Dad Post #225

Michael is the proud owner of an Xbox. It seemed inevitable, but he waited longer than most. He has since read books and played soccer – real activities – so he hasn’t vanished into virtual living. I know video gaming is a Death Star tractor beam. I've felt the pull myself. But Michael can handle it; he flirted with a Minecraft addiction on Android and only partially lost himself. Typical parental naiveté? Maybe, but even with video game access, Michael still engages in cello practice, baseball drills, bike riding, etc. And Jeanette is very good at policing screentime, and forcing us to run, jump, and play in the real world, too.

I did my taxes. Per our agreement to alternate, it’s my year to claim the kids. So I joyfully typed Megan’s and Michael’s names, genders, birthdays, and socials into the tax forms. Then TurboTax asked me, cleverly personalized, “Did Megan pay for more than half of her living expenses?” Huh? No. No, she didn’t. But sometimes she doesn’t complain. “Did Michael pay for half of his living expenses?” Not at all and he eats like a horse. These apply to older dependents, of course, but I laughed.

There’s an action-movie canon from my young-adulthood that I hope to watch with Michael someday. Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Van Damme, Seagal, Willis. All winners, baby! Not a bad movie in the bunch :) Take the first Predator, for example, released in 1987 (the year Platoon won best picture). With a knife and some mud, Arnold defeats a massively advantaged enemy. I dare you to pick a better movie! The best scene among these films, however, is in Rocky II. The Italian Stallion is stroking his new baby's hair and talking lovingly to his weakened, hospitalized wife. Then Adrian whispers to Rock, “There’s one thing I want you to do for me… come here… win. Win!” When I see this I get goosebumps so intense my clothes lift off my body. Then the training montage starts. If you aren't moved by Rocky training montages, see your doctor. I know Michael will love Rocky. Maybe he and I can train, and I can fight when I'm a hundred years old like Stallone did in the latest Rocky (which is new and not part of my beloved young-adulthood canon).

Dad Post #224

Megan is still little. She's a cub, a kit, a pup, a minnow, a shoot, a blossom, a rosebud. She's a tender-leafed seedling. Her fins, feathers, roots are still soft and developing. She's a wisp, a snippet, a tear drop, an espresso cup, the beginning of a painting, a sculpture taking form. She’s a Russian doll near the center. But not for long. She's growing fast. Megan is beautiful and I love her.

Michael is not little. I wouldn’t say his feet are aircraft carriers, but they are destroyers now, or cruiser class. Even if you're not in the Navy, you probably know those are big boats. It's expensive to keep Michael shod. His shoulders haven’t broadened yet, but they will soon, and I will feel small and feeble beside him. And I will be very, very happy. His voice will deepen, and he will be distracted by many things, but he will always respect my opinion and experience. If not, he's a dumbass. Regardless, there will never be anything on Earth I love more than my son.

After two big road wins and a lengthy top-15 ranking, Iowa State is positioning themselves nicely for a March Madness run. If they advance to the Sweet Sixteen again, I won’t be able to watch them play (unless I have sedatives and room to pace). I cry when they win the big ones. My cheeks wetted last year when Deandre Kane beat North Carolina at the buzzer. The tears welled and rolled; I could do nothing to stop them. Naturally, watching M ‘n’ m compete and perform is even more overwhelming. I'm pretty good at hiding it, but sometimes bemoan the fact I never wear sunglasses. Jeanette is the same way with S ‘n’ C; she gets weepy during triumphant moments in their games and concerts. We are not very good at being unproud and dispassionate. We are hopeful, jittery bundles. We are parents!

Dad Post #223

Life is God’s kindergarten. That’s a little gem I heard recently (and not from Robert Fulghum). On the eighth day, God created YouTube, and not entirely for the Kardashians, or ESPN. We love our celebrities, tabloids, and 24-hour (bad) news cycle, but there’s something else I’ve tapped into: the endless river of semi-uplifting mumbo-jumbo online. I don’t do Candy Crush; I listen to lectures and sermons, instead. And I don’t mean to sound self-important. Truthfully, since I struggle to put anything into practice (like optimism, willpower, meditation, smart parenting), I’m probably better off playing Words With Friends. But I love TED, for example. ‘Talks at Google’ are great. ‘Philosophers Notes’ are cool. Zencast, Dharma Talks, Richard Rohr, Robin Sharma, Osteen, Oprah, you name it, I’m a sucker for it all. Deepok, anyone? I wasn’t even kidding about Oprah; she’s interviewed Nelson Mandela and Thich Nhat Hanh, and, well, I haven’t. And so I listen and think about things other than work and coaching. I think about M ‘n’ m. They are, after all, budding and brightening and infinitely important. I want them to live optimal, purposeful, love-filled lives. I want them to be happy! What’s more important? (A Cyclone Final Four maybe, but I have a bigger hand in my wishes for M 'n' m.) And so I wonder: Am I guiding, pushing, applauding, admonishing my kids enough? Am I mindful and prayerful enough? Put simply, am I a good dad? I’m not even sure what that means. My engineering training informs me to ask, how is it measured? Where is the data? I suppose the data is all around us, and so the statement above – life is God’s kindergarten – resonates with me. In all matters of heart and mind, how far do we really get? Do we master our own thoughts, emotions, focus, energy, relationships, careers, money, and health so much that we should authoritatively instruct our kids how to live? Yes, to some degree. But I don't find it too cyncial to refer to life as kindergarten, either. I’m not a six-year-old anymore, and yet there's still clumsiness and confusion in my life. Like, uh, lots of it. I suspect I'm not alone. Even with adults, things go untended, unprobed, unloved, unlearned. Nobody gets gold stars in everything. Certainty and arrogance – about weighty things – is over-compensating and comical among kindergarteners, and I find it even more so among big people! Old people, rich people, awesome people... they have foibles, too. So Jeanette and I, M ‘n’ m, and S ‘n’ C will press on together, always cheerful, playful, open, and curious. And now I’m thinking: Maybe characterizing life as ‘kindergarten’ is actually a challenge to us….

Dad Post #222

Megan is only nine years old. She’s still a mini. I pray the next half-decade crawls, because at the end of it Megan will be intolerable, unsafe, and inappropriately dressed. Or so I’m told. “Teenagerhood is pandemonium, especially with girls,” seasoned parents tell me. “Brace yourself,” they say. “Gray hair’s a-comin’,” they mutter. "It's rough," they warn, and some have the scars to prove it. But, alas, it’s nothing newfangled or unendurable I tell myself; to be human is to overstep as a teenager, and teeter on the precipice of self-destruction. Kids wonder and wander and learn. Some touch the stove. I survived being a teenage dumbass and so did you. Besides, Megan will be perfect. I’m not worried. That, of course, is mockingly untrue and facetious – I am the most anxious person I know – although a few more points are in order:

1) Megan’s clothes are already tight as paint, but that’s because she outgrows them in a blink, and while some ensemble pieces come from Justice or Aeropostale (or whatever’s cool for a heartbeat), the rest rely on Target and 30% off at Kohl’s.

2) We’ll talk openly, candidly, firmly, respectfully about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. And that will be enough. Sure.

3) Jeanette and I won’t tolerate bullshit. Rigidity often backfires, so it’s in God’s hands anyway, but talking tough sounds cool and hypocrisy is irrelevant.

4) We’ll be present and approachable and empathic as parents. We’ll listen before judging. We'll remember our steps through the same minefields. And we’ll temper the merciless sensationalism perpetrated by all mass media. Life is a stage, of sorts, but it’s not scripted or edited or unceasingly dramatic. It’s not fabulous and utterly unfabulous in alternating, explosive extremes. It’s much richer and fuller than that, actually.

5) My hair is already graying and falling out, which is why I like Jason Statham. Michael Jordan and Bruce Willis were also prematurely bald before gleaming, shaved heads became their permanent look.

Picture of an angel... (thank you Uncle Kirby)