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!
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