Post #251

Michael pedaled his way to junior high today. His first day. He was excited, decidedly un-nervous, and I thought about plucking a hair for DNA, veiled by a familiar kiss on top of his head, a nonchalant affection-practice I subject him to frequently, which he doesn't seem to mind, even though he's a dude and seemingly six feet tall now, and there's my awareness – and still vivid memory – that junior-high means horror at anything uncool, and public preening by one's father is quite possibly the very definition of uncool. But Michael's not hyper-vigilant about coolness yet, sartorially for sure, except regarding shoes; he likes shoes that cost slightly less than plane tickets to places warm and foreign. Otherwise, it's mesh shorts and some kind of clashing upper-wear, and he's off to kick the day's ass with a smile. Unless he's loaf-y and lollygag-y, a disposition he sags into sometimes when there's labor to be done, and then I suppress urges to berate him, and instead toss razors of condescending sarcasm. Hey, my dad was harder on me, and every generation previous a step backwards down a kind of staircase of parental nastiness – if you take their word for it – at the depths of which, the beginning and the bottom, there was discipline by caveman club or abandonment in the wild. Or something. It seems every generation before had it rougher. I know my mom, when younger than Megan, did heaps of laundry everyday and looked after infant and toddler siblings, and my dad cut the lawn – with scissors, he'll tell you, if there was penance to pay for the slightest mouth-off or oversight – when younger than Michael. Now, kids are exasperated whenever our modern-day, American fire hose of amazing, exorbitant materialism is shut off for even a second. Nevermind arguments about diminishing responsibilities at home. Although, really, it's not that bad; it's just different. In fact, it's better! But it's more difficult for me every year to conceive of this 'Greatest Generation' bygone era stuff I bring up for comedic, dramatic comparison. In other words, the life my ancestors must've lived as children – and then as the parents of children – is officially more fantasy, in my mind, than Game Of Thrones.

Addendum to Post #250

Hey, 250 posts. I cringe if I reread any because I've over-shared, overwritten, or, in general, sucked at the writing part. But it's fun. I will keep practicing (writing) and parenting.

Writing is hard. I know some of you agree, and I'm grateful when you say so. I hope M 'n' m write. Letters, stories. Anything. Except rants about how shitty their father was. Or is, 'is' is better there, present tense, because I'll want to read their stuff, even rants about their old man. See, now I've gotten all melodramatic, confusing, wordy, and – sin of sins – I mixed tenses. And I used 'is' three times in a row?! Oh my god, that can't be good. Fail. My hair is thinning. I mean this instant. But before I just post and get it over with, I should probably agonize over every word. Melodramatic? You think 'melancholy' is better there? And Megan will go to prom someday? How crazy will I be then?! Because this is just writing.

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter – it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. – Mark Twain

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Hemingway said that. There's nothing to parenting either.

Post #250

I asked Michael to scribble Uncle Bill a thank-you for a special birthday gift. Michael nodded, busied himself, and later handed me six envelopes, for Bill and five others. My son, the epitome of unspoiledness. Maybe not, but he's generally grateful and optimistic, and I love him for it. His completion of six thank-yous instead of one is a sure sign that decades from now, his lucky spouse won't have to apportion his duties, tell him twice, or bug the shit out of him. He'll never have to be over-reminded or threatened. He'll be proactive, thoughtful, and attentive. And he'll leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Megan and Michael played in their respective All-Star games. They both played well. The Cox kids can hit. It was maybe my proudest day since their births. I'm not kidding, even if I sound shallow and dumb, even if I radiate fatherly folly and misguidance. When Michael hit one over the fence this year, my eyes welled with tears. Just last night, in my softball game, I took a screaming grounder off the face. I know it's better to use my glove, and not my face, but it was a bad hop and it split my chin. And now I'll wear my scar with pride. Shallow and dumb, but proud.

I'm undecided whether to celebrate or censure certain behaviors in my children. If Michael takes out a bully at school, in spectacular UFC fashion, do I applaud or admonish him? The easy answer is the former, of course – I'll feel like buying him a steak and new shoes – but temperance and awareness of consequences are advisable. Imposing physicality isn't Michael's way, but who knows. I was wary of schoolmates who had a militant streak, even if its appearance always seemed justifiable. I would peg Meg as the more likely to attack and scold those who do her wrong, and isn't this an important skill in our seemingly dog-eat-dog world? A 'willingness to close with the enemy,' as they say in the Army, is admirable and predictive of good things. Papa Mike possesses this in spades. So does Grandma Barb. I wouldn't say it's a dog-eat-dog world entirely, though. Empathy is important. Relationships are important. Selfishness, greed, and neediness can be very ugly. What makes some of us more susceptible than others? I dont know, but the Cubs have won six in a row. That's good.