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.