#267

On politeness: I shamefully and proudly – a little dichotomous, I know – relate wholeheartedly to Paul Ford's words below. 'Shamefully' because, even though my politeness is not disingenuous – and I am dismissive of precisely no one ever – I can appear overly or falsely obsequious and socially awkward. I know this. This is a flaw. It's related to my conflict-averseness and other shortcomings. Flaws beget flaws. Bummer. But I can also say – proudly – that my politeness usually comes from a strong, confident place of genuine gratitude, respect, or admiration. Usually. This is good. I really want M 'n' m to be polite. Not just polite to me. And not polite for me (i.e. polite to adults who say, "Oh, look at those polite kids, they must've been raised right"); no, not that either. I want M 'n' m to be polite because I think it is, in fact, noticed. It's not super-noticed in contemporary urban America, and it's not as popular today as in, say, Elizabethan England, but I believe it's noticed. And it's antithesis – repeated rudeness and selfishness – is definitely noticed. I want M 'n' m to have friends; I want M 'n' m to be self-possessed, likable, and respected. I want them to be positive and polished. And for them to be these things, manners matter. I know my politeness isn't purely altruistic. If it was, I wouldn't feel a tinge of annoyance when I hold the door for someone and they breeze through without a word. Apparently I expect something. I expect acknowledgement. In the end, I suppose we should master both; we should give courtesy but also demand it in return. Papa Mike is a terrific example; he can alternately, with pretty much equal ease, attack or ingratiate, appropriately measured and based on how he himself is treated, either poorly or positively. This impresses me.

Finally, from Paul Ford's essay called "How to Be Polite," as mentioned above: "Every year or so someone takes me aside and says, you actually are weirdly polite, aren’t you? And I always thrill. They noticed. The complimenters don’t always formulate it so gently. For example, two years ago at the end of an arduous corporate project, slowly turning a thousand red squares in a spreadsheet to yellow, then green, my officemate turned to me and said: “I thought you were a terrible ass-kisser when we started working together.” She paused and frowned. “But it actually helped get things done. It was a strategy.” (That is how an impolite person gives a compliment. Which I gladly accepted.) She was surprised to see the stubborn power of politeness over time. Over time. That’s the thing. Mostly we talk about politeness in the moment. Please, thank you, no go ahead, I like your hat, cool shoes, you look nice today, please take my seat, sir, ma’am, etc. All good, but fleeting.... People silently struggle from all kinds of terrible things. They suffer from depression, ambition, substance abuse, and pretension. They suffer from family tragedy, Ivy-League educations, and self-loathing. They suffer from failing marriages, physical pain, and publishing. The good thing about politeness is that you can treat these people exactly the same. And then wait to see what happens. You don’t have to have an opinion. You don’t need to make a judgment. I know that doesn’t sound like liberation, because we live and work in an opinion-based economy. But it is. Not having an opinion means not having an obligation. And not being obligated is one of the sweetest of life’s riches.... This is not a world where you can simply express love for other people, where you can praise them. Perhaps it should be. But it’s not. I’ve found that people will fear your enthusiasm and warmth, and wait to hear the price. Which is fair. We’ve all been drawn into someone’s love only to find out that we couldn’t afford it. A little distance buys everyone time. Last week my wife came back from the playground. She told me that my two-year-old, three-foot-tall son, Abraham, walked up to a woman in a hijab and asked “What’s your name?” The woman told him her name. Then he put out his little hand and said, “Nice to meet you!” Everyone laughed, and he smiled. He shared with her his firmest handshake, like I taught him."

#266

Michael has raced into adolescence. No question about it. His voice is deeper, his face is changing, his feet are like a hobbit's, and he'll be over 70 inches tall any minute. The problem I'm having isn't Michael's sprint out of childhood, but my feeling that nothing goes any further, myself included, after junior high. No country or culture or government – no man to be sure; I know very little about women – ever exits adolescence once it's entered. From here on, nothing changes. Look at what motivates our governments, corporations, and media. It's terribly simple, and I sound terribly cynical, and yet... junior high was exciting! Full of novelty, hard work, and accomplishment, deeper friendships and girlfriendships, more elaborate education (both academically and socially) and way-better athletics. Naturally, there was nervousness and a little bullying, but only enough to spice things appropriately (perhaps I was lucky). So I'm not being entirely negative. A favorite writer, David Foster Wallace, mentions something similar, calling U.S. culture in particular "both developmentally and historically adolescent." Hard to argue. And yet again, I just watched a presidential debate and refuse to disrespect any of the candidates. (In front of M 'n' m, at least; I made a few cracks to others.) Why? It doesn't feel right. I'm not running for President; I'm not at a podium in front of millions of viewers. I want M 'n' m to respect the scope and scale of certain things, even if, in so many ways, we never really graduate adolescence.

#265

Meg's lips are constantly chapped and bleeding. It's obvious and graphic, like it's Halloween and she's a vampire, or she's Ronda Rousey. Megan has ChapStick, Vaseline, Carmex, and EOS. She has Bath & Body and Burt's Bees. Botanical this, citrus that; it's not working. Chapped lips are an awful spiral, we lick, pick, and chew until they're cracked and horrible. Maybe Meg's EOS is the problem. People are documenting rashes and reactions and, of course, filing suit. Meg has a lavish collection of EOS 'spheres.' She lines them up like I did army men. EOS has more colors and flavors than Jelly Belly. Marketing geniuses over there. Chicago winters and winds can be testy, unkind, not good for lips, hands, dry skin. But there are eight million people here that don't look like they're in Fight Club, or whatever bloodies lips. I can't blame Chicago or Jay Cutler. Is Megan dehydrated? Allergic? Nervous? Fishing for a day at the spa? "I'm fine, Dad," she says. No, you're not. Here we go.

After an oh-and-two start, the girls won their first basketball game. I'm the coach. Megan shot the ball well and finished with 10 points. I've never been happier. They're young but surprisingly coachable; we've implemented several plays, and they execute our plays and concepts well. Most importantly, they're positive and fun and they smile when I'm silly. They're also serious when I'm serious. They're scrappy and competitive and I've seen a few tears from frustration and minor injury, and I can tell you with certainty that if I coached them long enough, and they achieved great things, they'd see me cry too. And that's no big admission; I see athletes and coaches get emotional all the time. Makes perfect sense.

#264

"Dear human: you've got it all wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That’s where you came from and where you’ll return. You came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love, infused with divinity, lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect, you already are. You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous, and then to rise again to remembering. But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love in truth doesn’t need any other adjectives. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up, and do your best. That you stay present, and feel fully. That you shine and fly, and laugh and cry, and hurt and heal, and fall and get back up, and play and work, and live and die as you. It’s enough, it’s plenty."

— Courtney A. Walsh

I should probably read this to M 'n' m. And make them listen. Make them turn off their devices and listen. Make them think about it. And then we'll turn the Cyclone game back on. Actually, the Cyclone game is over. They just beat the #1 team in the country at Hilton. And the cool thing is... they were favored. So what about condition and expectation? They are powerful frames or lenses. I love the Cyclones, but conditionally; I expect them to win. I love M 'm' m without condition. It's true; my love for M 'n' m doesn't have an adjective; it doesn't need one; none would work anyway; they would be woefully inadequate, even a very, very long list of adjectives. It's awesome and terrifying. But mostly awesome; as parents we wouldn't trade it for anything. And I've mentioned this before: What if God loves us this very same way, as a parent? Hmm. It's easier to think about the Cyclones.

#263

No one plans on divorced parenthood, on ping-ponging the kids between separate homes. It's annoying for M 'n' m. Of course it is. We talk about it. I say things like, "It's challenging, I know, but you're extraordinary! And besides, unbroken homes are boring." So that's dumb and NOT what I say, but I do hint at things like adaptability and breadth of experience. Michael flies on airplanes by himself, and has no qualms about long visits to any of seven or eight different places annually (in different states with different relatives). He's pretty comfortable anywhere, and he's not possessive of things; his stuff is often at Mom's when he's at Dad's, anyway, and vice versa). Divorce isn't the only thing that exposes kids to home-life imperfection, but it's not a happy moment for me as a divorced parent to see the research. I know the statistics. But I know M 'n' m also; I know their teachers, friends, schools, communities. I'm impressed and grateful. There's hope! And I can't really coddle and shield M 'n' m too much, which is good if all the criticism of 'helicopter parenting' is valid. Millennials are mocked for being spoiled, entitled, and expectant of praise and reward for everything they do. I praise the shit out of M 'n' m, frankly, but in some ways, related to the inconveniences of their lifestyle, I wouldn't call them spoiled. (In other ways, hell yeah, they're so spoiled it's crazy.)

'Grit' as an indicator of success is all the rage. I'm tired of hearing about it, because I'm not sure I possess it. But I hope M 'n' m do. A good life isn't easy or emotionally safe or linear. In electrical engineering, if a problem or relationship is linear, it's easier to understand and project. Not so with life, for most people I know. My childhood was pleasant and convenient and until a few years ago I was afraid of my own shadow. That's overstated, sure, but I hope M 'n' m are okay with discomfort, adversity, uncertainty, ambiguity, mystery. These are part and parcel of a vibrant, abundant, love-filled life. I hope my children's lives can be described this way. Roll with the punches, kids, keep answering the bell, and in doing so, you will honor those who gave you life: God, your ancestors, your loved ones. And believe it or not, you'll have a lot of fun, too. Amen. 

#262

Michael went to a party Friday with girls. As a refresher, I tried to remember 7th grade parties in 1988. I was at a few. I recall boys peacocking around and girls arranging 'spin the bottle' and 'five minutes in heaven.' Bangs were everywhere. Above every girls restroom was a hole in the ozone. The music was Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. It's coming back in too much detail. If the boys commandeered the boom box, we played Def Leppard and Bon Jovi, and the girls swooned over 'Livin' on a Prayer.' How sad that M 'n' m will never make mixes by pushing clunky buttons to record and rewind shitty low-fi cassettes. They'll never handwrite songlists and mess up sticker-labels because they're head-over-heels for some cute girl (Michael) or some insensitive little shithead punk who thinks he's cool (Megan). Michael will never make tapes because he's hardcore into Ozzy and Maiden, like the kid next to me in 7th grade homeroom. (Great guy. We're friends on Facebook.) As for Michael's party, the parent-hosts, who I know from baseball, said there were no signs of shocking behavior. Michael's pretty mum, but I'm not over-worried yet. He doesn't overdo it trying to fit in (a trap that scares me). He doesn't wear Polo cologne and meticulously roll his jeans and de-lint the sweaters he pairs with matching turtlenecks. I was a stud. They say every generation is wilder than its predecessor. That's bullshit. Exhibit A: I'm a saint compared to Papa Mike. We all have goodness and wildness in us. Whatever the case, no one's an angel; I plan to stay aware and nosy.

#261

Jean-Claude Van Damme turned 55 a few months ago. I liked Stallone, Seagal, and the rest, but 'Van Damage' kicked and splitted his way to supremacy, in my mind. He did cheesy action to perfection, and his formula always involved hot costars pawing at his muscles. (I will objectify men in a second, also.) Stallone and Schwarzenegger mostly kicked ass for its own sake, not for the girl. This didn't make much sense to me. Who cares about revenge, respect, or Colonel Trautman? Heroes get the girl. Period. (Naturally, I'm a Bond fan.) Things like the Terminator, a Chuck Norris Roundhouse, or Dirty Harry's .44 weren't worthy of worship. Arnold's Predator movie is amazing, and Rambo is beyond description, but Van Damme's latest was what I looked forward to. His Belgian accent played well, as did Schwarzenegger's Austrian, and Stallone's Italian drawl ("If you don' wan me mixin' wit Creed no mo..."). Come to think of it, Connery and Stathem speak funny too; apparently you need an accent to kick ass and get girls. Finally, my youth understood. As for movies, Van Damme's 'Cyborg' blew my mind. The good guy was vulnerable because of his niceness, and the bad guy was cruel, deep-voiced, and ripped (as ripped as Justin Theroux's Seamus O'Grady, the Irish-accented bad-boy in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle). This was before zero body fat was an everyday thing. But it wasn't Van Damme's fitness; he didn't work harder than Arnold, Rocky in III, or Rambo in II (although I was starstruck when I saw Stallone with Bobby Rahal at a race; Papa Mike is friends with Bobby). In the end, there's only one embarrassing conclusion: I simply loved Van Damme's movies. Cyborg, yes. Also Bloodsport was great, perfectly violent but campy. Then he nailed ten in a row: Kickboxer, Universal Soldier, Lionheart, Hard Target, Timecop, Maximum Risk, Death Warrant, Nowhere to Run, Sudden Death. And in Double Impact, we got two Van Damages for the price of one (plus a smokin' female cast). I was engrossed, elated, addicted. It was years before I'd rather watch something like a DiCaprio film. (Blood Diamond, The Departed, Inception, Gatsby, The Revenant... all sensational.) And so I wonder if Michael will have a corny allegiance to admit someday like mine to the canon of Van Damme. I wonder if Michael's ever seen a dubbed Kung Fu movie? Probably not, poor kid. And even Van Damme isn't as awesome as Bruce Lee.

#260

In church on Sunday I noticed a few guys holding their little sons. I noticed little arms around weathered necks. Meanwhile, a pro wrestler couldn't hold my son like that. He's about five-ten now and stout. It happened overnight. I noticed something else in church: I was standing by Michael and we were facing forward, but I glanced sideways and caught his profile and there, faint but unmistakable, I saw the sheen of darkening hair on his upper lip. He'll be shaving soon. Great. Here comes the parade of teenage facial hair abominations. Mustache fuzz, fu manchus, lamb chops, chin straps, chin curtains, whatever, stuff so wispy and thin it can't be named. Is that supposed to be a goatee, Michael? Teeny-tiny stingers, worn loud and proud but only about five hairs. And the Abe Lincoln, patchiest of all. I tried everything; if sculped just right, I looked like a man (in no one's opinion but my own). I sported chops for a decade. Being a late bloomer in every sense, my mustache was cotton-soft until I was 30. Anyway, my plan for Michael is simple: I'll buy him a razor that's expensive and endorsed by the manliest, clean-shaven mother-f*cker around. Be like that guy, Michael, and shave.

#259

Jeanette and I booked a trip to Sweden, the land of my Viking ancestors. Nice guys, Vikings. My 'Grandpa Swede' was, indeed, Swedish. His name was 'Swede' as surely as I am 'Dan'; he was never called anything else. As for the Vikings, they're probably misunderstood, woven into history as brutal, hedonic pirates or seafaring explorer-adventurers. The truth is often in the middle. I'm certain they didn't work soul-crushing nine-to-fives. This surprises me, but I'm not 100% Viking. My ancestors include Native Americans, British explorers, German craftsmen, and Irish writers, humorists, and first-rate drinkers. Superstars, every one. How else can I explain the awesomeness of my children?

I don't brag about M 'n' m enough. My dad talked a big game about me. In my presence it could be uncomfortable, but I realize now it helped an insecure little boy become... an insecure manchild? No, I'm grateful. I'm grateful Papa Mike was forthcoming and generous in adulating my athletic and academic triumphs. He told tales about game-winning shots and homeruns and academic ass-kickings. And they were true. Tall and excessive at times, but true. I praise M 'n' m in private. I should do more, verbally, in public. It's not my nature, but they deserve it. I've never seen a bad grade. They devour books. They hit homeruns. They're expressive, creative, and witty. Their ancestors would be proud.

#258

Megan told me, "I had a dream that I won the lottery and got fifty puppies." Where's my book on dream interpretation? Fifty puppies is a lot. Powerball can be a half billion though, so if Megan won a jackpot, I'd think about it. We'd need a kennel, a big one, a shelter. Even after taxes, Megan would get a lot of money. I would take most of it. A payoff, for approving the fifty puppies. The shelter would be offsite from home, safe, clean, inexpensive, staffed by incredible volunteers, sweet-smelling, and it wouldn't interfere with 4th grade or, next year, 5th, and so on. I would be very specific in our contractual agreement because - this is critical - among Megan's fifty puppies would be some great hunters. Bird dogs. Hunting breeds like setters, retrievers, pointers. Golden Retrievers and German Shorthaired Pointers for sure. Maybe an English Setter. They would be expertly trained (by my hunting friends, mostly Bruce) and we'd hunt on the game preserve also funded by Megan as part of our deal. We'd shoot birds and eat pheasant every day, pheasant casserole, pheasant chili, pheasant pot pie. Pheasant in bacon grease with biscuits. Pheasant jerky. Fifty puppies. I'm a pushover.

#257

Michael loves Minnesota. There are worse things to love. Smoking, BASE jumping, Helen of Troy come to mind. Things bad for a son's health and hygiene. Smoking is a lousy cologne and worse mouthwash. As for adrenaline addiction and dangerous women, I needn't explain, although I agree a little with this too, roughly phrased: "If she doesn't have the capacity to scare the shit out of you, you're barking up the wrong tree." Or a similar idea, "Love carries wrath. And if it doesn't, it's cheap and it's weak. It's not the love you want, the love you live for." That is very Old Testament, of which I'm not a fan but will give it its due on occasion. Okay, I'm way off topic and falling into melodrama. I'm sure, for example, many BASE jumpers will die of old age. But Michael loves Minnesota instead, and I'm okay with it. Minnesota isn't polluted, for one thing. Last month I was in Beijing. Let's talk about air. It's a substance we consume every few seconds, and one we look through constantly, and in Beijing the quality of it is noticeably poor. It's no longer invisible there, or intangible – which is ironic – but instead it's full of ash and grit. It's smoggy and smelly. The unfreshness is perceptible in every breath, and, of course, there's a greyness through which no human or plant can see or feel the sun. It's depressing. No pilot can see a runway either, I'm sure, but thankfully they have unfailing instruments. It was eye-opening. It was eye-stinging, actually. I wore contacts – which was stupid – and then rubbed my bleeding eyes. My nose and throat had to be cleared often. A war with phlegm broke out. Bad air's a drag. (Sorry.) I haven't hugged any trees lately, but I'm thinking about it. I'm grateful we can breathe in Illinois. And we can breathe in Minnesota too! Things are very clear and fresh up there, in fact, and Grandma and Grandpa call it home now, and Paul too, and Anna, so I can't disapprove of my son's soaring opinion of The Land of 10,000 Lakes. (They must count swimming pools, koi ponds, and golf course hazards.)

Addendum: Michael's love of the Vikings is not supported. We can even bring BASE jumping and crazy women back for that one, and differently. As I write this, however, the Vikings are beating the Packers badly at Lambeau and that's not terrible. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Sometimes.

#256

Megan is sweet as pie. Except for when she isn't. Naturally, I prefer the former. It's frustrating when her sweetness is fleeting or elusive or, frankly, like unicorns or dragons. Or maybe "aliens or dinosaurs" is better there. Because aliens might exist, right? And dinosaurs did? That is way off-topic. Anyway, Sweet-Meg isn't rare, but neither is her crabby opposite. She's predictable though, so I'm happy about that. Silver linings. I know when Megan's gonna grumble. Will things be less predictable when she's a teenager? Yes. Like death and taxes I'm told. "Brace yourself," I hear. The worlds and minds of females deepen. Not so with boys, of which I speak as an insider, but young women evolve and complicate. A sophistication begins its unfurling, and with it a new phase of serious, powerful emotion. Very powerful, they say. Shit. So if I fancied myself, before, a kind of meteorologist for Megan's moods, now I shouldn't kid myself. I know nothing. What I think I know is as tenuous and unreliable as what passes for fact in mass media today. With a teenage daughter, storms can appear and flatten everything without warning. That sounds dramatic. Maybe the 'storms' will just flatten my best efforts and intentions to be a good father. I trust Megan. She's a girl, yes, but girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. Sure. Megan is spice alright, and very saucy too. But Megan, I don't really need the unsweet to know its opposite. Okay? 

Megan, you are a tough cookie, but through ten years now, I think we're in a pretty good place. I hope you agree. Your teachers agree. As do others I interrogate about you.  

Yet again, staring at her, I was struck by something: Megan's eyelashes are marvelous. They are long and perfect. And so it occurred to me that my daughter has my lashes but not my amenability. Perhaps, in the end, that's a better choice, Megan, between those two. But remember that niceness isn't weakness. In fact, it could be rudeness that is precisely weakness, or as I read somewhere: "Rudeness is a weak person's imitation of strength."