#254

I saw an internet meme the other day that said, "The first 40 years of childhood are the hardest." Coincidentally, I turned 40 last month and also have two children safely within the bounds of their own 'first 40.' So I thought, that's funny. Then I thought, no it's not. I know my parents still have an eye on me - and contemplate intervening, with words if nothing else, during moments of spectacular irresponsibility, which are less regular now but not extinct - and it'll be the same for me with M 'n' m. And so it goes, until we get a call-up to the big ballpark in the sky, where there are no bad hops or errors. Until then, I agree; there's a first 40, a second, and hopefully a third. Then Papa Mike will insist on something like cryostasis, from which he'll be revived, when technology permits, to enjoy a forth, fifth, and sixth 40. He'll be like Darth Vader, mostly mechanical and terrifying and coolly effective and cape-wearing and weapon-bearing and still my father. 

Megan's eyelashes are beautiful. They are curved and precisely bunched and fanned like I imagine the finest brushes of the High Renaissance were, which is cheesy and not true; the three great masters probably used rags and sleeves, as much as anything, especially Michelangelo on his back in rickety scaffolding going on five years in the Sistine Chapel.... No thanks. I guess it's why we know his name. Anyway, Megan's lashes are long too, and I mean long like daddy longlegs, like spiny lobster antenna, like Kyle Schwarber homeruns. I love Megan. Go Cubs tonight, NLCS game 3.

Grandpa is teaching the boy to hunt

He is officially a tough out

#253

Megan dutifully went to Michael's baseball games today, and she dutifully went last Sunday, also. Five games and a dozen hours of baseball and her only complaint? "Daddy, Michael likes to play 1st base and he doesn't get to play 1st base every inning. WHY DOESN'T HE GET TO PLAY 1ST BASE EVERY INNING?!" We were sitting near the dugout and her voice kind of crescendoed until Michael's coaches heard her. They turned and smiled at me. They know that I know they're doing a great job with my son. But Megan... God I love her. She can be a little shit to me, oppositional, sour, crabbier than a wet cat, stubborn as a mule, but she stands by her brother, boy; she adores and defends him, and will share with him even if it's something she's hoarding or hiding from everyone else. It's a powerful bond, and I'm grateful for it. I could credit some infelicitous events – namely, the divorce – but I'm not sure; it's always been there, so I'm not sure it was sparked or even cemented by joint custody, which means, of course, that Michael is her physically present constant – not Mommy, not Daddy. Megan splits nights and time with Mom and Dad – even if the other parent is only a phone call or 10 minutes away – so Michael is her rock. Michael, as I've mentioned before, doesn't initiate conflict with Meg, but his failure to initiate anything with her pisses me off sometimes. I hear myself saying, "Michael, you're sister is talking to you, please acknowledge her, she wants to show you something she's proud of." She pines for his attention at times and it's precisely then that he's stingy with it. Bad big brother! But I'm happy he doesn't antagonize her, unless she's really crabby, which, unfortunately, is pretty often. Man, I'm trashing both of my kids now! Well, in truth, they are perfect. I love them. And I love that Megan always has an eye on her brother, even when he's on the baseball field.