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).