Dad Entry #165

There are moments in fatherhood when it’s best to recuse oneself, admit ignorance (or at least unfamiliarity), or say, “Ask your mother.” I’m not referring to matters of permission. Although, I suck at those too. I’m talking about impossible questions with futile answers, analogous to Zen koans, perhaps, or appeals from Cub fans approaching nonagenarian-hood, “Really? Not even once in my entire LIFETIME?!” So the kids and I were discussing superheroes again (see my last post). Michael can be a ruthless debater when facing his little sister. He luringly paints her into logical corners, which is often condescending and ugly – and very common among siblings – but Megan artfully holds her own, with name-calling or withdrawal, or in this case, a diversion. It was a diversionary question, in fact, and it froze us all. Megan said, “And where does the Hulk get his pants, anyway?” Good one, Meg! Michael, who was probably winning an argument about, say, the inefficacy of Clark Kent’s disguise – only eyeglasses?! – was summarily silenced. There is no good explanation for the Hulk’s pants. This is immediately, awkwardly, painfully obvious. Kryptonite? Sure, makes perfect sense. Spider bites, gamma rays, mutant genes, Norse mythology. Yep, yep, sure, no problem. All are very palatable. And my favorite, adamantium skeleton and retractable claws? Of course, everyone knows how Wolverine was deeply in love – and only sort of invincible – until he undertook the coolest self-improvement project ever when his heart was broken. Perfectly plausible, and admirable to boot! But the Hulk’s pants? How can we believe they’re from the diminutive and pasty Bruce Banner?! Even Hollywood can’t reconcile this one. Putting baggy trousers on Edward Norton? Feeble. The Hulk’s waist size doubles, and his thighs quadruple! Megan, sensing she’d really kicked the jukebox, tried to lighten the mood. She added, “The Hulk would need like ten grandmas to sew him some pants.” My sweetheart. So there are creative predicaments in life, and there are tough questions. But I know a tough little girl too, a girl who counts superheroes and apparel among her many interests, a smart girl who can spot bullshit a mile away. (Yes, I realize I’m caricaturizing.) She’s my sweet Meg-pie. And regarding bullshit, there are too many people – I even see one in the mirror sometimes – who spend this unfortunate currency.

I read this today: “There comes a time when you realize everything is a dream, and only things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” I'm not sure I agree, but I hope my children know why I’ve done this, 165 times. I can’t NOT do it; I love them too much. But writing is untameable. It bounces between uplifting and agonizing for me, during hours of sculpting sentences, ones I’m certain are clumsy or confusing or over-written or under-written or grammatically dreadful or just plain bad, and even heavyweights like Hemingway said, “Writing is easy, you just sit at a typewriter and bleed.” My attempts at writing combine love and a vicious vulnerability. Although, do we ever get one without the other? I guess the first one trumps the second here. Oh man, I just got way too serious! Somebody tell a fart joke. Hurry!

Dan Entry #164

Megan lost another tooth, and when the bleeding stopped, her focus shifted to the Tooth Fairy. We were readying for a night’s sleep on mattresses in the family room (a Saturday custom), and Megan wondered if she should transact the matter in her real bed, in her bedroom. We chatted. We examined the issue of temporary pillows with profound thoroughness and respect. Would the Tooth Fairy be inconvenienced or confused or less generous? Michael was there too, and it struck me as odd. He knows it’s all a charade now, and I winked at him, but without a doubt he’s never seen me lie with such grace and ease. We still play jokes on each other, but with considerably less duplicity and duration. Of course, I did the same song and dance with Michael not long ago, but he didn’t know I was lying then, and this struck me as different. A pinch of discomfort registered. Maybe I’m crazy. I know I’m weird. I just want the kids to be honest. It’s difficult. No one achieves a perfect record of honesty, but there are varying levels of subscription to the general principle, I’ve noticed.

Michael came to my softball game last night, and for the first time ever, he was intent on watching. There are usually ringers on both sides, and plenty of action all over the field, great plays, long drives, big fellas crushing the ball at opponents who, in some cases, must react instantly or be seriously harmed. Michael said, “You look pretty good out there.” Thanks, Bud.

We are Iron Man fans. Even Megan. I was sold the moment I saw Robert Downey Jr. over solder irons in the first movie. Early in my career, I spent many hours soldering microelectronics, inhaling flux fumes and suffering burns, and incautiously exposing myself to lead. All for a modest salary. But back to superheroes…. We also like Hulk, Thor, Captain America, Wolverine, and pretty much every other Avenger, mutant, Justice-Leaguer, or tights-wearing ass-kicker. We loved the Superman reboot “Man of Steel,” even though it was too long. We’re addicted to “The Ultimate Spiderman” cartoon (not to be confused with “The Amazing Spiderman," but what kind of idiot would make that mistake). And we have yet to reveal, even furtively, any kind of disproportionate appreciation for the button-busting-cleavage-wielding heroines of some shows and comic books. This is good. Megan harbors no instinctual favor for females either, no sense of gender solidarity, no preference for “girl power.” There are, of course, some incredible superheroines, and we know and love them, but we appraise simply; it’s about superpowers, bad guys vanquished, and world-takeover-plots foiled. Humor, charisma , and costume hold little sway. Only sheer awesomeness matters to us!

Michael asked me, “Do you think I could make a real Iron Man suit someday, like Tony Stark?” He asked with a kind of sheepish awareness of the grandiosity of it. But I didn’t blink or smile or do anything but answer seriously, “Yes, absolutely, with focus and hard work you can do impressive things, Michael.” He seemed satisfied with my answer. He’ll need to assemble a very talented and well-funded engineering team, and maybe enlist the help of Larry Page or raise Steve Jobs from the dead, but it’s possible.

Dad Entry #163

On a flight to Minnesota this year, Michael said, “I’m no expert on clouds, but I think we’re flying through some cumulonimbus.” He says things like this with convincing aplomb. I wonder how his targets at the bar will react, a dozen years from now, to these kind of breezy, brainy comments. The answer, of course, has everything to do with how handsome he is. And, according to surveys, how white his teeth are, and maybe his shoes. Shoes?! Puffing up the arms and chest are surprisingly low on the list. I wasted so many hours doing that, I’m afraid, and I didn’t even succeed. My son’s a bit thicker than I am; he'll have better luck. He'll never cut like his old man though, like lightning! "I'm so quick, I flip the switch and I'm in bed before the lights go out!" Muhammad Ali said that; he had plenty of both, quick and thick. So does Lebron. Speaking of chest-puffery, Michael’s taken a shine to cars lately. He points out Panameras, Carreras, Camaros, you name it. He likes Maseratis. He spots the occasional Ferrari and calls Lamborghinis, “Lambos.” And his stumbles are understandable; Ford fusions do look like Aston Martins now, and Chryslers like Bentleys. Michael doesn’t really confuse things unless they’re confusing. It’s why I drive an Accord; it’s never mistaken for something nicer.

Michael knows Papa Mike has owned nice cars over the years; he’s had Mustangs, a BMW, an A6 turbo, a Cayenne. But Michael wants a Ferrari in the family. “Could Papa Mike buy a Ferrari?” he asked me. “Yeah, but that would really dent the budget, and he wants to retire soon and play golf everyday, and he likes to buy watches and shoes too much.” (There’s ‘shoes’ again.) So Michael said, “Maybe we could all pitch in and help him get a Ferrari!” Good idea! I can afford a slice of a fraction of a percent of the lowest possible Ferrari payment! Kids are dreamers, creators, artists, sharers, and that’s why, in some ways, they’re wiser than adults.