I believe it...

Dad Entry #198

Megan is very stingy with kisses. This is super-okay, I decided, after thinking about it for a half-second.

I scrubbed the toilets today. Time for a discussion with Michael about aiming. Megan's not a suspect. She's a girl, for one thing, although I don't know if this exonerates her completely. I don't know what it's like to be pregnant, either. We have two lavatories in our condo - one for the boys and one for the girl - and Megan's loo was just fine. And I know it's not me; I'm like Robin Hood.

I'm not sure the impulse to hoard money is innate in humans. Look around and it may seem so, but with Megan I have witnessed the contrary; she frequently earns or receives dollars as gifts, and I find them lost and scattered in random places. She puts zero effort into tracking, stacking, securing, monitoring, managing, or multiplying her money. She doesn't lock it up; she doesn't steal, hide, skim, scheme, and justify all of the above (like corporations, bankers, zillionaires, and governments worldwide). No offshore accounts, no tax evasion for Meg-Pie. Apparently, it's an obsession taught and learned. I like reading about native societies notorious for their disinterest in 'property' and its insatiable pursuit. I like stories about people who share. And yet, on rare crummy, cynical days, I fear it's a disservice to my kids to downplay the importance of money. Is it? Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Money doesn't buy happiness, sure, but it buys other things, travels, experiences, and awesome gifts for Dad. Ah, that settles it. Kids, I want you to work on Wall Street.

Dad Entry #197

It's funny to hear an eight-year-old wax nostalgic. Megan says things like, "When I was little, I liked the monkey bars." I think, when I was little, I went to high school, and then college, and then I settled in Chicago and got married.

Megan can be snippy and snarky, and I don't like it. I don't like soggy toast either. Dealing with soggy toast, however, might be easier. At different times, I have tried sending Megan to her room, lecturing her, screaming at her, or letting things slide (in hopes she'll cheer up). I have employed these methods, as well as variations and combinations thereof, and have achieved positive results exactly never. Is it too ambitious to think win-win here? Megan is only crabby sometimes, and it's very uncommon for Michael, but crabbiness is a nails-on-chalkboard thing for me.

I live on the 4th floor of a condo building. To get there, we typically take stairs, unless overburdened with stuff to carry, in which case - not being Sherpas capable of such things - we cheat with the elevator. Yesterday, Michael and I took the elevator; we had a ton of groceries, his backpack, my work bag, my coffee mug, his lunch bag, and the usual jumble of books, papers, mail, and garbage to lug. Megan took the stairs, despite my hollering at her as I stumbled through the lobby doorway with plastic grocery bag handles cutting into my fingers. Of course, up on the 4th floor, I couldn't find Megan. She wasn't waiting at our locked condo door. She wasn't by the elevator or in the stairwell, either. It's really not a feeling to joke about. I've felt it before, briefly, following unplanned separations in stores, for example, or crowds. It's a doozy, a real humdinger. I frantically enlisted Michael to help. He could plainly see I was freaked. He said, "Dad, when we find her, please don't yell at her." I didn't yell at her. She quickly reappeared and explained she had gone to the 5th floor to peak through a glass-plated roof access door. It won't happen again unless I know, and approve, and probably join her.

Dad Entry #196

Other than minor manipulation of his sister, I'm proud to say I've never caught Michael bullying anyone, or crossing the line I imagine exists between rare orneriness and recurrent meanness. I've never seen him gleefully massacre insects, or chase frogs with the intention of stomping on them. I tend to be naive, but even I'm inclined to think there are kids who, for whatever reason, are prone to these types of curiosities and tendencies, almost as if predisposed. So far, not so with Michael. He is innately a gentle and self-possessed person, which I view as a sign of self-esteem and security. When playing sports, for example, Michael is painfully placid and nice – bordering on lethargic, actually. He's competitive with Megan, as I alluded to above, and occasionally bossy with friends, but he's a far cry from domineering. And yet, like all of us, Michael has an ego. He swings like DiMaggio and knows it. He has a confident, brainy side, and (as I proudly mentioned before) is on a path to superstardom with the cello. Hendrix. Page. Clapton. Cox. My sister's father-in-law is a tremendous man who grew up with Bob Dylan in smalltown Minnesota. He took second place behind Dylan in their high school talent show, and we frequently, incredulously, facetiously berate him for it. He says the 'everyday,' private Dylan was good-natured and mellow. Michael is good-natured and mellow. But he's also very focused and diligent about the things he loves and finds interesting, things like reptiles, learning, fishing, the cello, hitting baseballs, playing with friends. Michael's homework is done carefully and never at the last minute. He can lose himself in Minecraft, but he's surprisingly with-it about things that matter. Apparently Dylan never went anywhere without his guitar; he walked to school with it; he walked home with it; he played it constantly. Michael has a little of that OCD, too. Overall, I love Michael's disposition. And I love what lies beneath it. I love every layer and dimension of my son.

Easter (and the impossibility of a good pic of four fidgety kids)

Cole, Michael, Sophie, Megan

Dad Entry #195

Megan still can't eat a chocolate donut without getting it all over her face. I love her so much.  

My children have taught me many things, and one of them is this: I am a terrible negotiator. Some parents say, "Ha, we run a tight ship, we never negotiate with our kids." Sure. Sounds good. I never adjust or acquiesce, never bargain or compromise, either. I wish. Totalitarian parenting, without repressing or crushing little souls, would be terrific, but I'm not capable. I believe parenting is a dictatorship, not a democracy, but a benevolent one, with room for occasional haggling. And so I'm taken advantage of, sometimes, and left exasperated and flummoxed. It's why I like sports; it's easier to know where you stand. Did you hit the ball into the woods or into the fairway? Did you make the shot or miss it? Hell if I know, when it comes to parenting.

I want my children to flourish. That's it. It's a buzzword in the positive psychology movement because it's a good word, flourish, as a sort of comprehensive and compelling aim. Are we hitting it into the woods or into the fairway? Are we flourishing? There will be some enduring, some obstacles, some sinking (accompanied, hopefully, by lessons in 'swimming'). Pain is a good teacher, but love is a better one. A little of the former, a lot of the latter. Same goes for failure and success; we need both for growth. And through it all, I want my kids to flourish.

He resembles Mom, but swings like Dad

Dad Entry #194

Megan comes out of her room sometimes in an outfit that just doesn't work, for whatever reason, like the sporting of brown leggings with ankle socks and black loafers, and I feel a pinch of something in my heart, and in that instant I love her just a tiny bit more, which isn't even possible. I'm no fashion oracle, no metrosexual trendsetter, but I have a sense and awareness (and my share of insecurities). Speaking of appearances, I wonder if Michael will ever:

1) Refuse to go a day without hair styling products
2) Be obsessed with shoes, sunglasses, and watches
3) Moisturize, exfoliate, and shape his eyebrows
4) See a stylist instead of a barber, because barbers don't do highlights
5) Wear Calvin Klein boxer-briefs under designer trousers
6) Put thousands of dollars on a Banana Republic card
7) Get rich and still not buy a pickup truck
8) Drink wine instead of beer, and only after loud pronouncements about estate and vintage
9) Spend more time fluffing, buffing, and staring in a mirror than his date
10) Make her lamb shanks and risotto for dinner and eggs Benedict for breakfast, all from scratch

I plagiarized some of these, and I'm guilty of a couple of them. I groom and tweeze; I grow hair on my earlobes now. My kids, who miss nothing, are aware of my routines. Papa Mike is batting even higher against this list. He owned an impressive pickup recently, but has a biannual habit of trading and buying new, expensive vehicles. His collection of watches and sunglasses is kingly. I would be worse too, if I had money. I am not making fun; style is important. Because confidence is important. Image is important. My children, like everyone, will consider how they appear, and what qualities, identity, and essence they project. At least I hope so. I think everyone does, especially those who say otherwise, like badasses with spectacular boots, wallet chains, tatts, and intimidating – but fanatically pampered and accessorized – trucks. I betcha those guys can also braise a nice lamb in a red wine reduction with rosemary over almond rice pilaf and julienned vegetables. Or something like that. I don't know what I'm talking about again.

Dad Entry #193

Michael was bumped from beginner to intermediate orchestra. Michael Cox, Master Cellist. He will be Slash before we know it.

My girls team won their last two basketball games in memorable fashion. They had a doubleheader, back-to-back toughies, and we proudly watched our daughters edge the league's only undefeated team in game two. I nearly wept, I was so happy. The girls were tired, but we kept 'em revved during the second game with Skittles. I should keep that on the down low; Skittles might be on the PED list for 2nd grade competitors. We moved to .500 on the season. Respectable. I am not the worst coach in the world after all. We got better and finished strong. And Megan is a scoring machine.

And Michael is a hitting machine. Baseball season has arrived, although the weather refuses to turn un-miserable. I drafted Michael's team last weekend. It's his third season, and my second as a manager. I only picked coachable kids and families I'm familiar with. So I'm pretty sure we'll have only one crazy dad. Me.

Megan painted her toenails last night. Blue. A kind of aggressive, punk blue. I was terrified. I imagined nail polish in the carpet, on the furniture fabric, on Megan's clothes. I thought of how polish – or remover – might wreck the surface finishes of everything in the condo (cabinets, counters, tubs, sinks, tables, tile) if Megan ran around with wet nails. And surely polish destroys eyeballs. But, alas, other than a tiny spattering on Meg's paper towel drop cloth, there was fresh paint on exactly nothing but little toes. Ten of them, to be exact; I counted when she was born. Mark Twain said, "I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened." I wonder if he had kids.

Dad Entry #192

I feel like my childhood has a soundtrack. I have early memories forever associated with songs. I assume this isn't rare. We can't undo the intertwining of melodies, memories, and emotions during such an impressionable time. We're new and we're sponges. I wonder what's on this soundtrack for M 'n' m? Which groups, singer/songwriters, performers? American Idol graduates? Crazy Disney- or Nickelodeon-created teen-megastars. Miley Cyrus (hope not), Katy Perry, Gaga, Pink, Timberlake, Bruno Mars, NeonTrees, OneRepublic, Mumford & Sons? Not bad, but let me tell ya.... I remember '80s music on the car radio. During the '80s. I hand-cranked backseat windows up and down to Journey, Air Supply, The Cars, Cindy Lauper, Pat Benatar, The Police, Boston, Foreigner, Survivor, Mr. Mister, and REO Speedwagon. Josie went on a vacation during my childhood, and that makes me feel special. (I didn't list The Outfield above because I can't name another song by them. And neither can you.) I owned 45s with tracks by Springsteen, Hall & Oats, Huey Lewis, and Twisted Sister. The iron mask on the record sleeve of my aunt Diane's Quiet Riot album freaked me out. What images will stick with Michael and Megan? Maybe I don't wanna know. And before '80s music, the record players at home and elsewhere gave me The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Elton John, Credence Clearwater, The Byrds ("Turn, Turn, Turn"), Pure Prairie League ("Amie"), Steppenwolf ("Magic Carpet Ride"), Poco ("Crazy Love"), The Marshall Tucker Band ("Can't You See"), and my favorite, America. Do yourself a favor and listen to "Sister Golden Hair," "A Horse With No Name," and "Ventura Highway." My parents also had Kenny Rogers, Willie Nelson, and Neil Diamond records. There were others, but I remember these for sure. From my early years, my first decade. (I was a bit older when Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, Guns N' Roses, INXS, and U2 showed up.) When I was a kid, genres were still being defined. Rap. Alternative. Hip-hop. Metal. Can M 'n' m make similar claims? I guess punk and techno keep evolving; and there's a kind of alternative country now. But cassettes, music videos, and MTV were born in my youth. It's hard to forget – for lots of reasons – Michael Jackson and "Thriller." Personal music devices arrived. The Walkman. My first cassette was New Addition, and I played the shit out of "Cool It Now." Then one day my dad brought home a curious new device. It was called a compact disc player. Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing" was our family's first CD. Followed by "The White Album" and the Stones' "Hot Rocks" two-CD set of chart-toppers. We were so cool. "But we saw the rise of MP3s, iTunes, Pandora, Bluetooth, and music in the cloud," my kids will say, when they're adults and we have this argument. Blah, blah, blah. Not even close.

Guest Post From Paul!

From Dan: A couple entries ago I put a few words down about Michael's namesake. The 'Michael' I'm referring to is my dad, although four young voices call him Papa Mike now, and with much affection and often; he is a VERY generous grandpa. It seems riffing about my dad stirred up some memories. My dad's friend Paul sent me the story below. It is perfectly and pointedly the kind of energy and counsel I want to project, share, and store here for my kids. And from someone much wiser than me. Which isn’t saying much.

From Paul: We were both 18 years old and without a clue. There we were, thrown into the huge campus of Iowa State University. I joined the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity because the local veterinarian told me I should. I had spent most of my life doing what people told me to do. Joining the fraternity did little to alleviate my insecurities. There were big macho football players, extremely smart guys in engineering, pre-med and architecture and guys from Ames high school that had lots of friends and knew the ‘happening’ spots on campus. I don’t remember the first time I met Mike and his friend Mike Carlix, his high school buddy from Bettendorf. Mike and I quickly became friends and spent most of our time together. Besides the crazy, fun and stupid adventures we had together there is one incident that sticks in my mind. There was one guy in our freshman class named Jones, I can’t remember his first name. His father was a hot-shot lawyer in Des Moines. He was a member of the tennis team, drove a Jaguar convertible and had lots of money. As with many guys in the fraternity, he intimidated the hell out of me. One day he made a derogatory comment about Mike’s last name during a pledge meeting. I could tell it pissed Mike off. Shortly after the meeting Mike asked me to come with him, he had something to do. We found Jones playing a pinball machine in the basement of the fraternity. Mike calmly, and much to my surprise, jumped down his throat letting him know what a jerk he thought he was and demanding an apology. I was trying so hard to fit in that I couldn’t imagine confronting a guy that had so much apparent wealth and influence. To my surprise Jones apologized and shrunk away like a dog with his tail between his legs. From then on Jones tried his best to stay clear of Mike and treated him with respect when they were together. What a life lesson! You didn’t have to try and fit in. You didn’t have to take crap from people. And it was OK to take risks. I have learned a great deal from Mike and consider him to be my closest friend through all these years. Thanks Mike….

Diana Taurasi? Part 3: Flowery Headband

Dad Entry #191

WARNING: overshare alert! You should skip this paragraph. I want you to skip it. Megan and I were in CVS last night after her basketball practice. I had a 20% off coupon and decided to buy some Rogaine. Yeah, all kinds of uncool activities going on here, androgenetic alopecia (sounds much better than male pattern baldness, doesn’t it?), coupon usage, late-night low-willpower shopping, my innocent daughter as witness to my vanity. Although, I will stand by coupon usage as totally NOT uncool. Single-fatherhood is a wallet-stinger. Anyway, I picked up a box of Rogaine and, unbeknownst to me, Megan read it. She said “Hair Regrowth Treatment?” I said, “What?” Megan said, “But you have so much hair already, Dad.” I was about to lavish her with “Thank you’s” but realized she meant all of me, including my arms, chest, face, etc. So I pointed to the spot where a yarmulke might rest on my head if I wore one. Megan understood instantly. I’ve never seen someone so suddenly overcome with pity. Her face and posture changed, she cringed and frowned, and with funeral-worthy sympathy and sorrow she said, “Oh, yeah, you do need that. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

As we walked away from the styling and 'regrowth' products, I mumbled, “I’m losing my hair because my testosterone is so high." I'm not sure those are related but it made me feel better. Am I still overdisclosing? Next, we stopped in the cosmetics area. Megan likes to look at fake nails. Then we skipped happily to the snacks aisle. We selected some things for school lunches and Dad’s midnight raids. I have a bottomless appetite for unhealthy crap every night around 11:00 PM. I eat very little or very healthy throughout the day otherwise. Then I undergo a Hyde-like conversion. Megan calls my new insatiable monster-self a leprechaun. (Apparently, 'leprechauns' terrorize their school classrooms the night before every St. Patrick's Day. Which probably confuses and scares the crap out of Megan.) So yeah, I hammer the school lunch goodies at night. If there's a crime scene in the morning, a crumb or a wrapper, Megan investigates. She grumbles when she confirms her chocolate chip granola bars have been thinned while she’s sleeping. I top those suckers with huge globs of peanut butter and inhale them in microseconds. I wash 'em down with milk. Then I unwrap the next one and repeat. It’s very satisfying.

Dad Entry #190

Megan can play basketball. She scores with ease, and surprises herself with her agility and athleticism. She can shake defenders, get to the basket, and create shots. She's a slasher (like her old man, before he got old). Megan's no Usain Bolt in a sprint, but she's got lateral quickness and good hands. Let's hope she has a killer instinct, too. If so, she didn't get it from me. She has a nice irrepressibility, that's for sure. If I can get her to be as crabby about losing as she is about lots of other things... well then, I think she'll spurn mediocrity and be very good.

Megan’s team lost another game on Saturday, though. My girls have a losing record now. If you want something to agonize over, just coach some kids. Works for me, at least. If the kids are great – and thankfully, every kid I’ve coached has been terrifically unrotten – the process is a marvelous inducer of a kind of brutal, whiplashing bipolarity. It’s a rollercoaster for me, anyway. VICTORY! Defeat. MANIA! Depression. Clarity! Confusion. High-flyin’ confidence! Soul-crushing doubt. The girls are smiling, frowning, laughing, crying. I’m a skilled second-guesser, but I suspect many of us are. How much potential have I left uncoaxed? Should I coach the girls to defend harder? Should I urge them to be more aggressive, even if they bump and collide and hurt each other? Blah, blah, blah. Thoughts like this are a broken record in my head. The kids are bright, energetic, eager, earnest, impressionable, and aware of their performance. I allow this to ratchet up my hopes for them, and for me as a coach, and for us as a team. Maybe I’m too wishful, too empathic, too sensitive. This, of course, is bullshit, and a poor and maybe-not-even-true excuse I overuse. No matter, because I am still coaching and plan to continue. I just want very badly for my players to improve, be comfortable, express themselves, enjoy, and WIN, GODDAMMIT!

Dad Entry #189

Michael's fashion sense is minimal. This is normal, of course, for a ten-year-old guy. I would argue Michael’s style is ‘comfort,’ but even that’s false; he wears old jeans that are so tight at the waist I’m afraid the button will pop off and ping around the room and take out the fish tank or an eyeball. Michael’s a fast grower and some of his shirts and pants get overstuffed; not as bad as Bruce Banner’s, but the comparison comes to mind. Anyway, regarding Michael’s fashion leanings, I wonder if a preppy or grunge or goth or sporty phase is on the horizon. Skater, surfer, rock star, Ivy-leaguer, GQ-wannabee, hipster, hippie, rastafarian, chic nerd, nerdy nerd, jock, gearhead, country boy, warm-up-suit-wearer, chameleon, smooth-operator, skinny-tie guy, skinny-jean endurer, whatever. What’s it gonna be, Michael? I made half of those up, I don’t know what they are either. I hope he's all of 'em. Michael’s in fifth grade. My own renaissance came in seventh grade, since I was – and always will be, it seems – a late bloomer. It was junior high that saw me seized by a rabid case of turtleneck mania. I became a sweater enthusiast. I rolled my jeans. I wore cologne (and caused widespread eye-burning and suffocation, I'm sure). I had a pair of Guess jeans, a Benetton rugby, and a jade-hued Polo sprayer. Expensive birthday gifts. I was very lucky. I took it a step further at Christmas. I procured Monet’s palette in Kmart turtlenecks and cheap sweaters (via the puzzled generosity of my amazing loved ones). I had a unique, preppy ensemble for every day of the week! I started getting notes from girls! I had arrived! So, if I can get over myself for a second, I will say this: I’m curious how Michael will navigate and express himself during the appoaching years and phases and somewhat unavoidable superficialities and labeling. I will also say, very seriously, I want him to look and feel confident. Whatever that means, whatever that takes. And I hope he always helps me in that very same way. We’re in this together now, Michael.

Dad Entry #188

I just scanned my last five entries here and now I feel shame. Things have been too Megan-centric lately. This is unacceptable. It’s unjust, uncool. Why? Because Michael’s a helluva lot less hassle, for one thing. I just came right out with that, didn’t I? Ahh, the truth does set you free. I feel light.

I know, of course, things can change overnight. We have moments and phases when Michael’s the hassle. And I’m always a hassle for myself, if no one else is a hassle. Hassle. My new favorite word.

Michael plays the cello. Sometimes I greet him cheerily with, “Cello, Michael!” … Get it?! … Yeah, good stuff, anyway, I said to Michael, “Hey Bud, have you ever heard of Yo-Yo Ma?” Michael said, “No.” This surprised me, but I knew what to do: I fired up YouTube. Then I stared at a rotating circle for about ten minutes. (My internet at home is expensive but not fast.) Eventually, we watched Yo-Yo Ma. He is the Jimmy Hendrix of cello players. I told Michael, “This guy is kind of average, I know you’ll work harder and be way better than he ever dreamed of being.” I was joking, of course. Regardless, Michael tuned me out; he was listening to a master. Yo-Yo Ma is a former child prodigy who performed at age five, a Juilliard and Harvard grad, a 15-time Grammy winner, and probably a swell guy. Even so, I would never go see Mr. Ma – even in a free, nearby theater – if Michael had performances on the same nights. Yes, even over successive evenings, in theaters right next to each other, I would choose Michael every time. I would enjoy him more. It’s simple. I’d even throw on a black tie (if I could somehow purchase one and avoid tux rental hell). This very genuine preference – for our children over the best in the world – is one of the great things about parenthood. Besides, you gotta be rich or famous or the President to meet Yo-Yo Ma. I’m oh-for-three again.

Dad Entry #187

We watched the Winter Olympics yesterday, and Megan and I sat on the couch. She leaned on me in a rare snuggle. I was very happy. I kissed the top of her head and looked down at her face. Her eyelashes are stunning. They’re long, of course, and perfectly curved. They also possess a remarkable color and sheen, and are splayed and spaced in a manner I imagine one finds only in brushes used to paint unforgettable skies in rare, classic art. They are exquisite. They are also, I noticed, the only feature not contorted when crabbiness sets in, unlike her twisted lips and brow, her wrinkled nose, her sagging neck, and her miserably slumped shoulders. Oh Megan, lighten up.

If there is a world record for the number of drawers, cabinets, and cupboards a person can leave open simultaneously, Megan has it. She’s a world champion! She starts with the drawers in her dresser, digging for the perfect outfit. Next, after her bathroom to-dos, she flightily leaves open the drawers and doors under her sink. We’re off to a good start. Then, with teeth and hair brushed, and maybe moisturized and spritzed with perfume, Megan heads to the kitchen. The cupboards here are easy pickin's; a finicky snack-maker can rummage through all kinds of things. There’s food, utensils, you name it! So much to leave unclosed! Back in her bedroom, the drawers in Megan's desk and two bedside tables are permanently ajar; they store books, lip gloss, Kleenex, stickers, and other necessities like useless scraps of paper. Finally, there’s the art supply cabinet, the dryer door (shame on me for being a slow laundry-folder), and the two pantry-closets with towels and band-aids, respectively. (Megan is less of a band-aid addict than before, but still prone to abuse.) Repositories of every size, shape, and function are left wide open, their contents and clutter flapping in the breeze. It’s a scene of glorious dishevelment! If we can add in the dishwasher door (shame on me again), it’s official, a NEW WORLD RECORD! I’m so proud. And then, as a kind of encore, Megan leaves all the lights on.... I still love her though. Quite a bit, actually. Like indescribably. Despite a few things. And – despite a few things – I hope she always loves me.

Diana Taurasi? Part 2: Nice Scarf

Dad Entry #186

Sometimes I lament the fact my kids have always lived in the same suburb, the same town, the same area. By Michael’s age, I had lived near Milwaukee and Chicago and in a terrific Mississippi-River-straddling locale called the Quad Cities. I’d lived in three states, in big towns and small ones, in new houses and old ones (and in crummy apartments). A seasoned 10-year-old I was – not in the least, probably, but humor me – who was bullied as a kindergartener when a big, scary grade-schooler swatted my baseball cap off my head, then grabbed it and waved it around and wouldn’t give it back as I reached and chased. I was embarrassed. This was in Milwaukee. Rough town, Milwaukee. But here’s the good part: when I told my dad about it, he wanted to put a posse together! I love my dad. He could’ve said, “Toughen up,” and maybe he did, but he also wanted into the fight; it was suddenly his problem too, and I was happy to share it. Some memories are fuzzy, but I was in real scrapes and conflicts, eventually, and I know my dad was practically eager every time. Burdens are heavy; people should feel bolstered when their fathers are around. I’m afraid I’m not as good at this as my dad. Thankfully, he’s still lurking, disguised as ‘Grandpa.’ About 35 years ago, a tiny kid pushed my even-tinier sister into the bushes. Impossibly cute mini-Jenny came home crying. Well… when my dad caught wind, as the story goes, he went nuts; he tore out of the house in furious pursuit of the offending party, whatever their age, number, or weaponry. This was in Davenport. Rough town, Davenport. Thankfully, these relatively innocuous episodes often went down when my dad was at work, and the trail was pretty cold by dinnertime. My dad is a great man. He’s also a dad. These things don’t conflict; in fact, they compound each other, fatherhood and greatness, but maybe my point is this: powerful, stark emotions present themselves. It's part of the gig. These are amusing reminiscences, but I know my father wasn’t laughing when the events were live; fatherhood gets messy and unfunny sometimes. I deserve a “Thank you, Captain Obvious” for sure, now (“burdens are heavy” … “fatherhood gets messy”). Give me some credit though; I keep the melodrama to a minimum. Unlike Megan.

Diana Taurasi?

Dad Entry #185

You’ll be surprised to hear this, but my kitchen is not a culinary stage or wonderland. You won’t hear a voice on TV say about me, “Joining us this morning is a skilled dad, coach, and ingenious cooker from Chicago.” (Most days I feel oh-for-three, actually.) I know Hamburger Helper isn’t haute cuisine, but Michael likes it. I know it’s no great shakes to say I’ve mastered tacos and spaghetti, but, umm, I have. I use the crockpot (once or twice a year), bake (very dry) chicken and potatoes, and I made meatballs a few weeks ago, which Anna loved, sure, but so did a couple humans. (Entry #180 says more about Anna.) I’m being a little dippy here, but very seriously I’m grateful there are no experts – no persons over ten years old, in fact – looking over my shoulder when I’m chopping and stirring. No critics around except Megan, and she loves my cooking! Bread and pasta, bread and pasta, bread and pasta. If we are what we eat, Megan’s a carb. That’s it. A carb. A noodle with eyeballs. And a pat of butter on her head. I serve the kids a fruit or vegetable every meal, also. Honest. And I serve them multivitamin gummies and calcium chews. I do this when it’s obvious the nutrient content of my dishes is suboptimal, which is always. And God bless my son, who is by all accounts an unfussy eater. Notable during my trips to Scotland, many years ago, were Haggis and Blood Pudding. Michael will dig right in when he hangs out someday in Edinburgh or Glasgow.

All this talk about diet reminds me what a popular comedian, Dave Chappelle, said about a difficult time in his life, "Love is like a nutrient, and I was deficient in vitamin love." I try to give my kids a lot of vitamin love. Happy Valentine's Day.

Dad Entry #184

Megan’s room should be featured on Hoarders. I’ve never seen an episode, but neither have I seen, at the mention of a show, people cringe, frown, groan, gag, and double-over with such reflex and revulsion. It must be an intriguing television program. Megan’s appeal, however, would be sheer volume over oddity or grotesquery of content. It isn’t trash or animals – or Zombie apocalypse supplies – that have taken over her room. It’s just a pile of poorly shelved and organized art projects, silk scarves, LEGO Friends pieces and partial assemblies, party favors, paint chips, hand-me-down clothes (which we are grateful for!), books of every size and shape, dolls and accessories, stuffed animals, hair-thingies, un-hung posters, an inflatable palm tree, a real ficus tree, lamps, plants, an empty fish tank, shoes that are too small, crap from my work travels, and enough pens and pencils and erasers and markers and crayons and stickers to fill a C130. Oh, and throw in the stuff she picks up for free in building doorways and waiting rooms: real estate guides, car catalogs, pamphlets (like “Understanding Your Medicare” and “How To Quit Smoking”), and free health and fitness magazines (like “Competitor” and “YOGAChicago” – great publications, by the way; I hope Megan reads them). We culled and tossed and donated some things recently; it was a ‘purge party’ and I, for one, found it very satisfying. The pile is down. But it will rise again.

Megan still has bath toys. Right now they’re a mash-up of G.I. Joe, Star Wars, and superhero action figures, with a few Angry Birds and a Barbie mixed in. Some of the toys are Michael’s – the Obi Wan and Iron Man, for example – but Megan has her own Lady Jaye, Anakin, Ahsoka, and a female Jedi named Aayla Secura. Aayla is blue-skinned and a little too provocatively clad, if I may say so, although maybe I shouldn’t mention this since just noticing feels indictable. Anyway, the Santa who visits our house likes G.I. Joe and Star Wars figures, because the kids both have some, and even I received Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow one year, which are also in Megan’s bundle of tub toys. I’m not sure what watery games and scenes she composes, but if I stop outside the door, I overhear her dramatically inflected voice carrying out creative scripts. These are the fun things that will disappear soon; Megan already takes more showers than baths. I'll miss these moments and rituals.

Dad Entry #183

Last night, Megan and I were talking about coaching. Megan told me I was pretty good but then added, "If I could pick any coach, I would pick God." I said, "Oh, yeah, He might even be better than Phil Jackson."

While driving them to school this morning, I said to the kids, “I love you guys. I think before I was born God asked me who I wanted for kids when I got older and I pointed at you two and said, ‘I really want that one and that one. Uh, please.’” Michael said, “I don’t think that’s how it works.” I said, “Well how does it work then?” Michael said, “I think they let the kid choose the dad.” Despite his characteristic matter-of-factness (in all likelihood, Michael intended to logically describe a process more than compliment his old man), it was a cool thing to hear from my son. Thank you, Michael. 

Megan has scored multiple baskets in every game except her first. It took one game for her to learn she could shine. She’s tall and athletic; that’s an auspicious combo in hoops. She’s also whiny. At some point, she's blamed, criticized, or groused about everything you would expect, including:

(1) The referees

(2) The other team

(3) The other coach (if the other team is mean, and it goes unnoticed, (1), (2), and (3) are simultaneously complained about)

(4) Her coach (yeah, that’s me)

(5) Her shoes (I know from my own playing days, you need light, comfy, floor-gripping shoes, but Meg's episode was more Carrie Bradshaw than anything; she bellyached about not having her other pair of tennies, probably for fashion reasons)

(6) The girl she matches up with

Regarding (6), each girl is assigned an opposing player to guard on defense and directly battle on offense. And battles do ensue. These seven- and eight-year-olds get ornery! Most are nasty-stingy defenders, with less regard for personal space than Beijing subway riders. On a weekly basis, I see first-grade girls, cuter than baby giraffes, gouge each other in the face. My players are delightful and adorable and tough. It's perfect. Of course, we emphasize sportsmanship, and maybe a kind of un-ruthlessness, but only if we're winning :)

Good shot Meg!

Dad Entry #182

Over the past year, the kids have made no less than a thousand Rainbow Loom bracelets. I could be Mr. T with rubber band jewelry. Michael is especially prolific; it would be easier to list the things he can’t make with his Rainbow Loom. Necklaces, rings, flowers, candy canes, Christmas trees, teddy bears, pencil grips… that’s just the tip of the iceberg, the entry-level stuff. We’ve spent a fortune on rubber bands. But if I put money in their college funds, I’d have bare wrists, and I’m wearing two gorgeous inverted-fishtail bracelets as I type this. I prefer the fishtail to the hexafish and starburst varieties. If you would like to place an order with my children, please do so. I recommend being precise about color preferences though. When given creative license, my artists tend to concoct big, jumbled things that clash horribly.

My kids rarely do what I ask after a single asking. It often takes two, three, four reps to get any kind of acknowledgement, answer, or movement. Naturally, I suspect talking to them about this might be inadequate. So... I was thinking some unpleasant ear cleanings are in order. I could drip that oily wax remover into young ear canals. It’s an actual health product and treatment. Barring quackery. Which could be rampant in ear care, for all I know. At a minimum, it is not torture. I think. I hope the authorities agree. Alas, I won’t do it, although I’ve put myself through this ‘treatment’ before. It felt very uncomfortable and unnatural, and in the end I decided that age – or not enough silence in my life – was to blame for any dampening of my auditory system. But the fact remains, whether dirty or dusty with disuse (I realize that second one makes zero sense), I need to resuscitate some ears that aren't my own! I need to rattle some eustachian tubes. Or brains. Or attitudes. Or something!

Dad Entry #181

This morning, I was finally rewarded for the countless school lunches I’ve made several years in a row now. I was at the grocery store, staring with bleary, bloodshot eyes at all the unhealthy but conveniently packaged and portioned lunchbox fillers, when something caught my eye. I might never have noticed this heavenly something if I didn’t buy shitty, processed, preservative-laden crap for my precious children (never mind that I end up binging on it myself). Anyway, I squinted and did a double-take, and it was not a mirage. Thank God for the cracker and cookie aisle! There – I mean like right at my fingertips! – was a package of Oreos ‘Mega Stuf!’ More crème than ‘Double Stuf!’ More crème than EVER!

Coaching girls basketball has been extraordinary. That’s a strong word, but something like ‘memorable’ or ‘a lot of fun’ won’t do. The girls are 1st and 2nd graders, which means, yes, they are a bit like a flock of kittens. Smiley, bouncy, very cute, and a little clumsy one moment but then impressively lithe and athletic the next. Basketball, in my opinion, benefits from a smaller ‘field’ and less interruptions than other team sports. There’s a palpable flow that borders on the metaphysical for me. My playing days are mostly ancient history, so I’m thrilled to sense and absorb this energy as a courtside coach (a little different than a fan or armchair coach). I’m the assistant for Michael’s team, and I love that too, but there’s an earnestness, a focus that the girls bring that I don’t see in the boys right now. The boys, as 5th graders, think that nonchalance and coolness should be mastered above all else. Or so it seems. They prance around and waste time shooting half-court shots when they still can’t make five lay-ups in a row. I think it's a phase. I bark at them, and later bemoan, to Michael, the striking contrasts I see between his team and Megan’s. Michael bluntly notes that his team would whip my girls if they played each other. I feel like smacking him.

Dad Entry #180

Grandma, Papa, and Anna (their Golden Retriever) are staying with us for a few days while Mom is in the Philippines. The kids adore Anna, and there’s a lively reciprocity, I’d say, based on all the licking and tail-wagging. Michael asked me, “What do you think Anna would say if she could talk?” I answered, “Can I have some bacon, please?” Michael laughed but then frowned at my cynicism. I said, “What? Bacon is good! What’s wrong? You think she’d say, ‘The capital of Vermont is Montpelier?’” Michael indicated that he did, in fact, expect Anna’s thoughts to be more sentimental or cerebral if she abruptly voiced them, intelligibly, in English. (Yeah, because if she spoke Russian or German, I’d be even more impressed; although – I love irony – that is absolutely true.) I don’t know if Anna’s a genius, but I’m certain she’s a wonder-dog and sacred cow in the eyes of my kids. Feeling bad about my bacon slander, I reminded Michael, “Don’t forget Anna’s an exceptional birddog too, you know, so she might say, ‘When are we goin’ huntin’ again, fellas?’” That smoothed things over.

The other day I asked Michael, “Do you know what Pi is?” Michael said, “Yeah, it’s that three-point-fourteen number, right?” I was excited, my son, the math whiz. I said from memory, “It’s three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six. But it goes on forever, technically. It’s an infinite decimal.” Me, the math whiz. Suddenly, my excitement vanished and I felt mildly depressed. I asked Michael if they’ve talked about Pi already in school and he said no. I felt relieved. Only half-joking, I said, “Good, then you have no business knowing what Pi is yet. Go back to playing Legos or cars or whatever.” Michael smiled.

Megan is still a gleeful farter. I sense more pride than embarrassment. She’s very comfortable with me, of course, but I’m wondering when girls become more furtive about this. Other than with Megan, I’m pretty sure I have a better chance of seeing Bigfoot, or a Cubs World Series. Like Jon Hamm said in a YouTube clip I saw recently, “I was under the impression that girls never farted.” Even I blame it on the dog in mixed company. It's just another profound, parent-related thing I ponder daily.

Dad Entry #179

Megan was crabby this morning. She generally lacks the inspiration or staying power to make it memorable. She loses steam and just isn’t willing, if we put her crabbiness on a scale like hotwing hotness, to go for habanero or ghost pepper. Today, however, she was really displeased. I sensed an uncommon, burgeoning potency! I braced for a sustained episode, but, alas, we didn’t get there; we pretty much never get there. It was off to school as usual, with smiles and I-love-you’s and nothing spectacularly negative. For one thing, I’m no help. I stay composed. It’s entirely up to Megan to hit any kind of hysterical crescendo. And she’s never been very conniption-y. She’s just a crab sometimes.

Our fish tank is thriving. There is a gross and scary amount of refuse in the blue gravel, and every surface is mossy – kind of like my unbrushed teeth when falling asleep with books has perpetrated lengthy neglect – but without exception, all of the creatures and plants in our 25 gallons are flourishing. I am referring to our real plants, whose serpentine roots can afford to be lazy; there is nutritious poop everywhere. But in all fairness, our fake plants look very happy too, like smiling mannequins, with green, fuzzy algae for hair. The umpteen snails and three plecostomuses are all very active and plump, and the non-suckerfish fish look healthy also, as they dart and glide this way and that. It’s been forever since I had to flush any rigid remains. On one side of the tank, there’s a house that triggers territorial behavior and turf wars, and on the other side, some Roman column ruins (a replica, unfortunately). The rest is foliage. It’s just a very messy and wonderful little world.

My kids don’t use the fan. Twice this week I’ve been unpleasantly surprised. I’m referring to the bathroom fan, if you haven’t jumped there already. “Guys, it’s easy,” I tell the kids, “Just flip the switch, you know, whenever you can describe your situation with a number that is plural.” Does Megan think I’m talking about math? Is Michael that oblivious to his gut-punching, tear-jerking aftereffects? I tell them, “I don’t care if you’ve eaten asparagus; I’m not calling for courtesy flushes; I’m not demanding you replace empty TP rolls; I’m not asking you to scrub the toilet; I just need you to TURN ON THE FAN! Flip the switch! And leave it flipped when you’re done and gone; it will do its work, yes, and also give us a little WARNING!”

Dad Entry #178

Sometimes I smell Megan's shirts. There are hints of shampoo, perfume, body wash, fruity lip gloss, art supplies, and whatever meals I’ve cooked badly. I suppose if the olfactory traces are too faint, I notice some of these things visually; Megan’s sleeve cuffs, for example, are often like stain rainbows, or Jackson Pollock paintings, done in paint, yes, but also marker, glitter glue, barbeque, marinara, and chocolate. I’m afraid smelling Megan’s shirts is not the strangest thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t do it – inhale her shirt-captured, subtle, aromatic essence – when she’s with me; in that case, I kiss her on the head and stick my nose into her hair. I'm not a sommelier. Or a canine. Or a crazy. I don’t think so, anyway; I think I’m just a dad. I pine for her a little – even as a sense of freedom-from-whining lifts me – when I’m doing her laundry, after she’s rotated back to Mom’s following a few days with me.

I held Megan's hand yesterday. Her mitts are still pretty little, dainty and thin-fingered, and entirely neglected; even the grubbiest of men would notice her cuticles are crying for help. Anyway, I’m happy Megan’s still small. Years ago, I heard a wise person say, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” I stop and look around once in a while.

I'm sheepish about making this a bragging forum, but my kids are smart. That’s it. That’s all. Michael's halfway through 5th grade and his teacher notified us she’s ordered 7th grade reading material for him and two other students, his good friends Alexa and Megha. (Figures, mostly girls.) I’m excited for Michael, you betcha, nerds are the rage! It's been that way for years now. Think Zuckerberg, Jobs, Bezos, Bill Gates, Larry Page, Mark Cuban, etc. Nerdy is the new cool! Nerdom is the place to be! I think. I hope. I mean, it seems that way. It's cool, right? :)

My car is filthy. At this point, I just think of it as a crumb-filled commuter pod. Dive bars that give away unshelled peanuts are ten times cleaner. The exterior is even worse, of course, coated with that salty, oily film so richly layered by showers of brown slush and passing-car spray. It’s winter in Chicago.

Dad Entry #177

I’m happy Christmas is over. I feel a tremor of shame in admitting so, because it was a very wonderful and Christmas-y Christmas – we engaged in marvelous gluttony, and there were snowfalls and tender moments – but I’m kind of happy it’s a warm memory now. We raced to Minnesota ahead of a snowstorm and then I raced to finish shopping and wrapping. As always, there was substantial bustle and expectation. And there was one teeth-gritting moment – when Megan adamantly noticed Ellie had more gifts in our first of many exchanges – which I nipped in the bud with an avalanche of threats. Come to think of it, maybe our gift etiquette prep was too flippant this year; before all the action, I said, “Megan, what do you say if someone gives you a neatly wrapped, if slightly fragrant, box containing a dead rat?” and Megan answered too flatly, “Thank you, I’ve always wanted a dead rat.” Correct, Megan, but we also need enthusiasm, genuineness, and a smile.

The kids received Nooks from Grandma and Papa Mike. They are very nice HD Android tablets, and I’m afraid reading eBooks on them will be something akin to, I don’t know, going the speed limit when you can always go five over, or actually using duct tape on air ducts, or… am I making any sense? I suppose to illustrate my point I’ll note the incredible swiftness with which both kids got Minecraft up and running. (Turn on Nook. Enter Gmail address and log into Google Playstore. Download Minecraft. Launch game and play until brain turns to mush or Dad takes away Nook.) Minecraft is a pretty cool game though, for aspiring designers and architects. And creators. And we are all creators. But despite its brain-development-feel, there is also a sense, or response, like a vein is being tapped. My kids do love books though, and are often caught reading them. In fact, Santa brought them a big pile of books. Used books. Hey, at Michael's consumption rate it seems crazy to buy only new ones; a Barnes & Noble hardcover goes for eighteen bucks and he'll read it in two hours. Am I over-explaining myself and revealing insecurities? Obviously.

So happy 2014 everyone!