, so I can kiss your hair (and hold it out of the toilet).

Dad Post #231

So we Disney'ed. It's a verb, right? Like Google (Hey Michael, google 'Magic Kingdom princesses' and tell me who's the hottest) and Facebook (No Megan, sorry Baby, no facebooking until you're 18). For the record, the former is fictitious – or at least I phrased it differently – but the latter is real and true and on a stone tablet somewhere at home, or it should be. Disney was great fun. We rode rides and saw shows. We shopped and ate with reckless abandon. We swashbuckled with Jack Sparrow and did stunts with Indiana Jones. The Little Mermaid is, indeed, a pretty princess, and I nearly barfed aboard a Starspeeder, zipping – as instantly recognized by Michael – through Tatooine, Naboo, and Hoth. The simulator really tossed us around and I was shaken when we 'landed.' Megan and Papa Mike were unruffled and fine, and Michael wanted to go again. I told Michael he'd make a good rebel pilot, but I'm a Jedi and I don't do that shit; I wear robes and meditate and kick ass with my awesome brain and light saber and this little thing called The Force, baby! Although, once again, I phrased it differently. They have a Starbucks at each of the WDW parks but I refrained; it didn't feel right as there was a refreshing absense of ads everywhere for unrelated brands and products. And yes, I'm so cozy with Disney now I use acronyms; WDW = Walt Disney World in Orlando versus WDL / Disneyland in Anaheim. Bam! At this point, we could veer off into criticism of what seems like an ugly, keep-up-with-the-joneses commercialism all around us, but that is cynical and negative and, frankly, not how I feel about Disney; I respect the man, the mission, and the parks. My parents took me to Disney when I was roughly M 'n' m's age, and I'm grateful. I'm happy to pay it forward. Although, a scrub of financial records would reveal a disproportionate outlay from my parents; they basically covered my second trip to WDW also, but three decades later and this time with my kids. Now I feel inadequate and confused. Oh well, these are feelings as familiar as friends, when it comes to self-critiquing my parenting of M 'n' m. I covered our airfare, at least, which wasn't inconsiderable since I booked it too late. But Grandma Barb and Grandpa Mike took it from there, and dropped a gangsta roll (versus a paltry chip-in here and there from me) to make memories for M 'n' m at Disney. Thank you.

There is a final thing, Disney-related, that I'm extremely grateful for: The parks are big and busy, and I constantly felt a little hand nestled in mine or reaching for it. Yes, I enjoyed two days of closeness with Megan, who is more stingy with affection than Michael. She was my shadow and I was hers, and that, to me, for any length of time, is priceless.

Dad Post #230

I said to Megan today, "I remember the day you were born, Baby. I loved you so much that day, and every day since." Megan ignored me. She was playing 'Crossy Road.' Her device is more important than her dad. Crossy Road, of course, is a rip-off of 'Frogger,' which was invented during my childhood, thank you very much. Crossy Road my ass!

We're in Florida for spring break. It snowed half a foot the day we left Chicago. Haha! The Cubs play next week. I love watching baseball at Wrigley in my winter coat and seeing my breath and the players in Under Armor hoods and masks and extra layers so they don't freeze to death. The postseason at Wrigley is always cold, too :)

This evening, M 'n' m and I attended a cocktail party in Florida. We're staying with Grandma Barb and Papa Mike, but Great-Grandma Bev has a place here, also. We sat and sipped drinks with Grandma Bev and her friends. Michael is a 7-Up guy; Megan likes juice. The partiers were all about seven decades older than M 'n' m. I told the kids, "Learn what you can from these folks, they don't make 'em like they used to." I thought for a second and added, "Especially the men, Michael; they definitely don't make men like they used to." Depending on interpretation, I sounded like a chauvinist, a feminist, or a dumbass, but I meant it with deep respect, for men and women. Michael didn't really hear me anyway, but at least he wasn't playing Crossy Road. My son will never be drafted, hopefully, and endure something like D-Day, or the invasion of Germany, like my grandpa who fought for General Patton. Michael probably won't work in a coal mine and die from black lung, like my great-grandpa. As a young man, the same great-grandpa lost his wife following complications during simple surgery, which meant my grandpa lost his mom when he was only Michael's age. Tough breaks. I wonder if M 'n' m can even fathom life without cell phones and the internet. Because it actually happened! No shit! Not long ago, people had no air conditioning, remote controls, automatic transmissions, or vaccinations. They survived without microwaveable meals (that are so preserved, they are essentially immortal). But our ancestors had stillness, hard work, healthier food, and unridiculous media. It's good to rub shoulders with people who are many thousands of days older than we are.

Dad Post #229

In an interesting article recently, I read: “It seems like a lot of what you end up doing as a parent is trying to figure out ways to save your children from you.” This resonated with me. Is it because I’m a crappy parent? Maybe, but mostly it inspired thoughts about how previous generations didn’t even go there; our grandfathers didn’t turn the focus on themselves. They weren't uncaring or ignorant. Far from it. They simply had a different playbook, culturally and socially. The consciousness and science of the era were different, also. Life was different. And so parenting was different. Not better or worse, just conducted with other things in mind. We likely fell a little short back then, but we fail in other ways now. Having awareness of un-optimal genes and environments we throw at our kids is probably good. Bowing to their every whim and analyzing behavioral minutia is probably not good. I find that life is a lot about happy mediums. Parenting is not a democracy, but, conversely, 'the preacher's kid' is a stereotype for a reason; authoritarian parenting sucks the warmth out of folks. Kindness is important to me, and now I'm not talking about being a parent, but a human being.

There are three things I insist are abundant at home: books, sports gear, and writing utensils. Regarding the third, we have more pens, markers, highlighters, BICs, Sharpies, and rollerballs than an Office Depot. We have wooden, mechanical, and colored pencils. We have scratch & sniff pencils. We have crayons, pastels, watercolors, and chalk, if that’s your thing. We have swarms of writing instruments in every room. It's a ubiquity like an infestation, and yet when asked to do homework, I've heard young voices tell me they have nothing to write with.

Actually, M ‘n’ m knock out homework pretty quickly. It’s other to-dos they neglect, like cleaning up the mildew experiments they seemingly undertake by piling wet towels over dirty clothes after a shower.

I read that Robert Downey Jr.’s son is “still in blissful early life, with no idea that his father is unlike other men.” And yet I thought, every father is unlike other men (to his children). Semantics, I suppose, and most of us aren’t Ironman or Sherlock Holmes, but every dad – potentially – possesses a uniqueness, value, and celebrity in the eyes of his children. We need to actuate this influence, though. Maybe it’s a power more subtle than the laser- and pulse-beams Iron Man blows things up with, but it’s a very considerable and lasting thing, our fatherly impact and reach. We need to be positive and constructive with it; we need to honor and earn it; we need to rise to meet it with the best and brightest versions of ourselves. Amen.

Dad Post #228

I watched the newish, highly-acclaimed movie ‘Boyhood’ and thought a lot about Michael. I hope my son’s life is a bit more stable, normal, and healthy than the one depicted, although Michael has divorced parents, an untraditional home-life, and a deep, stoic sensitivity akin to the boy in the movie. He’s growing up fast, my son, and he’s big; he’s been long, tall, and sturdy ever since I met him at Northwest Community Hospital almost 12 years ago. His feet are nearly the size of mine, which is good; I won’t be sharing but he will (if he has any expensive footwear I like). I will, however, avoid shoes that are aggressively fermenting and noxious, which generally disqualifies everything worn by guys his age.

Michael and I have interesting conversations about certain things now. These talks are initiated by me, and mostly one-sided, but he doesn’t fidget or withdraw or radiate strong discomfort. He was noticeably struck by my candor a few days ago when we discussed language, specifically the kind you don’t fling around in front of your grandmothers and teachers. I was honest and not ignorantly rigid. Credibility is important to me. We talked about respect, class, intelligence, perception, reputation. But I also indicated I don’t expect him to be the PC- or pristine-language-police. I know he’s tried foul language on for size, and I told him so. I've never heard him, but I was his age once, and I know how it is. Michael raised an eyebrow but not a disputation. I said, "I hope you discovered it doesn’t fit or feel so great," and he nodded. He’s heard me say ‘shit’ for sure, but not often. And I've said worse, but again, not often, and never with him around. There's a time and a place. It's best not to be shocked and confused by our modern, real world. I told him it's okay to laugh at a dick joke once in a while, but it's not okay to put people down, or be lewd and disrespectful. I was believable. Life is full of battles and principles and moments. I try to pick mine carefully. Because I remember, like it was yesterday, looking at Michael in the nursery when he was twenty minutes old. I remember the overwhelming emotion. There is nothing more important. I want to parent him with high principles and morals – for his own happiness and well-being – but with a sense of reality and groundedness that doesn’t render me, frankly, unreliable or full of shit in his eyes. I want him to live this life, not fly above it or avoid it somehow. Being a teenager is a ride, baby! I'd like to be a place of truth and stability for him. Especially when he needs reprimand. Because he won't be perfect, and if he is, that itself will cause concern.

Stuff I love finding in my piles of papers

Dad Post #227

Sophie, Michael and I walked out of Yorktown Mall last weekend past a very colorful, beautifully-knitted mitten. It was partner-less, which is conspicuous for a thing almost always found in twos. Indeed, it was wet, dirty, and all by itself in the middle of the road. Since I have a weird, distractible, hyperactive mind, I blurted, “That poor, lonely mitten.” And there it was… the name of our band! Yes! We are starting a band and calling ourselves ‘Lonely Mitten.’ It has such an unbeatable ring to it, and God knows we have the pieces: Michael is a cello prodigy, Sophie plays the trumpet like Dizzy Gillespie, Cole is also a genius on the cello, and Megan is learning the flute recorder in music class. All four will probably attend Julliard someday. So we have strings, brass, woodwinds. I know some kickass guitar, specifically two Nirvana riffs and one each by Alice In Chains and Bob Marley. So there’s that. Jeanette is up for maracas and vocal accompaniment. We’re thinking less cowbell than Christopher Walken, but our creative souls are wide open, man, we just wanna feel the music, we wanna BE the music. In fact, I can already feel it! Holy shit! Lonely Mitten is gonna change the world!

For the record, as leader of Lonely Mitten, I won't be as intense as J.K. Simmons in "Whiplash," but my bandmates WILL BE AMAZING or they WILL BE PUNISHED!

My two favorite things are coaching and shopping for used books. Yesterday, at the Salvation Army on Grand and Union (near the Merchandise Mart, my professional home), I stumbled on this little gem. It's so very perfect for Megan :)
 

Dad Post #226

I read this from Dierks Bentley (a country-musician) recently: "I thought I was a man until I had kids, and then I realized that my life had just begun. It tears away the person you were before, builds you up to become the person you have to become, makes you learn a lot of skills - a lot of man skills. That all comes with a kid." Well, it's a life-changer, I know that much.

I like Vanity Fair magazine. Revocation of my man card has been threatened for this affinity, by my badass hunting buddies, but the writing is exceptional, and Vanity Fair does other creative things like ask people, “Would you pick your child’s genetic traits if you could?” Happily, I read that 83% said, “No, I'd leave it up to nature." Whenever we doubt humanity, it reaffirms its heart, altruism, and tradition.

Here's another parenting anecdote I read recently from Bill Bryson's "At Home." Bryson is a brilliantly funny and informative writer. (Sometimes I wander off my well-worn path of murder mysteries, books about Native Americans, acclaimed fiction, Christian and Buddhist exegesis, and Robert B. Parker novels.) And so I came across this: "In the mystifying world that was Victorian parenthood, obedience took precedence over all considerations of affection and happiness, and that odd, painful conviction remained the case in most well-heeled homes up until at least the time of the First World War." My how the pendulum has swung. The obedience / affection equation is an interesting one. I think, at a minimum, we over-entertain our children (and no parent is more guilty of this than I am). Bryson adds, humorously: "By withholding affection to children when they were young, but also then endeavoring to control their behavior well into adulthood, Victorians were in the very odd position of simultaneously trying to suppress childhood and make it last forever. It is perhaps little wonder that the end of Victorianism almost exactly coincided with the invention of psychoanalysis."

Continuing with Bryson: "What is often striking - and indeed depressing - is how freely parents withheld not funds but affections. Elizabeth Barrett and her father were intensely close, but when she declared her intention to marry Robert Browning, Mr. Barrett immediately terminated all contact. He never spoke or wrote to his daughter again, even though her marriage was to a man who was gifted and respectable, and based on the deepest bonds of love." Hmm. A tough call. Naturally, no one will be good enough for Megan, but maybe a writer-philosopher-poet like Browning is preferable to the parade of unexpressive, mentally-flatlining meatheads I'm afraid she'll bring home. Okay, glad I got that off my chest.

Michael doing some winter work...

... on a swing he has sculpted into a beautiful thing to watch. It all looks pretty good to me: his stride, hip-turn, square shoulders, right elbow, rolling hands, head position. And, of course, the proof is in the pudding; he hits it hard. I don't feel safe anymore unless I'm behind a pitching screen. I'm not sure how he arrived here, as some of these things aren't very teachable; putting it together naturally is an 'either-you-have-it-or-you-don't' situation, I've always thought. But as I said before: Grandpa Byard (who was signed by the Chicago Cubs) died on a Friday night, and on the Saturday morning that followed, Michael had a baseball game. He started to look like a hitter, as I sat and watched with watery eyes, and he's looked like one ever since. His dad can hit, too, and so can his Grandpa Mike; he has good genes :) Michael also knows how to watch the great hitters now; he observes them in their full idiosyncratic glory, their rituals and tendencies. He knows how to mimic and visualize himself with the same impressive ability and confidence. And he keeps working at it. Hitting isn't easy. It takes reps. It takes maintenance. It takes working through slumps, doubts, and inconsistent moments. But it feels great to hit a ball over a fence; to crush it, drive it, connect so purely it feels like you've just hit a scoop of ice cream. There's a lot of nuance, subtlety, instinct, anticipation, focus, precision, and cool-headedness required. It's a perfect blend of physical and cerebral skill, and Michael seems to like the challenges it offers.

Megan and Dad at basketball practice

Dad Post #225

Michael is the proud owner of an Xbox. It seemed inevitable, but he waited longer than most. He has since read books and played soccer – real activities – so he hasn’t vanished into virtual living. I know video gaming is a Death Star tractor beam. I've felt the pull myself. But Michael can handle it; he flirted with a Minecraft addiction on Android and only partially lost himself. Typical parental naiveté? Maybe, but even with video game access, Michael still engages in cello practice, baseball drills, bike riding, etc. And Jeanette is very good at policing screentime, and forcing us to run, jump, and play in the real world, too.

I did my taxes. Per our agreement to alternate, it’s my year to claim the kids. So I joyfully typed Megan’s and Michael’s names, genders, birthdays, and socials into the tax forms. Then TurboTax asked me, cleverly personalized, “Did Megan pay for more than half of her living expenses?” Huh? No. No, she didn’t. But sometimes she doesn’t complain. “Did Michael pay for half of his living expenses?” Not at all and he eats like a horse. These apply to older dependents, of course, but I laughed.

There’s an action-movie canon from my young-adulthood that I hope to watch with Michael someday. Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Van Damme, Seagal, Willis. All winners, baby! Not a bad movie in the bunch :) Take the first Predator, for example, released in 1987 (the year Platoon won best picture). With a knife and some mud, Arnold defeats a massively advantaged enemy. I dare you to pick a better movie! The best scene among these films, however, is in Rocky II. The Italian Stallion is stroking his new baby's hair and talking lovingly to his weakened, hospitalized wife. Then Adrian whispers to Rock, “There’s one thing I want you to do for me… come here… win. Win!” When I see this I get goosebumps so intense my clothes lift off my body. Then the training montage starts. If you aren't moved by Rocky training montages, see your doctor. I know Michael will love Rocky. Maybe he and I can train, and I can fight when I'm a hundred years old like Stallone did in the latest Rocky (which is new and not part of my beloved young-adulthood canon).

Dad Post #224

Megan is still little. She's a cub, a kit, a pup, a minnow, a shoot, a blossom, a rosebud. She's a tender-leafed seedling. Her fins, feathers, roots are still soft and developing. She's a wisp, a snippet, a tear drop, an espresso cup, the beginning of a painting, a sculpture taking form. She’s a Russian doll near the center. But not for long. She's growing fast. Megan is beautiful and I love her.

Michael is not little. I wouldn’t say his feet are aircraft carriers, but they are destroyers now, or cruiser class. Even if you're not in the Navy, you probably know those are big boats. It's expensive to keep Michael shod. His shoulders haven’t broadened yet, but they will soon, and I will feel small and feeble beside him. And I will be very, very happy. His voice will deepen, and he will be distracted by many things, but he will always respect my opinion and experience. If not, he's a dumbass. Regardless, there will never be anything on Earth I love more than my son.

After two big road wins and a lengthy top-15 ranking, Iowa State is positioning themselves nicely for a March Madness run. If they advance to the Sweet Sixteen again, I won’t be able to watch them play (unless I have sedatives and room to pace). I cry when they win the big ones. My cheeks wetted last year when Deandre Kane beat North Carolina at the buzzer. The tears welled and rolled; I could do nothing to stop them. Naturally, watching M ‘n’ m compete and perform is even more overwhelming. I'm pretty good at hiding it, but sometimes bemoan the fact I never wear sunglasses. Jeanette is the same way with S ‘n’ C; she gets weepy during triumphant moments in their games and concerts. We are not very good at being unproud and dispassionate. We are hopeful, jittery bundles. We are parents!

Dad Post #223

Life is God’s kindergarten. That’s a little gem I heard recently (and not from Robert Fulghum). On the eighth day, God created YouTube, and not entirely for the Kardashians, or ESPN. We love our celebrities, tabloids, and 24-hour (bad) news cycle, but there’s something else I’ve tapped into: the endless river of semi-uplifting mumbo-jumbo online. I don’t do Candy Crush; I listen to lectures and sermons, instead. And I don’t mean to sound self-important. Truthfully, since I struggle to put anything into practice (like optimism, willpower, meditation, smart parenting), I’m probably better off playing Words With Friends. But I love TED, for example. ‘Talks at Google’ are great. ‘Philosophers Notes’ are cool. Zencast, Dharma Talks, Richard Rohr, Robin Sharma, Osteen, Oprah, you name it, I’m a sucker for it all. Deepok, anyone? I wasn’t even kidding about Oprah; she’s interviewed Nelson Mandela and Thich Nhat Hanh, and, well, I haven’t. And so I listen and think about things other than work and coaching. I think about M ‘n’ m. They are, after all, budding and brightening and infinitely important. I want them to live optimal, purposeful, love-filled lives. I want them to be happy! What’s more important? (A Cyclone Final Four maybe, but I have a bigger hand in my wishes for M 'n' m.) And so I wonder: Am I guiding, pushing, applauding, admonishing my kids enough? Am I mindful and prayerful enough? Put simply, am I a good dad? I’m not even sure what that means. My engineering training informs me to ask, how is it measured? Where is the data? I suppose the data is all around us, and so the statement above – life is God’s kindergarten – resonates with me. In all matters of heart and mind, how far do we really get? Do we master our own thoughts, emotions, focus, energy, relationships, careers, money, and health so much that we should authoritatively instruct our kids how to live? Yes, to some degree. But I don't find it too cyncial to refer to life as kindergarten, either. I’m not a six-year-old anymore, and yet there's still clumsiness and confusion in my life. Like, uh, lots of it. I suspect I'm not alone. Even with adults, things go untended, unprobed, unloved, unlearned. Nobody gets gold stars in everything. Certainty and arrogance – about weighty things – is over-compensating and comical among kindergarteners, and I find it even more so among big people! Old people, rich people, awesome people... they have foibles, too. So Jeanette and I, M ‘n’ m, and S ‘n’ C will press on together, always cheerful, playful, open, and curious. And now I’m thinking: Maybe characterizing life as ‘kindergarten’ is actually a challenge to us….