More old bits, part 2

It's interesting to read stuff I wrote here years ago, much of it eager and stupid, but I remember the enthusiasm; I still feel it, am grateful for it, so, uh, I got that goin' for me. Here's more old stuff:

I told the kids I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends – and their dogs! – to hunt pheasants. (6-year-old) Megan asked if she could come. I told her she was too young for guns. She said, “Oh, I’ll hunt with a bow and arrow then."

The other day I heard, “Daddy is always happy.” It was (6-year-old) Megan’s sweet voice in the backseat, and she said it again, pointing out a thing to her brother, as she often does, “Daddy is always happy, Michael.” One of my proudest moments as a father

(8-year-old) Michael wants a gecko for Christmas, a real lizard. I think I’ll put this one on Santa while I still can. On Christmas morning: "Hmm, Legos but no gecko? Sorry, Bud, Santa’s gettin’ old, his memory’s probably shot. And he's probably depressed; you know, depression's more prevalent in northern latitudes..."

(9-year-old) Michael’s been taking an archery class offered by the park district. It takes place in a school gym. A bunch of kids with longbows, nice ones, powerful, I figured nothing was safe: the basketball hoop, scoreboard, conference pennants, clock, storeroom door, lights overhead; all of it behind or above the targets. But so far, no inadvertent damage.

(7-year-old) Megan likes broccoli but she’s picky about its freshness and greenness; it must be perfect. A single decaying floret and, "There's a brown spot here," she says, squinting, glaring at the poor vegetable. "It's rotten," she adds, and I know a door has slammed in her head. It's a pinhead of discoloration. I tell her it's nothing to worry about; it's rinsed, steamed, safe as can be, and tastes the same. But none of that matters now; she's a brick wall. I hope Meg scrutinizes men this way. If she can detect – or even imagine – the tiniest flaw, it's rotten! All rotten!

On the way to a birthday party, (6-year-old) Megan said, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart thought about shattering, then it smiled. It would be swell if Megan always needs me, even just a little, forever.

I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." That one's from little Megan and it's more valuable to me than anything else I have on paper, except similar notes from Michael and my grandfather's WWII letters.

(I wrote this five years ago; who knew he'd be President) Birthdays come and go, things fossilize, glaciers move, Donald Trump's hair would even crack or unravel! in the time it takes my children to tie their shoes... when we're in a hurry to go somewhere.

Megan is a crumb factory. The most prolific and industrious of its kind.

I saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a hypocrite."

I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. (I wrote this after Christmas 2012.) Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the sad news; there was a voicemail from my mom that she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, that Saturday, consistently, confidently; he suddenly became a tough out. Now he's comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fights and fouls off tough pitches and crushes good ones. He has a nice swing and sees the ball well. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War. He would be pleased that they finally won a World Series.