#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.