Friday, September 07, 2007
Megan was feverish yesterday; she's getting her molars or maybe a little illness. Fevers subdue her. She slows, softens; she's very snugly. It's heaven. I hold her and she settles, sighs, loosely grabs my shirt with her little fingers. Or I take her entire hand in the palm of mine, or both of her hands in one of mine. She is small. I love her.
Michael likes 'The Crocodile Hunter.' It's an energetic show and Michael absorbs it, watching, imitating, running "like a cheetah," attacking "like a lion," wrestling pillows "into a death roll like a crocodile." But Michael's favorite animal is the orca. I didn't know killer whales are called orcas. Michael teaches me things.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Michael looked up from a book about whales and told me that orcas fight bears. He said orcas win because they are more "bitery." Phonetically, that's "bite-er-ee" and Michael clarified for me, "It's like the word bite, Daddy." Thanks, Bud. He must've sensed it's not a common word or a word at all. There's a feeling-out process with new language, and I love observing it with Michael. He speaks with authority, even as he's learning. He's expressive and clear and unafraid of errors. Good. I don't correct him much, unless he asks for help or is wildly unclear; I have a powerful instinct not to stifle his creativity and eagerness to share. He'll be challenged and corrected a million times in life, no need to rush. As for orcas and bears, they simply aren't in the same weight class. Male orcas can weigh over six tons. They can eat 500 lbs of food a day. And yes, they will, though rarely, take polar bears as prey. Wow. By the way, did you know that a blue whale's heart is the size of a car, and capable of pumping 60 gallons of blood per minute. Nature is amazing. Michael knows this, and I'm grateful he's reminding me.
Megan has a baby. She calls it "dollie." She wraps dollie in a blanket, holds her, rocks her, feeds her a bottle. She says "dollie" in her sweet, soft voice. Then she gets bored or flustered and drops dollie on her head on the hardwood floor.
Thursday, October 09, 2007
Megan practiced a valuable skill yesterday. All day long. Putting on shoes. And taking them off. She put 'em on, took 'em off, on, off, on, off. Her patent leather shoes, too. Fancy. Makes sense; women love flashy shoes. This pair is toddler-small and to-die-for cute, but as shiny as any pair ever made, ever polished, and Megan was intent on mastering the method to wear them. For the record, I know men who love shoes as much as any woman; Papa Mike's no slouch – his shoe rack is full and often restocked – and I love a nice pair myself (but at a DSW discount). We need baseball cleats, hunting boots, golf shoes, running shoes. But women also have heels, flats, pumps, platforms, straps, ties, bows, buckles, wedges, high boots, low boots, boat shoes, sandals, slip-ons, slides, espadrilles, and clogs. (How'd I do?) I'm not even sure what some of those are, but I've heard them mentioned. And there's one variety I forgot: Velcro. Meggie's shiny shoes have Velcro straps which, indeed, she mastered in a day. Good job, Megs.
I came home from my softball game just before the kids' bedtime. Michael, freshly-bathed and jammied-up (as in P-jammied-up, not constipated, although that's no joke with Megan; we've tried everything but coffee and cigarettes) greeted me at the door. He noticed it was dusk and said, "Daddy, can I come outside and see the darkness?" Michael goes to bed all summer before sundown. Being outdoors at night in warm, wonderful air is novel to him. Especially in the fall, when it's been months since the early sunsets of the previous winter. Michael's only four; he hasn't experienced many seasonal transitions. I reminded myself of this and smiled. Then we went outside. We admired the moon, the stars, and the lights of several airplanes approaching or leaving O'Hare. Michael commented on a high American flag spotlit and glowing at our neighborhood's entrance. And he enjoyed padding through some shadowy, lush, cool grass with his bare feet. Simple pleasures and amazements abound.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Michael asked if they make "small wetsuits, like wetsuits for kids." Michael asks good questions for a four-year-old. These days, he wants to be a marine biologist. Back-burnered are his dreams of driving a train or a racecar. He told me he would like to "swim with cetaceans." I said, "Sure, Buddy," then I had to look up "cetacean." So they're marine mammals of the order including whales, dolphins, and porpoises. I guess if he said "swim with whales" he wouldn't have included dolphins, and vice versa. Okay, smartypants. Of course, I love Michael's curiosity, vocabulary, and unfurling intellect.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Megan is a chatterbox now. This is good; she was a bit language delayed compared to her brother, although her brother is very loquacious and maybe not a fair standard-setter for comparison. Whatever the case, Megan can complain and fuss and harrumph more clearly now, thankfully, because nothing is more annoying that a grumbler who can't be understood! And when she says sweet things, like "Hi Daddy" or "Bye Daddy" or "Daddy hold you" or "Daddy hep" or "Pees Daddy" or "Daddy, pees hep" or "Daddy, fix it" – when a toy comes apart, for example – my heart swells and threatens to explode.
It's cute that Megan likes certain themes and characters that were formerly favorites of Michael's. Thomas and Percy are making a comeback; Lightning McQueen is popular again. Whales, dinosaurs, musical instruments, Legos, woo-hoo! Megan would be the perfect daughter except for some unpleasant crabbiness and a strong, insulting preference for Mommy. I am, as they say, chopped liver.
Megan is a resourceful little thing. Yesterday, I brought a chocolate shake home for M 'n' m to share. I offered Megan some. She loved it, and would've drained the whole thing, but I saved her from a crippling brain freeze and took it away again. She protested as I set it on the counter out of her reach. I turned to look for Michael but he wasn't there. I expected Megan to continue protesting – teased by the ungettable, heavenly treat overhead – but she was suddenly quiet and self-possessed, like she was thinking. Well, she was thinking. She waddled over to her step-stool by the fridge, dragged it to a spot beneath the shake, climbed aboard, stood up, and reached for the cup. She could touch it, but barely; she couldn't move or grab it. I watched her stretch and struggle and try, and then realized she might tumble off the stool if I didn't intervene. I intervened. I gave her another sip.
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