Post #235

What is my 'job' as a father? Caregiver? Sure. (Some moms bear the brunt, but dads provide care, too.) Guardian and protector? You betcha. Self-explanatory. Worker and earner? Yes. (I'm referring to work outside the home and this can be Mom too, of course.) Entertainer, comedian, tour guide? Absolutely. I want my kids to smile, laugh, and explore. And then there's the job I agonize over most of all. The other roles are more natural and clear to me; this job, not so much. I'm unsure of its definition, priority, and execution. I am sure that it's a delicate thing, like catching a soft-mouthed fish; it's easy to blow it and the fish won't bite again. I'm talking about the role of teacher and coach. Some of it's easy; we show our mini-me's how to tie their shoes. Under our tutelage, they learn how to use forks, toilets, and bikes. Useful stuff. But what about less traditional things? What about teaching them intentional practices involving optimism, gratitude, grit, willpower, and meditation? Science, as an institution I mean – which can be very curmudgeon-ish, despite its brilliance – has recently proved and praised things that were formerly, in my circles anyway, dismissed as mumbo-jumbo. Even mainstream medicine – which bafflingly postponed earnest study of the well-observed and documented placebo effect – is now studying cool stuff like mind-training, neuroplasticity, and epigenetics. Positive psychology – the study of human flourishing instead of just disease – is a recent movement. But I digress. There are countless other examples of things we may or may not want our children clued into. We teach them to work hard, make friends, be respectful, be positive. I taught my kids how to pray. But we can, of course, go deeper in every aspect. Should we? What, when, and how can we teach them the finer points of optimal living? Even as we, ourselves, fail in many ways, our kids can benefit from our coaching. Right? Part of the answer lies in teaching and coaching by example. But even so, children are notoriously attention-deficient; should we direct their focus to the underlying habits of the folks they look up to (which, hopefully, includes us)? I think so. I'll keep coaching M 'n' m to give thanks and stay positive, two proven pillars of happiness. This seems like enough for now. (And it's a struggle with Megan!) We'll emphasize breathwork, mantras, malas, crosses, and baseball curses when they get a little older.

Post #234

Michael is named after his paternal grandfather. It was an instant, easy decision; I never considered anything else. Names like Bubba or Moose – or Daniel – never crossed my mind. Neither did Zeus or Romeo or Rambo. Achilles and Attila are good ones, come to think of it; beware of my son, he's a badass! or, uh, he WILL BE once he's potty-trained. But that's not my thing. I'm more of an Obi-Won-philosophy guy; if you strike me down, Darth, I will only be more powerful. Michael is similarly reserved, and quietly confident; Attila wouldn't fit. And if I had another son, he'd be Michael too, or more precisely, Michael II, like George Foreman's sons (all five of whom are named George). But I only have one Michael and he's the best; no need for more. Regarding names, Proverbs 22:1 comes to mind, although that's more about reputation. My son has a good name. His namesake has a good one, also; it's 'Papa Mike' these days, unless he's in a boardroom in California or London, for example, where he loses the 'Papa,' I imagine, but still brags about being a superhero grandparent. Papa Mike is a brilliant, magnetic, imagineble-not-to-like guy who my son keenly admires. This is both awesome and terrifying. (See Post #233 about F-words.) It's mostly great, of course, but some interesting emulation is underway and rising. Papa Mike has more shoes than Imelda Marcos and Michael is similarly motivated and striving. Papa loves to shop. Papa also loves, despite his thinness, eating luxuriously – a practice he has wholeheartedly earned over decades of hard work and success – and Michael is following suit. "The Surf 'n' Turf sounds great," Michael will say to our bow-tied server, "but what's this about market price, and can I get an extra lobster tail?" When Papa's at the table, we work it out. If not, this causes tension between Michael and his father's wallet, and therefore his father altogether. I'm kidding mostly; Michael has an appropriate conscientiousness about the price of things. He wants a 'big house' someday, but understands it has to be earned; his grandfather has shown him both sides of this equation. I'm happy Papa also loves sports, movies, traveling, hunting, and fishing, as these are affinities shared by all three of us. Papa Mike drinks fully from the cup of life; his energies and obsessive powers are considerable. This will cause a few headaches if his grandson assaults life with a commensurate gusto. And Michael is showing signs. If the dust ever settles enough to assess it, I will be both tear-jerkingly proud and teeth-grittingly worried, if the prophecy plays out, like-grandfather-like-grandson.

Post #233

Michael is fond of using a certain four-letter-word that starts with an F. Of course, if you know Michael – or me, for that matter – you know it's not that (the 'Queen Mother of Dirty Words' as Ralphie puts it in A Christmas Story). Michael knows that F-word also, and probably all of its emphatic derivatives, thanks to movie clips, song lyrics, YouTube, and two offending adults in his life. The unheedful F-bomber on my watch (versus his mother's) won't be unmasked publicly. Although my sweet Meg-Pie heard him too – Papa Mike! – when he let it fly once around perked, tender ears. I was supremely annoyed. It's another F-word, however, that really gets under my skin. Michael overuses it. It's a passive, tepid, ugly thing to me, this word, utterly uncaring and spineless. It's ungrateful, unarmed, and uncommitted. It's dull and defeated. It lacks taste, authority, power, and choice. And, on top of everything else, it's lazy. Yeah, it's lazy and it scares the crap out of me because I use it too, in my thinking if nowhere else. It's a term and sentiment that easily disguises itself as accommodating and considerate. But in the end, it serves no one. There's a TED talk about it, the dangers and prevalence of the attitude it encourages. (I love TED, by the way.) It's a flimsy and feeble word, according to TED speaker Mel Robbins, and it's spelled F-I-N-E. Yeah, that's the one. Fine. "How was your day, Michael?" Fine. "You look upset, are you okay?" Yeah, I'm fine. "Do you have any thoughts on the matter?" No, it's fine. I slump shoulders or wring fists when I hear this, depending on my own energy, which is sometimes only 'fine.' I want him to be better than fine, and say so, and if not, then especially say so. But he's a kid. And then he'll be worse, a teenager. Jeanette is wonderfully expressive, and in her growing wisdom she skews to optimism and enthusiasm, even when it's not fantastically warranted, as is the case with some of the challenges we face as divorced parents. But life is good, and Jeanette is an adult, a somewhat seasoned one like myself, so maybe I shouldn't expect the same from Michael. Yet. I want his ship to point that way, even if it's turning and traveling slowly.

Should we talk about Megan for a second? Because if we do, the F-word in question is not a problem; if Megan says 'fine,' it's with dripping displeasure. I know she is precisely, unequivocally, and negatively expressing herself. I know exactly what she's thinking, or rather, complaining about. So we're all good; no hard feelings with Megan on this one, being fine or not fine. I could throw in the same wish about her developing more optimism, though. Megan, our little crabby-apple....

Bob Gibson? Nolan Ryan? No, Michael.

M 'n' m and A! (for Anna)

Dad Post #232

Megan is pretty terrified of throwing up. I realize the phrase 'pretty terrified' is a touch noncommittal and oxymoronic, but I won't diagnose her with emetophobia just yet. For several reasons. I'm more of a doctor like Julius Erving than Mehmet Oz, for one thing. (Funny how arrogance feels good even when confused with self-deprecation and totally unfounded.) There's also my hesitation to use the word 'vomit.' Dictionaries prefer it to its wonderfully vivid alternatives (puke, hurl, heave, blow chunks, toss cookies, and so on) but 'vomit' is like 'penis' and 'vagina' to me; I would rather use other expressions. For example, 'private parts' and 'reproductive anatomy' and 'you know, what I'm talking about, right?' are my go-to substitutes when treading carefully among the birds and bees with M 'n' m. Yes, I'm very clear. So Megan and I use 'throw up' instead of vomit, and if a threatening symptom arises, Megan will shudder and shake and recite like a mantra, "Am I going to throw up, Daddy, am I going to throw up?" I hold her and kiss her hair and assuage her fears. Poorly. She remains terrified. The primary harbinger, of course, is a stomachache, and unfortunately this agitates, when one is anxiety ridden, a kind of self-feeding, self-fulfilling death-spiral of queasiness. At that point it's like a roller coaster ticking up its steepest incline. Slowly, tauntingly, it sends the message: The 'drop' is inevitable. Wow, has there ever been a better metaphor? I have mentioned my discomfiture with everything M 'n' m are hereditarily predisposed to. They are sensitive. They will not have unfeeling lives. And an unfeeling, unthinking moment is exactly what you want more than anything ever when you're anxious and nauseous. I'm still learning to quiet some of my thoughts and fears also, Megan. My mind is indeed a monkey, distracted and jittery and double-fisting two of the four wisemen (Jack, Jim, Johnnie, Jose). Although monkeys use their feet differently than we do; they can probably sip all four. But someday our minds will slow just a teeny-tiny bit. I hope. And pray.    

Overactive minds, panic, and OCD aren't strangers to my family. I've noticed that achievement and creativity aren't strangers, either, when those 'other guys' are around. But those other guys can be intrusive and rude; so it's best to observe, oppose, and manage them.

Speaking of the four wisemen (which is a way-uncool reference to them I'm sure), there's a particular answer to Megan's question – "Am I gonna throw up, Daddy?" – that she's not quite ready for: "Yes, Honey, I'm afraid you will throw up someday when you and your friends get a five-gallon pot and a ladle and a bag of Solo cups. Oh, and you'll excitedly splash together a super-fun mix of Kool-Aid and Everclear." I did it with my friends. And I spent the night – except for some unpleasant and violent interruptions – sleeping on an exquisitely cool bathroom floor. I'll never forget the coolness of the ceramic tile on my cheek, as I sweated, groaned, and curled myself into the fetal position. Don't do it, Megan, but if you do, you better call me, so I can kiss your hair (and hold it out of the toilet).

Dad Post #231

So we Disney'ed. It's a verb, right? Like Google (Hey Michael, google 'Magic Kingdom princesses' and tell me who's the hottest) and Facebook (No Megan, sorry Baby, no facebooking until you're 18). For the record, the former is fictitious – or at least I phrased it differently – but the latter is real and true and on a stone tablet somewhere at home, or it should be. Disney was great fun. We rode rides and saw shows. We shopped and ate with reckless abandon. We swashbuckled with Jack Sparrow and did stunts with Indiana Jones. The Little Mermaid is, indeed, a pretty princess, and I nearly barfed aboard a Starspeeder, zipping – as instantly recognized by Michael – through Tatooine, Naboo, and Hoth. The simulator really tossed us around and I was shaken when we 'landed.' Megan and Papa Mike were unruffled and fine, and Michael wanted to go again. I told Michael he'd make a good rebel pilot, but I'm a Jedi and I don't do that shit; I wear robes and meditate and kick ass with my awesome brain and light saber and this little thing called The Force, baby! Although, once again, I phrased it differently. They have a Starbucks at each of the WDW parks but I refrained; it didn't feel right as there was a refreshing absense of ads everywhere for unrelated brands and products. And yes, I'm so cozy with Disney now I use acronyms; WDW = Walt Disney World in Orlando versus WDL / Disneyland in Anaheim. Bam! At this point, we could veer off into criticism of what seems like an ugly, keep-up-with-the-joneses commercialism all around us, but that is cynical and negative and, frankly, not how I feel about Disney; I respect the man, the mission, and the parks. My parents took me to Disney when I was roughly M 'n' m's age, and I'm grateful. I'm happy to pay it forward. Although, a scrub of financial records would reveal a disproportionate outlay from my parents; they basically covered my second trip to WDW also, but three decades later and this time with my kids. Now I feel inadequate and confused. Oh well, these are feelings as familiar as friends, when it comes to self-critiquing my parenting of M 'n' m. I covered our airfare, at least, which wasn't inconsiderable since I booked it too late. But Grandma Barb and Grandpa Mike took it from there, and dropped a gangsta roll (versus a paltry chip-in here and there from me) to make memories for M 'n' m at Disney. Thank you.

There is a final thing, Disney-related, that I'm extremely grateful for: The parks are big and busy, and I constantly felt a little hand nestled in mine or reaching for it. Yes, I enjoyed two days of closeness with Megan, who is more stingy with affection than Michael. She was my shadow and I was hers, and that, to me, for any length of time, is priceless.

Dad Post #230

I said to Megan today, "I remember the day you were born, Baby. I loved you so much that day, and every day since." Megan ignored me. She was playing 'Crossy Road.' Her device is more important than her dad. Crossy Road, of course, is a rip-off of 'Frogger,' which was invented during my childhood, thank you very much. Crossy Road my ass!

We're in Florida for spring break. It snowed half a foot the day we left Chicago. Haha! The Cubs play next week. I love watching baseball at Wrigley in my winter coat and seeing my breath and the players in Under Armor hoods and masks and extra layers so they don't freeze to death. The postseason at Wrigley is always cold, too :)

This evening, M 'n' m and I attended a cocktail party in Florida. We're staying with Grandma Barb and Papa Mike, but Great-Grandma Bev has a place here, also. We sat and sipped drinks with Grandma Bev and her friends. Michael is a 7-Up guy; Megan likes juice. The partiers were all about seven decades older than M 'n' m. I told the kids, "Learn what you can from these folks, they don't make 'em like they used to." I thought for a second and added, "Especially the men, Michael; they definitely don't make men like they used to." Depending on interpretation, I sounded like a chauvinist, a feminist, or a dumbass, but I meant it with deep respect, for men and women. Michael didn't really hear me anyway, but at least he wasn't playing Crossy Road. My son will never be drafted, hopefully, and endure something like D-Day, or the invasion of Germany, like my grandpa who fought for General Patton. Michael probably won't work in a coal mine and die from black lung, like my great-grandpa. As a young man, the same great-grandpa lost his wife following complications during simple surgery, which meant my grandpa lost his mom when he was only Michael's age. Tough breaks. I wonder if M 'n' m can even fathom life without cell phones and the internet. Because it actually happened! No shit! Not long ago, people had no air conditioning, remote controls, automatic transmissions, or vaccinations. They survived without microwaveable meals (that are so preserved, they are essentially immortal). But our ancestors had stillness, hard work, healthier food, and unridiculous media. It's good to rub shoulders with people who are many thousands of days older than we are.

Dad Post #229

In an interesting article recently, I read: “It seems like a lot of what you end up doing as a parent is trying to figure out ways to save your children from you.” This resonated with me. Is it because I’m a crappy parent? Maybe, but mostly it inspired thoughts about how previous generations didn’t even go there; our grandfathers didn’t turn the focus on themselves. They weren't uncaring or ignorant. Far from it. They simply had a different playbook, culturally and socially. The consciousness and science of the era were different, also. Life was different. And so parenting was different. Not better or worse, just conducted with other things in mind. We likely fell a little short back then, but we fail in other ways now. Having awareness of un-optimal genes and environments we throw at our kids is probably good. Bowing to their every whim and analyzing behavioral minutia is probably not good. I find that life is a lot about happy mediums. Parenting is not a democracy, but, conversely, 'the preacher's kid' is a stereotype for a reason; authoritarian parenting sucks the warmth out of folks. Kindness is important to me, and now I'm not talking about being a parent, but a human being.

There are three things I insist are abundant at home: books, sports gear, and writing utensils. Regarding the third, we have more pens, markers, highlighters, BICs, Sharpies, and rollerballs than an Office Depot. We have wooden, mechanical, and colored pencils. We have scratch & sniff pencils. We have crayons, pastels, watercolors, and chalk, if that’s your thing. We have swarms of writing instruments in every room. It's a ubiquity like an infestation, and yet when asked to do homework, I've heard young voices tell me they have nothing to write with.

Actually, M ‘n’ m knock out homework pretty quickly. It’s other to-dos they neglect, like cleaning up the mildew experiments they seemingly undertake by piling wet towels over dirty clothes after a shower.

I read that Robert Downey Jr.’s son is “still in blissful early life, with no idea that his father is unlike other men.” And yet I thought, every father is unlike other men (to his children). Semantics, I suppose, and most of us aren’t Ironman or Sherlock Holmes, but every dad – potentially – possesses a uniqueness, value, and celebrity in the eyes of his children. We need to actuate this influence, though. Maybe it’s a power more subtle than the laser- and pulse-beams Iron Man blows things up with, but it’s a very considerable and lasting thing, our fatherly impact and reach. We need to be positive and constructive with it; we need to honor and earn it; we need to rise to meet it with the best and brightest versions of ourselves. Amen.

Dad Post #228

I watched the newish, highly-acclaimed movie ‘Boyhood’ and thought a lot about Michael. I hope my son’s life is a bit more stable, normal, and healthy than the one depicted, although Michael has divorced parents, an untraditional home-life, and a deep, stoic sensitivity akin to the boy in the movie. He’s growing up fast, my son, and he’s big; he’s been long, tall, and sturdy ever since I met him at Northwest Community Hospital almost 12 years ago. His feet are nearly the size of mine, which is good; I won’t be sharing but he will (if he has any expensive footwear I like). I will, however, avoid shoes that are aggressively fermenting and noxious, which generally disqualifies everything worn by guys his age.

Michael and I have interesting conversations about certain things now. These talks are initiated by me, and mostly one-sided, but he doesn’t fidget or withdraw or radiate strong discomfort. He was noticeably struck by my candor a few days ago when we discussed language, specifically the kind you don’t fling around in front of your grandmothers and teachers. I was honest and not ignorantly rigid. Credibility is important to me. We talked about respect, class, intelligence, perception, reputation. But I also indicated I don’t expect him to be the PC- or pristine-language-police. I know he’s tried foul language on for size, and I told him so. I've never heard him, but I was his age once, and I know how it is. Michael raised an eyebrow but not a disputation. I said, "I hope you discovered it doesn’t fit or feel so great," and he nodded. He’s heard me say ‘shit’ for sure, but not often. And I've said worse, but again, not often, and never with him around. There's a time and a place. It's best not to be shocked and confused by our modern, real world. I told him it's okay to laugh at a dick joke once in a while, but it's not okay to put people down, or be lewd and disrespectful. I was believable. Life is full of battles and principles and moments. I try to pick mine carefully. Because I remember, like it was yesterday, looking at Michael in the nursery when he was twenty minutes old. I remember the overwhelming emotion. There is nothing more important. I want to parent him with high principles and morals – for his own happiness and well-being – but with a sense of reality and groundedness that doesn’t render me, frankly, unreliable or full of shit in his eyes. I want him to live this life, not fly above it or avoid it somehow. Being a teenager is a ride, baby! I'd like to be a place of truth and stability for him. Especially when he needs reprimand. Because he won't be perfect, and if he is, that itself will cause concern.

Stuff I love finding in my piles of papers

Dad Post #227

Sophie, Michael and I walked out of Yorktown Mall last weekend past a very colorful, beautifully-knitted mitten. It was partner-less, which is conspicuous for a thing almost always found in twos. Indeed, it was wet, dirty, and all by itself in the middle of the road. Since I have a weird, distractible, hyperactive mind, I blurted, “That poor, lonely mitten.” And there it was… the name of our band! Yes! We are starting a band and calling ourselves ‘Lonely Mitten.’ It has such an unbeatable ring to it, and God knows we have the pieces: Michael is a cello prodigy, Sophie plays the trumpet like Dizzy Gillespie, Cole is also a genius on the cello, and Megan is learning the flute recorder in music class. All four will probably attend Julliard someday. So we have strings, brass, woodwinds. I know some kickass guitar, specifically two Nirvana riffs and one each by Alice In Chains and Bob Marley. So there’s that. Jeanette is up for maracas and vocal accompaniment. We’re thinking less cowbell than Christopher Walken, but our creative souls are wide open, man, we just wanna feel the music, we wanna BE the music. In fact, I can already feel it! Holy shit! Lonely Mitten is gonna change the world!

For the record, as leader of Lonely Mitten, I won't be as intense as J.K. Simmons in "Whiplash," but my bandmates WILL BE AMAZING or they WILL BE PUNISHED!

My two favorite things are coaching and shopping for used books. Yesterday, at the Salvation Army on Grand and Union (near the Merchandise Mart, my professional home), I stumbled on this little gem. It's so very perfect for Megan :)
 

Dad Post #226

I read this from Dierks Bentley (a country-musician) recently: "I thought I was a man until I had kids, and then I realized that my life had just begun. It tears away the person you were before, builds you up to become the person you have to become, makes you learn a lot of skills - a lot of man skills. That all comes with a kid." Well, it's a life-changer, I know that much.

I like Vanity Fair magazine. Revocation of my man card has been threatened for this affinity, by my badass hunting buddies, but the writing is exceptional, and Vanity Fair does other creative things like ask people, “Would you pick your child’s genetic traits if you could?” Happily, I read that 83% said, “No, I'd leave it up to nature." Whenever we doubt humanity, it reaffirms its heart, altruism, and tradition.

Here's another parenting anecdote I read recently from Bill Bryson's "At Home." Bryson is a brilliantly funny and informative writer. (Sometimes I wander off my well-worn path of murder mysteries, books about Native Americans, acclaimed fiction, Christian and Buddhist exegesis, and Robert B. Parker novels.) And so I came across this: "In the mystifying world that was Victorian parenthood, obedience took precedence over all considerations of affection and happiness, and that odd, painful conviction remained the case in most well-heeled homes up until at least the time of the First World War." My how the pendulum has swung. The obedience / affection equation is an interesting one. I think, at a minimum, we over-entertain our children (and no parent is more guilty of this than I am). Bryson adds, humorously: "By withholding affection to children when they were young, but also then endeavoring to control their behavior well into adulthood, Victorians were in the very odd position of simultaneously trying to suppress childhood and make it last forever. It is perhaps little wonder that the end of Victorianism almost exactly coincided with the invention of psychoanalysis."

Continuing with Bryson: "What is often striking - and indeed depressing - is how freely parents withheld not funds but affections. Elizabeth Barrett and her father were intensely close, but when she declared her intention to marry Robert Browning, Mr. Barrett immediately terminated all contact. He never spoke or wrote to his daughter again, even though her marriage was to a man who was gifted and respectable, and based on the deepest bonds of love." Hmm. A tough call. Naturally, no one will be good enough for Megan, but maybe a writer-philosopher-poet like Browning is preferable to the parade of unexpressive, mentally-flatlining meatheads I'm afraid she'll bring home. Okay, glad I got that off my chest.

Michael doing some winter work...

... on a swing he has sculpted into a beautiful thing to watch. It all looks pretty good to me: his stride, hip-turn, square shoulders, right elbow, rolling hands, head position. And, of course, the proof is in the pudding; he hits it hard. I don't feel safe anymore unless I'm behind a pitching screen. I'm not sure how he arrived here, as some of these things aren't very teachable; putting it together naturally is an 'either-you-have-it-or-you-don't' situation, I've always thought. But as I said before: Grandpa Byard (who was signed by the Chicago Cubs) died on a Friday night, and on the Saturday morning that followed, Michael had a baseball game. He started to look like a hitter, as I sat and watched with watery eyes, and he's looked like one ever since. His dad can hit, too, and so can his Grandpa Mike; he has good genes :) Michael also knows how to watch the great hitters now; he observes them in their full idiosyncratic glory, their rituals and tendencies. He knows how to mimic and visualize himself with the same impressive ability and confidence. And he keeps working at it. Hitting isn't easy. It takes reps. It takes maintenance. It takes working through slumps, doubts, and inconsistent moments. But it feels great to hit a ball over a fence; to crush it, drive it, connect so purely it feels like you've just hit a scoop of ice cream. There's a lot of nuance, subtlety, instinct, anticipation, focus, precision, and cool-headedness required. It's a perfect blend of physical and cerebral skill, and Michael seems to like the challenges it offers.

Megan and Dad at basketball practice

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)

Dad Post #221

I am in China, once again, and missing Megan. I miss Michael too, of course, perhaps even more, but it’s a bit of a running joke now, a plain favoritism for Megan here. It’s not true, of course. Michael is my son; I love him indescribably! My love for Meg-pie is infinite and immense also, illimitable, inestimable, immeasurable, incalculable, interminable, inexhaustible. Yeah, those things. The thesaurus, by the way, is my 6th favorite book behind The New Testament, City Of Thieves, A Soldier Of The Great War, In Sunlight And In Shadow, and The Great Gatsby. So I love both of my children, the same incomprehensible amount – hey, the letter 'I' is really awesome! – but enough about that; let’s talk about something less controversial. Let's talk about Jeanette. She's incredible and I miss her, too. I miss her tons – TONS! – and Sophie and Cole, also. Haha, indeed, this is a real can of worms. I've never even whispered the awful truth here. (Please forgive the hyperbole.) The awful truth being that I am divorced. M ‘n’ m are the children of divorced parents. Gasp. There, I said it. And Sophie and Cole are children I care about that aren’t even my own. Confused? I'm not. None of this is awful or crazy to me. In fact, it's wonderful, but it causes quite a stir in one’s life, I’ve learned over the last two years. It’s also terrific fodder for blogging, which is why I’d like to talk more about… painting. Painting? Yes, painting. I don’t paint, but I have to wonder: Am I the only person who watches Bob Ross on YouTube when family drama threatens to overwhelm? Five minutes of happy skies. That’s all it takes.

Dad Post #220

Kids want to be treated like adults – at least sometimes – and they remember who treated them as such. And by ‘kids,’ I don’t mean teenagers; I mean the years just before that, around Michael’s age. I remember the moments I was treated as older, and the adults who esteemed me this way, via some serious activity or conversation, with an ‘adultlike’ tenor or topic. Something weighty. Something bordering on the unsafe or unchaste or uncharted for a ten- or twelve-year-old boy. “Hey Dan, do you understand girls, because I don’t? What do you think? And speak of the devil, here comes one now, on that rickety, rope bridge... that's swaying and fraying badly! It’s gonna give out any second and drop her right into the jaws of those snapping alligators! We’ve got to save her! AND I NEED YOUR HELP!” A kid could be sheltered from all of that – “Wait here Dan! And don’t go anywhere near the water!” – but requests to discuss and do ‘adultlike things’ are cool. (Of course, it doesn’t have to be about girls, or vice versa; I am just unimaginative.) And yet I fear Michael’s too eager to grow up. He’s eleven and he talks flatly about college and buying a house. He seems to equate stoicism with maturity. I want him to express! What about renting and traveling?! Is that bad advice? I want more nonsense and emotion! Hasn’t he learned anything from his father? Haha. Yes! Yes, he has. He’s learned what not to do; he’s learned to temper the people-pleasing, overdisclosing compulsions he was hereditarily burdened with. Hopefully, he has no concept yet of something like professional mediocrity. And maybe these flaws skipped a generation; maybe his DNA is clean. Or maybe I was just like Michael when I was eleven. It’s hard to say. We learn. We live. We grow. Hopefully we expand, and not contract, even amidst the doubt and discomfort, even when hurting and afraid. How else do we expand? Under heat, baby, under heat! And there’s a lot of fun and amazement in there, too. Success isn't the only teacher, or even the best. Surf it all, and don't shy from confusion or ambiguity or existential cynicism. It's okay to go there. But bounce back. You don't have to know everything. To some questions there are no answers in this form. It's okay. Everything is okay. Optimism is better. Way better. Enjoy, love, be vulnerable, be grateful. And all the while the years will tick away. This is unequivocal, certain, unceasing. Michael will be 40 before he knows it. No sense in jumping ahead, Bud.

Retro Post 1: Reflections on coaching...

... Megan's girls basketball team (although this year I'm only an assistant) and on Megan as a ballplayer:

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 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 Post #219

I hope M 'n' m read this someday and remember their own craziness more than mine. People are strange (Jim Morrison). I can't hide who I am most days, and I hope they can't either. Because I love them. I don't want their lights under a bushel; I don't want their flags unflown.

Regarding candidness and oversharing, I wonder what a blog from my ancestors would look like, from a great-great-grandfather, for example.... "Oh goodness me, we have big news! Mabel did it again, and this time it's a girl! It was a tidy birth, as Mabel was having a cigarette on the porch, and I was touching up the floorboards with lead paint, when suddenly another baby popped out! Oh joy! We can't decide between Elsie or Ethel. She'll look so fetching in the bonnet Mabel sewed for her." Yeah, that's dumb, although during Elsie or Ethel's teenager years.... "He is of a handsome and genteel sort, I concede, but I fear he must still join us hunting next and be accidentally shot." That part is the same in any era.

Iowa State cracked the top 10 in basketball!

I will miss getting pulled in every direction by my kids. "Hey Dad, look at that!" ... "Dad?! Dad? DAD?! ... Dad, you gotta see this!" ... "Daddy, I need you!" ... Everywhere, little hands pulled on me, and high voices beckoned. I was near the center of a universe. I will never forget how M 'n' m, as toddlers, would move closer to me, often leaning on my leg or hugging it, when suddenly suspicious of a thing nearby. Sometimes I lifted them up, and other times I was only a motionless but palpable reassurance, a comforting force, a massive love. I hope. There is nothing humans would rather be, for people they love. Because life is indeed full of 'threats.' Some only look the part, some are coldly real, and many are of our own mind and making.

Dad Post #218

Today, Megan said, "Dad, do you have a Pinterest account? You should get one because I have awesome pins!" I won't be getting an acount, but good to know Megan has 'awesome pins.' I'll add Pinterest to the burgeoning list of things to monitor (along with Gmail, YouTube history, friends, grades, movies, Google Hangouts traffic, shows, songs, pop stars in crisis, piercings, eating habits, language, fashion, and everything else on the planet). We have so far disallowed Snapchat, Instragram, Facebook, and who-knows-what-else. Jeanette and Sophie keep me informed about things new and hip (and therefore, to me, suspicious). I try to be un-ignorant. It's hard. I'm on a collision course with a decade full of teenagers; I visualize it as a kind of imminent tidal wave or avalanche. I hope to be a beacon, a buoy, something steady and safe. Wish me luck.

There is a place Megan loves even more than theaters, malls, and nail salons. It's an enormous space in downtown Chicago, with seemingly endless hallways and countless stairwells, doors, desks, and mysterious rooms brimming, blinking, and humming with whiz-bang technology. The evidence of high-tech activity everywhere contrasts with the building's exposed, ninety-year-old bricks, pipes, cracks, and beams. There's also a 'game room' with everything imaginable, office supply kiosks, funky furniture, snacks and drinks in numerous 'micro-kitchens,' space age conference rooms, and a big tricycle to pedal around indoors. In a word, to M 'n' m, it's Eden. It's also where I work all week, and lately on the weekends. The kids join me sometimes and here's the problem: They behave glowingly as little visitors, but think it's so cool and fun, I'll never convince them I struggle there daily amid the pressures and tensions in all corporate settings. I like my job – and we do innovative, important stuff – but my smile weakens when Megan says, "Dad, you're so lucky, you get to go to work!"

Dad Post #217

Michael asked me, "Did you have YouTube when you were a kid?" Of all the wise, sarcastic, are-you-kidding-me-when-I-was-a-kid ways I could've answered, I simply said, "Nope." But ESPN, MTV, and HBO were in their infancy, and I could watch a scrambled channel and, if lucky, catch partial, provocative glimpses and sounds. Things have changed.

Megan was in a symphonic mood this morning and I've been thoroughly confounded ever since. I should accept the miracle and move on, but I can't stop wondering.... An unmoody Megan is so tantalizing. Was it a happy dream or the peanut butter cups or the movie before bed? (Diary of a Wimpy Kid 3, hilarious.) Was she touched by angels or taken by aliens or struck by lightning? I know indoor lightning doesn't make sense, but neither does a chipper Megan in the AM. I want desperately to sustain this phenomenon.

For the record: While I prefer happy-Megan to crabby-Megan, I love them both. And, if ever truly obstructed, even temporarily, I would move heaven and earth to be with either one of them.

Happy Holidays!

Dad Post #216

Megan's taste buds are broken. They are oversensitive or under-sensitive or somehow backwards, preferring the boring and bland to anything delicious. She loves white rice, bread and butter, and little else. Perfect casseroles and salads are frowned upon. Bites of meat are picked at. Main courses are nibbled, veggies get cold, and the freshest fruit is appraised as if it were rotten, poisonous, or possessed. I assure her we don't need an antidote or exorcism, and her food isn't from a dumpster. I tell her, "We are lucky. Our food is good and healthy," and then, less emphatically, so my relevant shortcoming doesn't steal the show, "And thank God we have Jeanette to cook for us." Unless Meg becomes a food journalist, celebrity chef, or restauranteur, I'd prefer this outrageous pickiness shifts to something else in the coming years. Yes, that. Boys.

Meg loves to watch Cupcake Wars. This is good. Otherwise she might love the Simpsons, for example, or something about wives and Beverly Hills, or shows with cute little stars who become harlots. That was harsh; I sound old-fashioned. But class isn't old-fashioned. I hope. I hope it's old-, new-, now-, always-, and forever-fashioned. I like art, but I think people are poor if all they have are fame and money. M 'n' m and I would be different, of course, if we had fame and money. Yeah right. I believe it's okay and quite wonderful, in fact, to be human, but it's best to remember this very fact and what it means. Vigilance, kids. Build your house on rock. Money is good, and I pursue it everyday (without much success, unfortunately) but I want M 'n' m to experience real wealth, and know the difference.

Dad Post #215

What I have long feared – even before she was born – has come to pass: Megan has a crush on someone. There is evidence in her own handwriting, which is unflawless but still perfect, because everything about Megan is perfect; dads everywhere hold and defend a similar paradox. Yes, on a piece of paper, that I would like to both burn and frame, Megan's tender affection is in full, vulnerable view, etched softly in pencil by her angelic fingers. She is under a powerful spell, and the sorcerer – if I may – isn't Jesus, or John Lennon or James Dean, or Hiccup or Prince Charming. (Maybe you notice, as do I, the awesome impossibilities in these, my ideal candidates.) No, it's a real boy, a very cool and nice one, but a guy nonetheless. The good news: He's more interested in sports than girls right now. Courting my daughter is low priority, which, oddly enough, has me alternately relieved and then like, "WTF kid, are you blind or dumb or both?" And when the time comes, 20 or 30 years from now, Megan will be the priority; the dude better give two shits about sports when it's time to rub Megan's feet. Even I DVR the Iowa State game if Meg needs me.

Dad Post #214

Megan is the Bobby Rahal of backseat drivers. (To me, Rahal is a racing name as renowned as Andretti, Petty, or Earnhardt, and Bobby is also a longtime friend and business partner of Papa Mike's.) On Chicago's glutted, spaghetti-like highways, Megan will kindly offer, "Dad, you should switch to that lane over there, it's all spread out and nice, and it's going much faster, but don't go too fast, cause it's not safe, but you're going too slow right now, and I won't have enough time with Sophie tonight unless you go faster, Dad." Thanks, Megan. And then if I follow her instructions: "Dad, I think you're speeding now, you know you shouldn't speed too much, you'll get in trouble, Dad." And so on, until I find a song that nine-year-old girls love to lip-sync, which I play loudly even though – unless it's something like early Taylor Swift or Disney – it's inappropriate for nine-year-old girls. But I treat my concerns about this inappropriateness like Chicago drivers do posted speed limits; they're nice but unactionable. Follow them and you'll get runover, and the world will pass you by.

Megan is a slasher like her daddy. With respect to the masterpieces of cinema that comprise the genre, I am not referring to anything in a horror movie. I'm talking about basketball. So far, Megan has a knack for handling and shooting the ball. She has an eagerness to get to the rim and score, and the body control and athleticism to do it prolifically (if she keeps her head on straight, which, of course, is the hard part when people are aggressively trying to stop you). Someday soon we'll see how stubborn and driven she really is. I know she's stubborn. I don't know how well this translates to resilience to discouragement. Girls play stingy, suffocating defense. Girls are catty. Girls are mean. (Have I made my point?) When fussing with me, Megan doesn't give up easy; she gets mad and ornery and spirited and I hope it's the same when some opposing girl on the court starts pushing and bumping and pissing her off. I hope she grinds them to dust and stays with it until she wins at least six championships like that other scoring machine from Chicago who was unstoppable.