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.
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