Dad Post #221

I am in China, once again, and missing Megan. I miss Michael too, of course, perhaps even more, but it’s a bit of a running joke now, a plain favoritism for Megan here. It’s not true, of course. Michael is my son; I love him indescribably! My love for Meg-pie is infinite and immense also, illimitable, inestimable, immeasurable, incalculable, interminable, inexhaustible. Yeah, those things. The thesaurus, by the way, is my 6th favorite book behind The New Testament, City Of Thieves, A Soldier Of The Great War, In Sunlight And In Shadow, and The Great Gatsby. So I love both of my children, the same incomprehensible amount – hey, the letter 'I' is really awesome! – but enough about that; let’s talk about something less controversial. Let's talk about Jeanette. She's incredible and I miss her, too. I miss her tons – TONS! – and Sophie and Cole, also. Haha, indeed, this is a real can of worms. I've never even whispered the awful truth here. (Please forgive the hyperbole.) The awful truth being that I am divorced. M ‘n’ m are the children of divorced parents. Gasp. There, I said it. And Sophie and Cole are children I care about that aren’t even my own. Confused? I'm not. None of this is awful or crazy to me. In fact, it's wonderful, but it causes quite a stir in one’s life, I’ve learned over the last two years. It’s also terrific fodder for blogging, which is why I’d like to talk more about… painting. Painting? Yes, painting. I don’t paint, but I have to wonder: Am I the only person who watches Bob Ross on YouTube when family drama threatens to overwhelm? Five minutes of happy skies. That’s all it takes.

Dad Post #220

Kids want to be treated like adults – at least sometimes – and they remember who treated them as such. And by ‘kids,’ I don’t mean teenagers; I mean the years just before that, around Michael’s age. I remember the moments I was treated as older, and the adults who esteemed me this way, via some serious activity or conversation, with an ‘adultlike’ tenor or topic. Something weighty. Something bordering on the unsafe or unchaste or uncharted for a ten- or twelve-year-old boy. “Hey Dan, do you understand girls, because I don’t? What do you think? And speak of the devil, here comes one now, on that rickety, rope bridge... that's swaying and fraying badly! It’s gonna give out any second and drop her right into the jaws of those snapping alligators! We’ve got to save her! AND I NEED YOUR HELP!” A kid could be sheltered from all of that – “Wait here Dan! And don’t go anywhere near the water!” – but requests to discuss and do ‘adultlike things’ are cool. (Of course, it doesn’t have to be about girls, or vice versa; I am just unimaginative.) And yet I fear Michael’s too eager to grow up. He’s eleven and he talks flatly about college and buying a house. He seems to equate stoicism with maturity. I want him to express! What about renting and traveling?! Is that bad advice? I want more nonsense and emotion! Hasn’t he learned anything from his father? Haha. Yes! Yes, he has. He’s learned what not to do; he’s learned to temper the people-pleasing, overdisclosing compulsions he was hereditarily burdened with. Hopefully, he has no concept yet of something like professional mediocrity. And maybe these flaws skipped a generation; maybe his DNA is clean. Or maybe I was just like Michael when I was eleven. It’s hard to say. We learn. We live. We grow. Hopefully we expand, and not contract, even amidst the doubt and discomfort, even when hurting and afraid. How else do we expand? Under heat, baby, under heat! And there’s a lot of fun and amazement in there, too. Success isn't the only teacher, or even the best. Surf it all, and don't shy from confusion or ambiguity or existential cynicism. It's okay to go there. But bounce back. You don't have to know everything. To some questions there are no answers in this form. It's okay. Everything is okay. Optimism is better. Way better. Enjoy, love, be vulnerable, be grateful. And all the while the years will tick away. This is unequivocal, certain, unceasing. Michael will be 40 before he knows it. No sense in jumping ahead, Bud.

Retro Post 1: Reflections on coaching...

... Megan's girls basketball team (although this year I'm only an assistant) and on Megan as a ballplayer:

Megan can play basketball. She scores with ease, and surprises herself with her agility and athleticism. She can shake defenders, get to the basket, and create shots. She's a slasher (like her old man, before he got old). Megan's no Usain Bolt in a sprint, but she's got lateral quickness and good hands. Let's hope she has a killer instinct, too. If so, she didn't get it from me. She has a nice irrepressibility, that's for sure. If I can get her to be as crabby about losing as she is about other things... well then, I think she'll spurn mediocrity and be very good.

Megan’s team lost another game on Saturday, though. My girls have a losing record now. If you want something to agonize over, just coach some kids. Works for me, at least. If the kids are great – and thankfully, every kid I’ve coached has been terrifically unrotten – the process is a marvelous inducer of a kind of brutal, whiplashing bipolarity. It’s a rollercoaster for me, anyway. VICTORY! Defeat. MANIA! Depression. Clarity! Confusion. High-flyin’ confidence! Soul-crushing doubt. The girls are smiling, frowning, laughing, crying. I’m a skilled second-guesser, but I suspect many of us are. How much potential have I left uncoaxed? Should I coach the girls to defend harder? Should I urge them to be more aggressive, even if they bump and collide and hurt each other? Blah, blah, blah. Thoughts like this are a broken record in my head. The kids are bright, energetic, eager, earnest, impressionable, and aware of their performance. I allow this to ratchet up my hopes for them, and for me as a coach, and for us as a team. Maybe I’m too wishful, too empathic, too sensitive. This, of course, is bullshit, and a poor and maybe-not-even-true excuse I overuse. No matter, because I am still coaching and plan to continue. I just want very badly for my players to improve, be comfortable, express themselves, enjoy, and WIN, GODDAMMIT!

Dad Post #219

I hope M 'n' m read this someday and remember their own craziness more than mine. People are strange (Jim Morrison). I can't hide who I am most days, and I hope they can't either. Because I love them. I don't want their lights under a bushel; I don't want their flags unflown.

Regarding candidness and oversharing, I wonder what a blog from my ancestors would look like, from a great-great-grandfather, for example.... "Oh goodness me, we have big news! Mabel did it again, and this time it's a girl! It was a tidy birth, as Mabel was having a cigarette on the porch, and I was touching up the floorboards with lead paint, when suddenly another baby popped out! Oh joy! We can't decide between Elsie or Ethel. She'll look so fetching in the bonnet Mabel sewed for her." Yeah, that's dumb, although during Elsie or Ethel's teenager years.... "He is of a handsome and genteel sort, I concede, but I fear he must still join us hunting next and be accidentally shot." That part is the same in any era.

Iowa State cracked the top 10 in basketball!

I will miss getting pulled in every direction by my kids. "Hey Dad, look at that!" ... "Dad?! Dad? DAD?! ... Dad, you gotta see this!" ... "Daddy, I need you!" ... Everywhere, little hands pulled on me, and high voices beckoned. I was near the center of a universe. I will never forget how M 'n' m, as toddlers, would move closer to me, often leaning on my leg or hugging it, when suddenly suspicious of a thing nearby. Sometimes I lifted them up, and other times I was only a motionless but palpable reassurance, a comforting force, a massive love. I hope. There is nothing humans would rather be, for people they love. Because life is indeed full of 'threats.' Some only look the part, some are coldly real, and many are of our own mind and making.

Dad Post #218

Today, Megan said, "Dad, do you have a Pinterest account? You should get one because I have awesome pins!" I won't be getting an acount, but good to know Megan has 'awesome pins.' I'll add Pinterest to the burgeoning list of things to monitor (along with Gmail, YouTube history, friends, grades, movies, Google Hangouts traffic, shows, songs, pop stars in crisis, piercings, eating habits, language, fashion, and everything else on the planet). We have so far disallowed Snapchat, Instragram, Facebook, and who-knows-what-else. Jeanette and Sophie keep me informed about things new and hip (and therefore, to me, suspicious). I try to be un-ignorant. It's hard. I'm on a collision course with a decade full of teenagers; I visualize it as a kind of imminent tidal wave or avalanche. I hope to be a beacon, a buoy, something steady and safe. Wish me luck.

There is a place Megan loves even more than theaters, malls, and nail salons. It's an enormous space in downtown Chicago, with seemingly endless hallways and countless stairwells, doors, desks, and mysterious rooms brimming, blinking, and humming with whiz-bang technology. The evidence of high-tech activity everywhere contrasts with the building's exposed, ninety-year-old bricks, pipes, cracks, and beams. There's also a 'game room' with everything imaginable, office supply kiosks, funky furniture, snacks and drinks in numerous 'micro-kitchens,' space age conference rooms, and a big tricycle to pedal around indoors. In a word, to M 'n' m, it's Eden. It's also where I work all week, and lately on the weekends. The kids join me sometimes and here's the problem: They behave glowingly as little visitors, but think it's so cool and fun, I'll never convince them I struggle there daily amid the pressures and tensions in all corporate settings. I like my job – and we do innovative, important stuff – but my smile weakens when Megan says, "Dad, you're so lucky, you get to go to work!"