Instant Messaging with Meg-Pie

I am in Brazil for work and had this IM exchange with Megan last night across continents. I mentioned I bought her a few souvenirs from an outdoor, craft market near my hotel. This made her happy, and her responses – even if intoxicated with materialism and the expectation of gifts :) – gave me goose-bumps and moistened my eyes. I had a Brahma Chopp in my system, and I miss her terribly, of course, but there was something about the simplicity and purity of her responses, including her stream of end-all, high concepts. Maybe she was in the greeting card aisle today, or on Pinterest; I don't know and I don't care. I was moved.

Dad Entry #210

We're back. And it feels good. If I fancy myself an ink-slinger – and I do, albeit during a decades-long amateur hour, when unpolished and unsmart is forgiven, I hope, along with wordy, overwritten, insecure, praise-seeking, and every other sin – well then, I should write something this month.

Michael is officially taller than Grandma Barb. We suspect it's the first of many height-passings. Michael's namesake will be thrilled if someday he stands, pitifully diminutive, in the shadow of his hulking grandson. Michael is a big fella for his age. I wouldn't even classify his eleven-year-old feet as boat-sized, but like boats that have boats, like ships that need lifeboats or barges with tugs. As for the who-is-taller face-off with Grandma Barb, Papa conducted it with great build-up and commentary. The contestants stood back-to-back and Michael's arm was raised in victory. It seemed too close to call, and Grandma lobbied for a tie, but Papa was politician-like in his certainty that it wasn't close at all.

Parenting is a big job. One gets the feeling, as a parent, that your impact is immense and immediate, of course, but also delayed and lurking, if that makes sense, like any peculiarities perceived as adult-onset in my children will be my fault, too. And parental impact is nothing if not lasting, as in life-long-lasting; kids never recover from bad fathering, right? Every misstep, every outburst or overindulgence. Every time I ignorantly, selfishly, or lazily spoil them. It's probably hard to tell, but I’m gently mocking my self-important feelings about parenting. (Self-flattery feels good; it's why some people are so good at it.) But my insecurities and concerns exist, because parenting is a big job. In fact, saying so seems like a fantastic understatement. I know I'll analyze and retro-criticize the fatherly steerings or stances I took that contribute to future stumbles. There will be stumbles and blemishes, obviously; life is nothing if not flecked with blemishes. (I wear mine well, I hope.) So I’m mocking again, sort of, because I don’t really know how impressionable and unmolded M ‘n’ m still are, or ever were. There are other people in their lives. Quite a few, actually :) Thank you very much. And kids can be resilient, energetic, stubborn, and annoyingly confident. Some even have a knack for going out in the world and kicking ass despite crappy parents. Oh... now I’m wondering: Do those types need crappy parents? What a powerful way to stimulate that inner fortitude some kids discover and harness and use to conquer themselves and the world around them! I’m kidding again. I think.

By the way, IT'S MEGAN'S BIRTHDAY TODAY! Happy 9th to my baby girl. She was born on a beautiful September day, just like her daddy.

Dad Entry #209

I can still lift and carry Megan without bulging a disc. God is good. Meg's been good too, lately. No complaining except at breakfast. She wants waffles but I don't like to cook in the morning. We're talking about toaster waffles, sure, but that's cooking to me, that's using appliances and heating food. You don't agree? You're with Megan on this one? Well don't worry about Meg-Pie; she needs to hear 'no' more often from her soft, adoring father. Using a coffee-maker, by the way, is not cooking. No one 'cooks' beverages. Not even Starbucks. So Meg and I have standoffs over breakfast. The fact that Michael often skips isn't helpful with Megan, or healthy for him. I'm pretty sure Michael wouldn't carp about it if he was a breakfast-eater, although, crap, quietly skipping could be his way of complaining, tacitly. That would be very Michael. He dabbles in passive aggression, which, wouldn't ya know it, is one of my flaws too. Nothing like fatherhood to expose a man in all sorts of new ways. At least I have a sense of humor, even if Meg isn't amused when I offer her a big faux smile and her uncooked choices, "Good morning Sweetheart, would you like cereal, a granola bar, or cereal?" Miss Jeanette makes better breakfasts, of course, and it's not like I never toast bread or bagels or make eggs (although the kids don't like eggs). And dinners are always cooked and good, and I make the best school lunches ever, so maybe I'm not doing it all wrong after all. What a relief. Anyway, despite her breakfast woes, Megan is sprouting like a weed. I won't be able to hold her like a little girl much longer unless I take up Crossfit or the Atlas Stones. Maybe I will. Because she puts her head on my shoulder and relaxes; she slumps and sags into me and I can smell her hair and feel her breathing. A kind of spiritual joy comes over me. Then she hops down too quickly and skips away. It's always brief but I relish it, a flash of heaven, nirvana, a step into the halls of Valhalla. Did I mention God is good?

Michael wants a cell phone, and it's probably a good idea finally. He's been using devices with WiFi, the internet, apps, and Google Hangouts for years now. I guess it's okay to add a phone number to the mix. Michael's growing up and I can't wait to know him as a young adult. But most days I wish he'd slow down.

Grandma Barb was raised in a little town called Clemons, a tiny patch of houses in rural Iowa. They have a school, a ball field, a post office, and a grain elevator. It's very small; I think "Game Of Thrones" has more main characters than the population of Clemons. In days of old, they also had a small grocery, a gas station, and a tavern my grandpa paid many visits to. My dad tells stories of late nights there with his father-in-law, and I hang on every word. My grandparents left the town about the time I finished grade school. We visited Clemons a few weeks ago and it pushed memory buttons from when I was M 'n' m's ages. We walked through the old house where I played and slept and grew and celebrated holidays. We visited cemeteries and reminisced about loved ones. The kids were only mildly interested, but I'm happy they've seen it. It's not what they're used to. If they're like me, someday they'll wonder about their family tree and all the places it has spread a branch, and they'll have a sense and feel and an image in their mind's eye of Clemons, Iowa.

Dad Entry #208

My longtime friend and co-worker, Marge, thinks Michael is underrepresented in my writing here. "He's going to read M'n'm someday," she told me, "And say 'Why didn't you love me, Dad?'" It's hard to trash Marge's credibility when it comes to raising sons; she has a terrific one at home a little older than Michael. In fact, when she hinted at understanding male youth better than her husband, in particular, and most men, in general, I failed to compose a counterargument. I started wondering how a woman could understand a man better than a man. Mercifully, before my head exploded, the subject changed to something easier, like baseball or the weather. In some ways, it's hard to dispute what a favorite writer, Michael Chabon, says of dadhood, "The handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low." Well, I think the fathers before me erred differently than I do, not necessarily more or worse. Sadly, I think my Megan-centric blogging is one of the smaller blunders I appear fond of committing and repeating as a father. And Meg-Pie's my little girl! She's impossibly cute, for one thing, and a good student, good person, and good daughter to boot. What's a guy to do? But let me tell you about my son for a second, about the day he was born: There were lots of tears, and most were mine. I was so happy. I cried like that other Michael (Jordan) did after winning his first NBA title, when he hugged the trophy and sobbed. Is that a poor comparison? Of course. Because there are no metaphors, no words. I love my son indescribably.

Getting back to my favorite child.... Megan combed my hair the other day. It was heaven. (Although it occurred to me that the kid is supposed to seek attention from the parent, not the other way around.) I sat on the bed and Megan knelt behind me and combed. It was massage-like and I was suddenly, utterly relaxed and content. Megan said, "Your hair looks nice, Dad." I waited for a comment on the obvious deforestation, but she didn't say a word. How sweet of her not to poke at a sensitivity, even though we joke about it. Eventually she asked, "Do you put anything in it?" I told her I use a kind of styling lotion to provide some hold." She said, "Yay, magic hair stuff! Can I have some?" Before I could answer, she added, "Is that how you got Miss Jeanette to like you?" I smiled. "Yes," I said, "And I brush my teeth, and I try to be very, very nice to her."

Dad Entry #207

Michael turned 11 last month. The awkward years are no longer on some distant horizon, they are close; I feel them encroaching, reaching, grinning. I will honor Michael's privacy as much as possible. I will know his voice even if it changes into Louis Armstrong, or Jimmy Durante, or Darth Vader. I went through puberty too, and I'm pretty sure it's never perfect seas for anyone, not for participants, of course, but not for parents either, unless they suffer from unmindfulness or naivete or memory loss. I, for one, remember those years and it's frightening to be on the parent-side now. How do you encourage respect and gratitude, versus ignorance and suppression, when dealing with this very sensitive, human thing that can add to happiness, health, and love, or, sadly, go down a path of dysfunction? Oh man. This is heavy. If Michael always drains the hot water heater, or if his lingering glances turn into overlingering and leering – at passersby or magazine covers or who knows what – or if he is frequently distracted or disrespectful or dishonest... hmm, I guess we'll have to sit down and talk about it. I'll try to counsel or reprimand him appropriately. We'll sit down and talk about things regardless. I'll reiterate the expectation that he remain the conscientious and well-mannered person he has always been. In short, we'll talk about class. I have trouble imagining Michael as that guy, but assuming he'll be a perfect angel seems unwise; we'll see how it goes. I would prefer he be neither a bore or a boor, if that makes sense, although the latter is decidedly more ignorant in my view. Thankfully, life is about living and learning, and also, hopefully, loving and laughing, through it all, in all sorts of ways. I pray for respect, health, and happiness. Gosh, that sounds easy. I told Jeanette to brace herself for 'the awkward years' with Cole, also. I think it's especially awkward for moms.

Michael at Paul's

Dad Entry #206

Megan has a Barbie Fairytopia butterfly pillow. It is pink and purple with sequins and that fine plastic, net-like stuff I believe is called tulle, which photos indicate was once ubiquitous in wedding ensembles, in splendid folds, fluffs, trains, and veils, and, regrettably, in fashion-courageous headpieces and wrist corsages. (Wait, why am I talking about wedding dresses? I have very few rules for 'aboutmnm' but I'm sure this is one of them.) Megan's butterfly pillow is a sleeping companion, worn and torn and deeply loved. It's been in her life for years, kind of like me, and I wonder: What will happen when this cherished pillow is no longer needed? 'Butterfly Pillow,' once taut, smooth, and bright, is now lumpy, faded, and acutely showing its age. Megan might look at it soon with pity and a kind of condescending amusement. It doesn't look as sharp as it used to. It doesn't look as smart as it used to. Maybe it was never very smart to begin with. I hope I'm not like Butterfly Pillow :) If Megan always needs me, that would be wonderful, because I'll always need her, as my daughter, my friend, and the impossibly cute thing I am overwhelmingly, eternally grateful for. I frequently say so to God. Thank you for Megan. I saw her pulled from the womb, and I've seen her through everything since. I have plenty to share with her – if I don't annoyingly overshare – although I've learned that life is a lot about getting on with it as an individual, and everyone else must do the same, even when surrounded by amazing love and support. We are in it together, and we are in it alone. Oxymoronic, sure, but how else can it be said? One thing I know for certain: I love my daughter so much I will gladly relive some of this in a granddaughter someday, or maybe ten. I think I'm breaking the rules again.

Dad Entry #205

It's the 4th of July – as I write this – and I'm going to mention two men who are like lions to me, the paternal great-grandfathers of M 'n' m. One of them they knew until he passed recently; the other we lost when I was in high school. The former, my dad's dad, was signed by the Chicago Cubs but went to Korea instead. There was a war on, and he joined the Army. He married a very young and breathtaking brunette, before he went to war, and fathered a baby he didn't hardly see until his son was a toddler. But Grandma Marilyn (who, at the time, was teenage Mother Marilyn), showed their son a picture of his father every day, while narrating, I presume, stories of his lionhood. The other great-grandpa of M 'n' m went off to foreign battlefields, also. He did so in 1945. He survived intense combat in the Siegfried Line in Germany. They still talk about his General. A guy named Patton. Tough stuff that my Grandpa refused to speak of. He saw a lot of boys killed right alongside of him (one of only two details he ever wrote about combat), and then, very sadly, his unit liberated a concentration camp. I can't imagine.... But he was an affectionate grandpa and, of course, a hero. Oh, and he was a helluva baseball player, too. Oh, and he also married a stunning brunette. Like I said, they are lions to me.

Now to lighten the mood... of the thousand or so random thoughts I had on the 4th of July, not about my superhero-to-me grandfathers, one of them was conspicuously troubling and deep. I stumbled onto a real puzzler and I'll share it with you: Whatever happened to water beds? We had three of them when I was a kid, every member of the family a proud user, and we weren't the only ones; friends and relatives all around were filling giant bladders for mattresses, and berating ignorant children – like me – who insisted that the water, though impossibly confined, could still be forcefully rocked into surfable barrels or waterpark-worthy wave pools. I wonder what gimmicky things will be powerfully associative to my children's 'wonder years,' only to vanish and leave them viscerally nostalgic 25 years later?

I have a lot of summer memories, and my children are in Minnesota creating their own at this very moment. They are with their beloved Grandma Barb, and her sidekick Papa Mike. It's a little like visiting Willy Wonka, I'm afraid, or Donald Trump, although my dad's hair isn't nearly as thick, dyed, swirled, or plastic. My dad and I intend, however, to investigate the latest in hair technology. We'll keep you posted.

Great-Grandpa with baby Grandpa

Dad Entry #204

I am so enamored with Megan that I stopped and stared lovingly at a bundle of her hairs today. It's crazy. I'm crazy. I stood there with a knotty, staticky hairball that I had just plucked from the fabric upholstery in my car. I was tidying up the passenger-side backseat. That's where Megan sits, which is evident based on crumb proliferation and the things in her door compartment (hair bands, barrettes, stickers, markers, plastic gems and jewelry, lip gloss, mosaic craft pieces, little stuffed animals, and so on). It's astonishing really, how very excellent my daughter is at generating and depositing crumbs. It's embarrassing also, if I ever have backseat passengers other than my kids. Oh Megan, I love you so much. I'm happy you're only eight, still very bouncy and girlish and cute. And crabby as shit sometimes, but oh well, you're a woman; it's like trying to control the weather. I better change the subject....

Michael's baseball team is on a roll. It's my team also, I suppose, since I'm the head coach. The regular season was hard on us. We took the lowest seed into the playoffs, but Michael and company stayed upbeat, and now we're tough as nails. We've won 4 of our last 5 including playoff victories over the #2 and #3 seeds. Let me put it this way: We're headed to the championship game. We're getting the bounces now and playing great baseball. My consistent encouragement and optimism wore them down, even as we joked – therapeutically, uproariously, awkwardly – about the Bad News Bears. The tweaks we made to swings and throwing motions, among other things, helped, but I'm sure it's only because we have a good clubhouse, as they say in the bigs :) Good vibes, good chemistry; we couldn't be held down for an entire season. Michael is a hitting machine. And my assistant coach is awesome, as are the dads who help. I'm mostly sitting back now and watching the team kick butt, from worst to first.

Dad Entry #203

The kids rode Chicago's 'L' subway for the first time. We hopped on the Blue Line at Clark and Lake. It was perfect; we boarded underground and ended up on elevated tracks at our stop near North / Damen / Milwaukee in Bucktown. Megan and Sophie were excited. City girls! I think Michael was intrigued by some of the urban eccentricities and folks around us. Cole took a seat and asked, "Is anyone driving this thing?" Good question, I thought, since, at O'Hare recently, a train plowed through a barrier and up an escalator when the driver dozed. But I said to Cole, "Yes, there's a driver, somewhere, I promise."

Megan still believes in some fanciful stuff. The Easter Bunny, for one thing – although there were traces of incredulity this year – and why doubt the Christmastime guy who dresses nice and leaves presents? The flying reindeer part is an imminent tipping point, but she's onboard for now. Whatever the case, I've been wondering lately what crazy things TV is steering my kids to believe in. I'm not talking about religious fanatics, like Armageddon- or Rapture-selling evangelists. I'm not even talking about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. Believe it or not, I'm fretting about channels like Discovery, Nat Geo, and Animal Planet. Seriously. They have shows about Bigfoot, Loch Ness, yetis, mermaids, ghosts, UFOs, and unicorns. I've seen ads for Ghosthunters, Finding Bigfoot, Mermaids: The Body Found, Russian Yeti: The Killer Lives, Looking For Sasquatch, you name it. Viewers must be flocking. I know Area 51 exists, I just think it hides classified technology (not Martians). And an idyllic place like Atlantis could've thrived long ago, but maybe not in a glass bubble on the seafloor? Aladdin's lamp? Sure, awesome; where can I get one? And I've thought about Bigfoot while hunting patches of forest alone. As for the mystery or mysteries: I believe the universe is very far from random. I believe in a creator, in God, and so do the vast majority of us according to surveys. From there it's no crazy leap to consider souls, spirits, and angels. But Megan believes in the Tooth Fairy, and that one is a stretch for me :) And yet, my cousin Joe saw a winged thing by his pillow when we were kids. I said, "Are you sure it wasn't a mosquito?" No, he insisted it was something magical. "Like a lightening bug?" I said. No again; he was certain. Of course, Joe – Megan's Godfather – ran a 50 mile race for fun, a few weeks ago. Who does that? Clearly he can't be trusted. When the dust settles, I think M 'n' m will be just like the rest of us, a perfect mixture of weirdness and brilliance.

Dad Entry #202

I've mentioned before how I am chagrined to realize my kids exhibit flaws I'm plainly responsible for, either genetically or environmentally. Pointing this out as a phenomenon feels obvious and unnecessary, but I'll go on.... Genetically, my brain chemistry comes to mind. Sorry, kids, that acronyms like OCD, ADHD, and SSRI may enter your life, although I was about three or four times your age when I took them seriously, and fairly panic-stricken and desperate for answers by then. If you Google them someday, with more than a passing interest, just know they aren't excuses or crutches, figments or fallacies. Michael has an outlier brain, which, though powerful, can act like an unbroken horse. He was so smart and verbal as a toddler, we had moments of real concern; it was freaky when he stood in his crib and articulated the genus and species of rare dinosaurs, or rattled off 25 types of whales without pause, or repeated five-hundred-word books from memory after very few reads. But he seems well-adjusted now. Phew. His EQ is just fine; he's quite normal socially. As for flaws I've induced in my children environmentally, via suboptimal situations, choices, or exposure to unsavory moments, emotions, media... well... which amendment is it? Actually, I have nothing to hide. My flaws are legion; it's already documented. I have modes of people-pleasing, vanity, anxiety, perceived - but not real! - disingenuousness, absent-mindedness, and disorganization, to name a few, although I'll stop there so I don't sound like a loser, and a shitty parent. Too late?

I know Megan, like her father, can be needy and timid. Michael is not similarly afflicted, or if so, he hides it well. But Megan's social sensitivity is evident, and I know it can render her aloof or offbeat. She will act showy or funny, and immediately throw a sidelong glance at Michael in search of approval. She wants to impress her brother, always. Michael is pretty ungenerous, though, when it comes to applauding and validating his little sister's awesomeness. This annoys the crap out of me. Megan LOVES her big brother. He's a massive moon in her young life, and I wish he was less frugal with praise and support. I know, however, that if push comes to shove, he has her back sincerely and absolutely; I have experienced this as stark fact. And when Megan's in a foul mood, the frequency of which we'll leave unspecified here, she needs the very opposite of praise.

Regardless of our flaws, glaring and otherwise, I know all three of us have good hearts, big and grateful, and two of us can be excused as prepubescent. And for the record... I take full responsibility for a small piece, or slice, of this flaw pie, as I'll call it, but I blame my own parents for the rest of our issues! Not true. Not true at all. In fact, before I mercifully stop, I'll mention something exceptional my parents did for me, that I haven't paid forward to M 'n' m yet: When I was Michael's age, in a single vacation we visited the football, baseball, and basketball halls of fame, in Canton, OH, Cooperstown, NY, and Springfield, MA respectively. Yeah, it was kickass. Jenny wasn't as thrilled as I was, but she's always been generous and protective (take a lesson from your aunt, Michael, on how to be an older sibling), and she let me bask in it. Now it's my turn to roadtrip to these incredible, historical places, with my kids, and on the way, we can always catch a monument or something boring in Washington DC.

Dad Entry #201

Megan is no longer very hypochondriacal. This is good, because Bandaids aren't free, and self-mummification after the slightest nick was sort of her MO for awhile. Michael, on the other hand, is pretty reluctant to fuss over injuries, physical or otherwise. I've sent him the memo about sharing hurts and feelings, even if you're a dude, although maybe the fine print is still there, the part about being quiet unless a tourniquet or transfusion or ambulance is needed. Sadly, I've noticed the fine print in deals is always strictly adhered to, negating the good intent, which is superficial anyway. Sorry, that sounded cynical. I do my part though, to set a soft example for my son; I am occasionally a sensitive and emotional wreck. I weep, for example, when Michael drives the ball into the outfield, or Megan gets a double-double. I cried when Iowa State won this year's Big 12 basketball tournament, and again a week later when they beat North Carolina for a trip to the Sweet Sixteen. You don't always have to be manly, Son.

Megan's softball pants hang off of her like a toga. She is indeed a baby giraffe, taller everyday, and this exacerbates her impressive skinniness. She's built like her lanky daddy. Which is okay I guess. For chicks.

Speaking of my sweet, skinny thing... she had a bit of a meltdown this AM because I bought the wrong brand of chocolate chip granola bars. I'm prone to hyperbole when mentioning Megan's disagreeableness with things like mornings, early bedtimes, and skipped desserts, but I'm sure I can't overstate her displeasure with Nature Valley granola bars. They're terrible? They're gross? Really, Megan? You'd think I asked her to eat tripe or tendons or toenails or something. Megan is a faithful Quaker Chewys girl, one thousand percent! She's devoted, impassioned, and very good at trashing their competition. I should write Quaker a letter and ask for some scholarship money.