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.