#335

We put the Christmas decorations away. Now we can be crabby until April. Sub-zero Monday mornings, short days, dirty snow, windchills at negative-absurd, frozen vehicles, dangerous ice on roads and walkways (four people I know have slipped and suffered serious injury in recent years). Chicago winters are pretty good at reminding us we don't live in the Caribbean. But I tell M 'n' m there's no reason to be crabby. "We're very lucky," I preach, "And besides, if you're crabby, you only poison yourself." Then I bitch and moan about something and feel like crap. To be a parent is to be a hypocrite, practiced and unapologetic. "Do as I say, not as I do" is wisdom I received from the Greatest Generation in fact, from my grandfather, so I know it's tried and true.

By the way, I'm not mocking Seasonal Affective Disorder. It's real. I'm not immune. It pulls many of us down and I, for one, have to fight it tooth and nail (or maybe tooth and pill). I badger myself to stay active and positive, and in doing so achieve a kind of normal. I think.

I said to Megan, "Sweetheart, you should cut your toenails more than once a year." She took the hint. They don't look like bear claws anymore.

I read an article about Mark Wahlberg. I'm a fan. He says, "You do things when you're younger that when you become a father make you go, 'Well, I'll have to explain that to the kids.'" Wahlberg and his wife have two boys and two girls ranging from 6 to 12. They don't watch Dad's grownup movies. And Wahlberg says, "We don't give them access to computers and YouTube and Google and all that shit." The moment you realize someone in Hollywood is a better parent than you.