#270

Megan went on a date. The gentleman was chivalrous and handsome, suited and booted and bearing flowers, and balding (which is beside the point). The Girl Scouts host a daddy-daughter dance and we had a blast. We supped at a cozy Argentinian place before we annihilated the dance floor at school. Dinner was splendid. Megan had tomato soup, breadsticks, and a meatball. I had scallops on crostini with a balsmic reduction, followed by crab-stuffed tortellini in saffron cream. We chased it all with molten chocolate cake, which Megan ate 98 percent of. Megan declined my drink offer. Good girl. (She prefers water, even when greenlighted for Sprite, lemonade, or a Shirley Temple.) She was awkward about some of the overstated courtliness, and I can't blame her; I get doors for her and her coat and so on, but we were dressed to kill and making a show of it. She wrinkled her perfect nose at me when I scurried and fawned and fussed, and before dinner she emptied her purse on the white tablecloth, just for fun. And, as usual, she got chocolate on her face. My heart sang. She is still cuter than a thousand puppies. She is approaching, however, the delicate frontier called beauty. She looked spectacular in her new dress, fancy shoes and matching purse, terrific jewelry, a corsage, and – this one's a biggie – eye makeup. Hmm. Okay. She was happy and confident and never stopped dancing. Her daddy can shake it too. We finished the evening with friends at a lovely ice cream shop. It was a terrific date. I'll never forget it.

#269

In the culture of my upbringing, which was something like Judeo-Christian, suburban American, we didn't believe much in reincarnation and past lives. (Note: I'm mostly a Western European mongrel by ancestry, with a touch of Native American.) My world has diversified over the years, into a melting pot without a predominant shade. This has been M 'n' m's reality from the beginning. Their schools are a great assortment, although I suspect they don't even notice. For kindergartners, the differences are minimal between Sikhs and Swedes, for example, or Koreans and Kenyans, Hondurans and Hindus, and so on. But my youth was less heterogeneous than M 'n' m's. Technology had yet to shrink the Earth. Needless to say, my childhood never exposed me to things like karmic cycles or Dalai Lama incarnations. The first time I heard of a lama was in Caddyshack. "Big hitter, the Lama." I am Christian. But speaking with certainty about the afterlife, or lack thereof, teeters on hubris to me. It seems there are limits to what we can prove and disprove. I know why mustering even a mustard seed, to echo Jesus, is truly enormous. I believe there's energy in our thoughts and memories, and if we've been somewhere before, even ancestrally, there's a faint, informing imprint somewhere, in our souls or minds or DNA. I watched "Legends of the Fall" repeatedly – looping it while I studied in college – to hear One Stab's voice. I don't know why I was fascinated with Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Black Elk, Chief Joseph, Tecumseh, Quanah Parker, and books like "Last of the Breed," all before I learned of my native ancestry. Meanwhile, Papa Mike is more intrigued by the Founding Fathers, General Patton, Davy Crocket, Rasputin, and Carlos Castaneda. And Holden Caulfield! (Papa Mike's a paleface; my native ancestry comes from Grandma Barb.) And so I think about M 'n' m.... What 'memories' or energies will inspire them? What histories and biographies will resonate, what stories, and why?

"Crazy Horse, about this time, was grieving for his little daughter They-Are-Afraid-of-Her, who had died, probably of cholera. When he returned to his camp and found that she had died, he located her burial scaffold and stayed with her for several days.... He loved her deeply. Her loss took some of the fight out of him for a while."

#268

I wore Michael's shoes the other day. It could be fleeting, but right now we're the same size and I have a burgeoning selection of footwear at home. There's a pair of Nike Free Flyknit something-or-others (probably $130) that are amazingly comfy and snazzy. And if I stumble into a bball game, I'll be wearing Micheal's Lebron XIIs (price $150 at least). I can't afford tennies this lavish, but my son is spoiled by those who love him. Grandma and Papa buy him shoes every time he visits them. Or they visit him. Or the sun rises. I love my parents. And I love my son. They are a good match for each other.

By all accounts – and a photo I've seen – my great-grandfather was a handsome man. His name was Ben. In this old photo I speak of, the features of his face are perfectly formed, his eyes are striking, and he is coolly expressionless; it's the kind of handsome that would fit in a modern fashion or cologne ad. Ben's grandparents were off-the-boat Irish. When I was younger than M 'n' m, I remember visiting Grandpa Ben in a nursing home. He was no longer physically flawless. In fact, he was ancient and scary-looking and I was terrified as I was coaxed, by him and others, to approach his chair and give him a cookie. In his twilight, Ben was grumpy and ornery and fond of chewing tobacco, none of which endeared him to the awesome women in his life. But they loved him even more probably – and a woman I adore absolutely called him Daddy – and at least four girls I know prevented him from shuffling into traffic (in search of that tobacco). I hope I'm blessed this way, and many decades from now, on a random Sunday, a great-grandson thinks of me with gratitude and intrigue. I imagine Ben could tell me about old cars, guns, moonshine stills, and the world a hundred years ago. And, most importantly, Ben had an incredible wife and exceptional daughter. Those things I would really ask him about. Maybe someday I will.

#267

On politeness: I shamefully and proudly – a little dichotomous, I know – relate wholeheartedly to Paul Ford's words below. 'Shamefully' because, even though my politeness is not disingenuous – and I am dismissive of precisely no one ever – I can appear overly or falsely obsequious and socially awkward. I know this. This is a flaw. It's related to my conflict-averseness and other shortcomings. Flaws beget flaws. Bummer. But I can also say – proudly – that my politeness usually comes from a strong, confident place of genuine gratitude, respect, or admiration. Usually. This is good. I really want M 'n' m to be polite. Not just polite to me. And not polite for me (i.e. polite to adults who say, "Oh, look at those polite kids, they must've been raised right"); no, not that either. I want M 'n' m to be polite because I think it is, in fact, noticed. It's not super-noticed in contemporary urban America, and it's not as popular today as in, say, Elizabethan England, but I believe it's noticed. And it's antithesis – repeated rudeness and selfishness – is definitely noticed. I want M 'n' m to have friends; I want M 'n' m to be self-possessed, likable, and respected. I want them to be positive and polished. And for them to be these things, manners matter. I know my politeness isn't purely altruistic. If it was, I wouldn't feel a tinge of annoyance when I hold the door for someone and they breeze through without a word. Apparently I expect something. I expect acknowledgement. In the end, I suppose we should master both; we should give courtesy but also demand it in return. Papa Mike is a terrific example; he can alternately, with pretty much equal ease, attack or ingratiate, appropriately measured and based on how he himself is treated, either poorly or positively. This impresses me.

Finally, from Paul Ford's essay called "How to Be Polite," as mentioned above: "Every year or so someone takes me aside and says, you actually are weirdly polite, aren’t you? And I always thrill. They noticed. The complimenters don’t always formulate it so gently. For example, two years ago at the end of an arduous corporate project, slowly turning a thousand red squares in a spreadsheet to yellow, then green, my officemate turned to me and said: “I thought you were a terrible ass-kisser when we started working together.” She paused and frowned. “But it actually helped get things done. It was a strategy.” (That is how an impolite person gives a compliment. Which I gladly accepted.) She was surprised to see the stubborn power of politeness over time. Over time. That’s the thing. Mostly we talk about politeness in the moment. Please, thank you, no go ahead, I like your hat, cool shoes, you look nice today, please take my seat, sir, ma’am, etc. All good, but fleeting.... People silently struggle from all kinds of terrible things. They suffer from depression, ambition, substance abuse, and pretension. They suffer from family tragedy, Ivy-League educations, and self-loathing. They suffer from failing marriages, physical pain, and publishing. The good thing about politeness is that you can treat these people exactly the same. And then wait to see what happens. You don’t have to have an opinion. You don’t need to make a judgment. I know that doesn’t sound like liberation, because we live and work in an opinion-based economy. But it is. Not having an opinion means not having an obligation. And not being obligated is one of the sweetest of life’s riches.... This is not a world where you can simply express love for other people, where you can praise them. Perhaps it should be. But it’s not. I’ve found that people will fear your enthusiasm and warmth, and wait to hear the price. Which is fair. We’ve all been drawn into someone’s love only to find out that we couldn’t afford it. A little distance buys everyone time. Last week my wife came back from the playground. She told me that my two-year-old, three-foot-tall son, Abraham, walked up to a woman in a hijab and asked “What’s your name?” The woman told him her name. Then he put out his little hand and said, “Nice to meet you!” Everyone laughed, and he smiled. He shared with her his firmest handshake, like I taught him."

#266

Michael has raced into adolescence. No question about it. His voice is deeper, his face is changing, his feet are like a hobbit's, and he'll be over 70 inches tall any minute. The problem I'm having isn't Michael's sprint out of childhood, but my feeling that nothing goes any further, myself included, after junior high. No country or culture or government – no man to be sure; I know very little about women – ever exits adolescence once it's entered. From here on, nothing changes. Look at what motivates our governments, corporations, and media. It's terribly simple, and I sound terribly cynical, and yet... junior high was exciting! Full of novelty, hard work, and accomplishment, deeper friendships and girlfriendships, more elaborate education (both academically and socially) and way-better athletics. Naturally, there was nervousness and a little bullying, but only enough to spice things appropriately (perhaps I was lucky). So I'm not being entirely negative. A favorite writer, David Foster Wallace, mentions something similar, calling U.S. culture in particular "both developmentally and historically adolescent." Hard to argue. And yet again, I just watched a presidential debate and refuse to disrespect any of the candidates. (In front of M 'n' m, at least; I made a few cracks to others.) Why? It doesn't feel right. I'm not running for President; I'm not at a podium in front of millions of viewers. I want M 'n' m to respect the scope and scale of certain things, even if, in so many ways, we never really graduate adolescence.

#265

Meg's lips are constantly chapped and bleeding. It's obvious and graphic, like it's Halloween and she's a vampire, or she's Ronda Rousey. Megan has ChapStick, Vaseline, Carmex, and EOS. She has Bath & Body and Burt's Bees. Botanical this, citrus that; it's not working. Chapped lips are an awful spiral, we lick, pick, and chew until they're cracked and horrible. Maybe Meg's EOS is the problem. People are documenting rashes and reactions and, of course, filing suit. Meg has a lavish collection of EOS 'spheres.' She lines them up like I did army men. EOS has more colors and flavors than Jelly Belly. Marketing geniuses over there. Chicago winters and winds can be testy, unkind, not good for lips, hands, dry skin. But there are eight million people here that don't look like they're in Fight Club, or whatever bloodies lips. I can't blame Chicago or Jay Cutler. Is Megan dehydrated? Allergic? Nervous? Fishing for a day at the spa? "I'm fine, Dad," she says. No, you're not. Here we go.

After an oh-and-two start, the girls won their first basketball game. I'm the coach. Megan shot the ball well and finished with 10 points. I've never been happier. They're young but surprisingly coachable; we've implemented several plays, and they execute our plays and concepts well. Most importantly, they're positive and fun and they smile when I'm silly. They're also serious when I'm serious. They're scrappy and competitive and I've seen a few tears from frustration and minor injury, and I can tell you with certainty that if I coached them long enough, and they achieved great things, they'd see me cry too. And that's no big admission; I see athletes and coaches get emotional all the time. Makes perfect sense.

#264

"Dear human: you've got it all wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That’s where you came from and where you’ll return. You came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love, infused with divinity, lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect, you already are. You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous, and then to rise again to remembering. But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love in truth doesn’t need any other adjectives. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up, and do your best. That you stay present, and feel fully. That you shine and fly, and laugh and cry, and hurt and heal, and fall and get back up, and play and work, and live and die as you. It’s enough, it’s plenty."

— Courtney A. Walsh

I should probably read this to M 'n' m. And make them listen. Make them turn off their devices and listen. Make them think about it. And then we'll turn the Cyclone game back on. Actually, the Cyclone game is over. They just beat the #1 team in the country at Hilton. And the cool thing is... they were favored. So what about condition and expectation? They are powerful frames or lenses. I love the Cyclones, but conditionally; I expect them to win. I love M 'm' m without condition. It's true; my love for M 'n' m doesn't have an adjective; it doesn't need one; none would work anyway; they would be woefully inadequate, even a very, very long list of adjectives. It's awesome and terrifying. But mostly awesome; as parents we wouldn't trade it for anything. And I've mentioned this before: What if God loves us this very same way, as a parent? Hmm. It's easier to think about the Cyclones.

#263

No one plans on divorced parenthood, on ping-ponging the kids between separate homes. It's annoying for M 'n' m. Of course it is. We talk about it. I say things like, "It's challenging, I know, but you're extraordinary! And besides, unbroken homes are boring." So that's dumb and NOT what I say, but I do hint at things like adaptability and breadth of experience. Michael flies on airplanes by himself, and has no qualms about long visits to any of seven or eight different places annually (in different states with different relatives). He's pretty comfortable anywhere, and he's not possessive of things; his stuff is often at Mom's when he's at Dad's, anyway, and vice versa). Divorce isn't the only thing that exposes kids to home-life imperfection, but it's not a happy moment for me as a divorced parent to see the research. I know the statistics. But I know M 'n' m also; I know their teachers, friends, schools, communities. I'm impressed and grateful. There's hope! And I can't really coddle and shield M 'n' m too much, which is good if all the criticism of 'helicopter parenting' is valid. Millennials are mocked for being spoiled, entitled, and expectant of praise and reward for everything they do. I praise the shit out of M 'n' m, frankly, but in some ways, related to the inconveniences of their lifestyle, I wouldn't call them spoiled. (In other ways, hell yeah, they're so spoiled it's crazy.)

'Grit' as an indicator of success is all the rage. I'm tired of hearing about it, because I'm not sure I possess it. But I hope M 'n' m do. A good life isn't easy or emotionally safe or linear. In electrical engineering, if a problem or relationship is linear, it's easier to understand and project. Not so with life, for most people I know. My childhood was pleasant and convenient and until a few years ago I was afraid of my own shadow. That's overstated, sure, but I hope M 'n' m are okay with discomfort, adversity, uncertainty, ambiguity, mystery. These are part and parcel of a vibrant, abundant, love-filled life. I hope my children's lives can be described this way. Roll with the punches, kids, keep answering the bell, and in doing so, you will honor those who gave you life: God, your ancestors, your loved ones. And believe it or not, you'll have a lot of fun, too. Amen. 

#262

Michael went to a party Friday with girls. As a refresher, I tried to remember 7th grade parties in 1988. I was at a few. I recall boys peacocking around and girls arranging 'spin the bottle' and 'five minutes in heaven.' Bangs were everywhere. Above every girls restroom was a hole in the ozone. The music was Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. It's coming back in too much detail. If the boys commandeered the boom box, we played Def Leppard and Bon Jovi, and the girls swooned over 'Livin' on a Prayer.' How sad that M 'n' m will never make mixes by pushing clunky buttons to record and rewind shitty low-fi cassettes. They'll never handwrite songlists and mess up sticker-labels because they're head-over-heels for some cute girl (Michael) or some insensitive little shithead punk who thinks he's cool (Megan). Michael will never make tapes because he's hardcore into Ozzy and Maiden, like the kid next to me in 7th grade homeroom. (Great guy. We're friends on Facebook.) As for Michael's party, the parent-hosts, who I know from baseball, said there were no signs of shocking behavior. Michael's pretty mum, but I'm not over-worried yet. He doesn't overdo it trying to fit in (a trap that scares me). He doesn't wear Polo cologne and meticulously roll his jeans and de-lint the sweaters he pairs with matching turtlenecks. I was a stud. They say every generation is wilder than its predecessor. That's bullshit. Exhibit A: I'm a saint compared to Papa Mike. We all have goodness and wildness in us. Whatever the case, no one's an angel; I plan to stay aware and nosy.

#261

Jean-Claude Van Damme turned 55 a few months ago. I liked Stallone, Seagal, and the rest, but 'Van Damage' kicked and splitted his way to supremacy, in my mind. He did cheesy action to perfection, and his formula always involved hot costars pawing at his muscles. (I will objectify men in a second, also.) Stallone and Schwarzenegger mostly kicked ass for its own sake, not for the girl. This didn't make much sense to me. Who cares about revenge, respect, or Colonel Trautman? Heroes get the girl. Period. (Naturally, I'm a Bond fan.) Things like the Terminator, a Chuck Norris Roundhouse, or Dirty Harry's .44 weren't worthy of worship. Arnold's Predator movie is amazing, and Rambo is beyond description, but Van Damme's latest was what I looked forward to. His Belgian accent played well, as did Schwarzenegger's Austrian, and Stallone's Italian drawl ("If you don' wan me mixin' wit Creed no mo..."). Come to think of it, Connery and Stathem speak funny too; apparently you need an accent to kick ass and get girls. Finally, my youth understood. As for movies, Van Damme's 'Cyborg' blew my mind. The good guy was vulnerable because of his niceness, and the bad guy was cruel, deep-voiced, and ripped (as ripped as Justin Theroux's Seamus O'Grady, the Irish-accented bad-boy in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle). This was before zero body fat was an everyday thing. But it wasn't Van Damme's fitness; he didn't work harder than Arnold, Rocky in III, or Rambo in II (although I was starstruck when I saw Stallone with Bobby Rahal at a race; Papa Mike is friends with Bobby). In the end, there's only one embarrassing conclusion: I simply loved Van Damme's movies. Cyborg, yes. Also Bloodsport was great, perfectly violent but campy. Then he nailed ten in a row: Kickboxer, Universal Soldier, Lionheart, Hard Target, Timecop, Maximum Risk, Death Warrant, Nowhere to Run, Sudden Death. And in Double Impact, we got two Van Damages for the price of one (plus a smokin' female cast). I was engrossed, elated, addicted. It was years before I'd rather watch something like a DiCaprio film. (Blood Diamond, The Departed, Inception, Gatsby, The Revenant... all sensational.) And so I wonder if Michael will have a corny allegiance to admit someday like mine to the canon of Van Damme. I wonder if Michael's ever seen a dubbed Kung Fu movie? Probably not, poor kid. And even Van Damme isn't as awesome as Bruce Lee.

#260

In church on Sunday I noticed a few guys holding their little sons. I noticed little arms around weathered necks. Meanwhile, a pro wrestler couldn't hold my son like that. He's about five-ten now and stout. It happened overnight. I noticed something else in church: I was standing by Michael and we were facing forward, but I glanced sideways and caught his profile and there, faint but unmistakable, I saw the sheen of darkening hair on his upper lip. He'll be shaving soon. Great. Here comes the parade of teenage facial hair abominations. Mustache fuzz, fu manchus, lamb chops, chin straps, chin curtains, whatever, stuff so wispy and thin it can't be named. Is that supposed to be a goatee, Michael? Teeny-tiny stingers, worn loud and proud but only about five hairs. And the Abe Lincoln, patchiest of all. I tried everything; if sculped just right, I looked like a man (in no one's opinion but my own). I sported chops for a decade. Being a late bloomer in every sense, my mustache was cotton-soft until I was 30. Anyway, my plan for Michael is simple: I'll buy him a razor that's expensive and endorsed by the manliest, clean-shaven mother-f*cker around. Be like that guy, Michael, and shave.

#259

Jeanette and I booked a trip to Sweden, the land of my Viking ancestors. Nice guys, Vikings. My 'Grandpa Swede' was, indeed, Swedish. His name was 'Swede' as surely as I am 'Dan'; he was never called anything else. As for the Vikings, they're probably misunderstood, woven into history as brutal, hedonic pirates or seafaring explorer-adventurers. The truth is often in the middle. I'm certain they didn't work soul-crushing nine-to-fives. This surprises me, but I'm not 100% Viking. My ancestors include Native Americans, British explorers, German craftsmen, and Irish writers, humorists, and first-rate drinkers. Superstars, every one. How else can I explain the awesomeness of my children?

I don't brag about M 'n' m enough. My dad talked a big game about me. In my presence it could be uncomfortable, but I realize now it helped an insecure little boy become... an insecure manchild? No, I'm grateful. I'm grateful Papa Mike was forthcoming and generous in adulating my athletic and academic triumphs. He told tales about game-winning shots and homeruns and academic ass-kickings. And they were true. Tall and excessive at times, but true. I praise M 'n' m in private. I should do more, verbally, in public. It's not my nature, but they deserve it. I've never seen a bad grade. They devour books. They hit homeruns. They're expressive, creative, and witty. Their ancestors would be proud.

#258

Megan told me, "I had a dream that I won the lottery and got fifty puppies." Where's my book on dream interpretation? Fifty puppies is a lot. Powerball can be a half billion though, so if Megan won a jackpot, I'd think about it. We'd need a kennel, a big one, a shelter. Even after taxes, Megan would get a lot of money. I would take most of it. A payoff, for approving the fifty puppies. The shelter would be offsite from home, safe, clean, inexpensive, staffed by incredible volunteers, sweet-smelling, and it wouldn't interfere with 4th grade or, next year, 5th, and so on. I would be very specific in our contractual agreement because - this is critical - among Megan's fifty puppies would be some great hunters. Bird dogs. Hunting breeds like setters, retrievers, pointers. Golden Retrievers and German Shorthaired Pointers for sure. Maybe an English Setter. They would be expertly trained (by my hunting friends, mostly Bruce) and we'd hunt on the game preserve also funded by Megan as part of our deal. We'd shoot birds and eat pheasant every day, pheasant casserole, pheasant chili, pheasant pot pie. Pheasant in bacon grease with biscuits. Pheasant jerky. Fifty puppies. I'm a pushover.

#257

Michael loves Minnesota. There are worse things to love. Smoking, BASE jumping, Helen of Troy come to mind. Things bad for a son's health and hygiene. Smoking is a lousy cologne and worse mouthwash. As for adrenaline addiction and dangerous women, I needn't explain, although I agree a little with this too, roughly phrased: "If she doesn't have the capacity to scare the shit out of you, you're barking up the wrong tree." Or a similar idea, "Love carries wrath. And if it doesn't, it's cheap and it's weak. It's not the love you want, the love you live for." That is very Old Testament, of which I'm not a fan but will give it its due on occasion. Okay, I'm way off topic and falling into melodrama. I'm sure, for example, many BASE jumpers will die of old age. But Michael loves Minnesota instead, and I'm okay with it. Minnesota isn't polluted, for one thing. Last month I was in Beijing. Let's talk about air. It's a substance we consume every few seconds, and one we look through constantly, and in Beijing the quality of it is noticeably poor. It's no longer invisible there, or intangible – which is ironic – but instead it's full of ash and grit. It's smoggy and smelly. The unfreshness is perceptible in every breath, and, of course, there's a greyness through which no human or plant can see or feel the sun. It's depressing. No pilot can see a runway either, I'm sure, but thankfully they have unfailing instruments. It was eye-opening. It was eye-stinging, actually. I wore contacts – which was stupid – and then rubbed my bleeding eyes. My nose and throat had to be cleared often. A war with phlegm broke out. Bad air's a drag. (Sorry.) I haven't hugged any trees lately, but I'm thinking about it. I'm grateful we can breathe in Illinois. And we can breathe in Minnesota too! Things are very clear and fresh up there, in fact, and Grandma and Grandpa call it home now, and Paul too, and Anna, so I can't disapprove of my son's soaring opinion of The Land of 10,000 Lakes. (They must count swimming pools, koi ponds, and golf course hazards.)

Addendum: Michael's love of the Vikings is not supported. We can even bring BASE jumping and crazy women back for that one, and differently. As I write this, however, the Vikings are beating the Packers badly at Lambeau and that's not terrible. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Sometimes.

#256

Megan is sweet as pie. Except for when she isn't. Naturally, I prefer the former. It's frustrating when her sweetness is fleeting or elusive or, frankly, like unicorns or dragons. Or maybe "aliens or dinosaurs" is better there. Because aliens might exist, right? And dinosaurs did? That is way off-topic. Anyway, Sweet-Meg isn't rare, but neither is her crabby opposite. She's predictable though, so I'm happy about that. Silver linings. I know when Megan's gonna grumble. Will things be less predictable when she's a teenager? Yes. Like death and taxes I'm told. "Brace yourself," I hear. The worlds and minds of females deepen. Not so with boys, of which I speak as an insider, but young women evolve and complicate. A sophistication begins its unfurling, and with it a new phase of serious, powerful emotion. Very powerful, they say. Shit. So if I fancied myself, before, a kind of meteorologist for Megan's moods, now I shouldn't kid myself. I know nothing. What I think I know is as tenuous and unreliable as what passes for fact in mass media today. With a teenage daughter, storms can appear and flatten everything without warning. That sounds dramatic. Maybe the 'storms' will just flatten my best efforts and intentions to be a good father. I trust Megan. She's a girl, yes, but girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. Sure. Megan is spice alright, and very saucy too. But Megan, I don't really need the unsweet to know its opposite. Okay? 

Megan, you are a tough cookie, but through ten years now, I think we're in a pretty good place. I hope you agree. Your teachers agree. As do others I interrogate about you.  

Yet again, staring at her, I was struck by something: Megan's eyelashes are marvelous. They are long and perfect. And so it occurred to me that my daughter has my lashes but not my amenability. Perhaps, in the end, that's a better choice, Megan, between those two. But remember that niceness isn't weakness. In fact, it could be rudeness that is precisely weakness, or as I read somewhere: "Rudeness is a weak person's imitation of strength."

#255

M 'n' m like a show called "Fresh Off The Boat." It can be painfully inappropriate. As can "Modern Family," another show we love and devour together, as I otherwise pretend to be a high-principled dad. It's an act I've never tried, the unswayable father. "Can we do that?!" "NO!" "Can we watch this?!" "NO!" The anti-pushover. I don't even play one on TV. Which is an unfunny joke that doesn't make much sense, but there it is, and I contend life itself is often the same, inappropriate and nonsensical, but when it gets that way, we're ready for it, M 'n' m and I, desensitized, grounded, and only a little maladjusted! On a lighter note, we love life, and find that it very often does make sense. Take sports for example. Sports make sense. When Michael hits one over the fence, it makes perfect sense. When Meg is making shots, I get it. Life is good. Anyway, the father-of-the-year award goes to... not me.

Speaking of Meg making shots, she asked if we could go to the park and shoot around. I wept. She wants to practice! We grabbed a ball, hopped on our bikes, and pedaled off to a hoop. She shot while I rebounded and kept feeding her, and then I mock-defended her while she drove to the basket and scored. She has a nice little first step, and a decent touch around the rim. Watching her, I nearly wept again. Basketball with Megan is heaven. 

#254

I saw an internet meme the other day that said, "The first 40 years of childhood are the hardest." Coincidentally, I turned 40 last month and also have two children safely within the bounds of their own 'first 40.' So I thought, that's funny. Then I thought, no it's not. I know my parents still have an eye on me - and contemplate intervening, with words if nothing else, during moments of spectacular irresponsibility, which are less regular now but not extinct - and it'll be the same for me with M 'n' m. And so it goes, until we get a call-up to the big ballpark in the sky, where there are no bad hops or errors. Until then, I agree; there's a first 40, a second, and hopefully a third. Then Papa Mike will insist on something like cryostasis, from which he'll be revived, when technology permits, to enjoy a forth, fifth, and sixth 40. He'll be like Darth Vader, mostly mechanical and terrifying and coolly effective and cape-wearing and weapon-bearing and still my father. 

Megan's eyelashes are beautiful. They are curved and precisely bunched and fanned like I imagine the finest brushes of the High Renaissance were, which is cheesy and not true; the three great masters probably used rags and sleeves, as much as anything, especially Michelangelo on his back in rickety scaffolding going on five years in the Sistine Chapel.... No thanks. I guess it's why we know his name. Anyway, Megan's lashes are long too, and I mean long like daddy longlegs, like spiny lobster antenna, like Kyle Schwarber homeruns. I love Megan. Go Cubs tonight, NLCS game 3.

Grandpa is teaching the boy to hunt

He is officially a tough out

#253

Megan dutifully went to Michael's baseball games today, and she dutifully went last Sunday, also. Five games and a dozen hours of baseball and her only complaint? "Daddy, Michael likes to play 1st base and he doesn't get to play 1st base every inning. WHY DOESN'T HE GET TO PLAY 1ST BASE EVERY INNING?!" We were sitting near the dugout and her voice kind of crescendoed until Michael's coaches heard her. They turned and smiled at me. They know that I know they're doing a great job with my son. But Megan... God I love her. She can be a little shit to me, oppositional, sour, crabbier than a wet cat, stubborn as a mule, but she stands by her brother, boy; she adores and defends him, and will share with him even if it's something she's hoarding or hiding from everyone else. It's a powerful bond, and I'm grateful for it. I could credit some infelicitous events – namely, the divorce – but I'm not sure; it's always been there, so I'm not sure it was sparked or even cemented by joint custody, which means, of course, that Michael is her physically present constant – not Mommy, not Daddy. Megan splits nights and time with Mom and Dad – even if the other parent is only a phone call or 10 minutes away – so Michael is her rock. Michael, as I've mentioned before, doesn't initiate conflict with Meg, but his failure to initiate anything with her pisses me off sometimes. I hear myself saying, "Michael, you're sister is talking to you, please acknowledge her, she wants to show you something she's proud of." She pines for his attention at times and it's precisely then that he's stingy with it. Bad big brother! But I'm happy he doesn't antagonize her, unless she's really crabby, which, unfortunately, is pretty often. Man, I'm trashing both of my kids now! Well, in truth, they are perfect. I love them. And I love that Megan always has an eye on her brother, even when he's on the baseball field.

Long ago...

Post #252

Megan turned 10 yesterday. I'm suddenly without a single-digit child. My mom says she feels old on my birthday, not her own. I understand now. M 'n' m are growing up, and it's finally registering in my gut, which is always more forceful and effectual than any thoughts that float up-top for me. And there are always thoughts up-top; my mind is like a big wave pool. At the base of Niagara Falls. In Hurricane Katrina. Thankfully, Megan and I are both September babies – how cute, to phrase it that way – so if another plus-one to my age is a downer, followed by a reminder-smack on Megan's birthday... well, I guess it's a nice, compact beating. It's over in a few weeks. Then I'm back again, feeling young and happy for the 11 months that aren't September!

Michael's busy. He's in 7th grade, takes high school math, plays the cello, plays on two baseball teams, lives in two houses (a challenging reality for joint-custody-burdened kids like M 'n' m), and, AND! – this is what really siphons away attention, as I recall – there are 8th grade girls at Michael's school. Yep, it's true; they exist. It seems everyday I forget where my keys are, but I remember the crushes, notes, dances, parties, and phone calls that characterized my 7th grade 'relationships.' It's crazy-different now, I imagine, with smartphones, social media, and the controversial shit I'm not even aware of, but I'm certain nothing is better than a hand-passed note in a junior high hallway. Will Michael ever be instructed, in real, human handwriting, to circle 'yes' or 'no' if he likes a certain someone? I hope so. A non-texted, non-electronic note is very satisfying. My heart leapt at every one, with its cute, loopy lettering and origami-like folding. My nerves leapt, too. Even if I never touched or saw my note-giving girlfriend once we were 'going out.' I was dumped and rejected by notes also, of course. But still. Only fond memories. How is Michael handling this part of junior high? I'm not sure, I'll have to ask.

Champion

Some old excerpts…

I put M 'n' m in a bath together. Things didn't go well. (6-year-old) Michael said, "Megan kicked my penis and that is really terrible for my penis." True. It's also true that a pronoun can be used to avoid repeating the noun.

M ‘n’ m and I were eating at a diner and some college-age women walked in. Excited by her new membership, (6-year-old) Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!”

Whenever (3-year-old) Megan sees baseball or football or any sport whatsoever on TV, she says, “Look, Daddy, the Cubs!”

(4-year-old) Megan still puts her shoes on the wrong feet. It should be 50/50, right? As in, half the time she gets it right, half the time wrong? No. We’re not even close to that success rate. ...... Megan is not fooled by cars, however; she’s a loud backseat driver. “Don’t speed, Daddy,” and “You have to stop at red, Daddy,” and “Daddy, when it turns green you can go.” Thank you, Sugar-Pie, how did I manage 15 years of driving without you?

(7-year-old) Michael asked me, “Do Jedi take baths or showers?”

I told (5-year-old) Megan that Grandma and Papa picked out a new puppy. A little girl. Megan liked that! She did NOT, however, like it when I mentioned the puppy has to stay with her mommy at the breeder for another month. Megan said, “A month?! How many minutes is that, Daddy?”

(5-year-old Megan) decided to teach me about ‘the birds and the bees.’ She said, “Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?” I was confused and said, “Pipe?” She said, “Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it’s a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one.” I pictured this important, iconic discussion going a little bit differently...

(5-year-old Megan) learned the Hail Mary prayer. She recited it correctly except for, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for the scissors.” (A benign alternative, I suppose, to “pray for us sinners.”)

When Michael gives (5-year-old) Megan a command like, “Pick up your mess, Megan,” or “You need a jacket, Megan,” she says, “You know Michael, you’re not the daddy!” That’s right, Honey-Bunny! Good girl! I’m the daddy!!

(From 2010) I am off to China again for work. The kids will visit Houston while I’m gone. “Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Houston?” No Lovebug, but I wish. ...... We play T-ball in the front yard. Of course only the kids hit. Finally, Michael said, “We should let Daddy hit too.” Megan said, “Oh no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa.” ...... I took Megan to school and must’ve deviated from the usual route. She said, “Daddy, you’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Oh, okay My Love, can you show me how to get to your school?” She said, “Yes, I will show you when I see it.”

(6-year-old Megan) read to me last night. "Go, Dog. Go!" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want." ...... We were watching the Cubs and Meggie said, "Dad, the baseball players spit on their court. It's crazy, right? You can't spit on your court!" ...... Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn't wear underpants? I said, "Really, that's interesting, how do you know?" Megan said, "I saw it at the museum, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked."

From the top of the Sears Tower looking down at massive, busy Chicago, (7-year-old) Michael said, “I can’t believe God has this all under control.” ...... I started the shower for (8-year-old) Michael. He said, “I don’t wanna take a shower.” I said, “Five minutes ago I asked you, and you said you’d shower instead of bathe today.” Michael said, “Well, do you ever answer a question without thinking?” “Yes,” I admitted. “Well I do too,” he said. ...... (7-year-old) Michael said, “For some reason, I have an effect on girls. I don’t know what it is.”...... (6-year-old) Michael asked me, “Daddy, does looking at cake make you want to eat cake?” Deep, Michael. Very deep.

(From 2011) The other day I heard, “Daddy is always happy.” It was Megan’s sweet voice in the backseat and she said it again, “Daddy is always happy, Michael.” One of my proudest moments as a father….

Post #251

Michael pedaled his way to junior high today. His first day. He was excited, decidedly un-nervous, and I thought about plucking a hair for DNA, veiled by a familiar kiss on top of his head, a nonchalant affection-practice I subject him to frequently, which he doesn't seem to mind, even though he's a dude and seemingly six feet tall now, and there's my awareness – and still vivid memory – that junior-high means horror at anything uncool, and public preening by one's father is quite possibly the very definition of uncool. But Michael's not hyper-vigilant about coolness yet, sartorially for sure, except regarding shoes; he likes shoes that cost slightly less than plane tickets to places warm and foreign. Otherwise, it's mesh shorts and some kind of clashing upper-wear, and he's off to kick the day's ass with a smile. Unless he's loaf-y and lollygag-y, a disposition he sags into sometimes when there's labor to be done, and then I suppress urges to berate him, and instead toss razors of condescending sarcasm. Hey, my dad was harder on me, and every generation previous a step backwards down a kind of staircase of parental nastiness – if you take their word for it – at the depths of which, the beginning and the bottom, there was discipline by caveman club or abandonment in the wild. Or something. It seems every generation before had it rougher. I know my mom, when younger than Megan, did heaps of laundry everyday and looked after infant and toddler siblings, and my dad cut the lawn – with scissors, he'll tell you, if there was penance to pay for the slightest mouth-off or oversight – when younger than Michael. Now, kids are exasperated whenever our modern-day, American fire hose of amazing, exorbitant materialism is shut off for even a second. Nevermind arguments about diminishing responsibilities at home. Although, really, it's not that bad; it's just different. In fact, it's better! But it's more difficult for me every year to conceive of this 'Greatest Generation' bygone era stuff I bring up for comedic, dramatic comparison. In other words, the life my ancestors must've lived as children – and then as the parents of children – is officially more fantasy, in my mind, than Game Of Thrones.

Addendum to Post #250

Hey, 250 posts. I cringe if I reread any because I've over-shared, overwritten, or, in general, sucked at the writing part. But it's fun. I will keep practicing (writing) and parenting.

Writing is hard. I know some of you agree, and I'm grateful when you say so. I hope M 'n' m write. Letters, stories. Anything. Except rants about how shitty their father was. Or is, 'is' is better there, present tense, because I'll want to read their stuff, even rants about their old man. See, now I've gotten all melodramatic, confusing, wordy, and – sin of sins – I mixed tenses. And I used 'is' three times in a row?! Oh my god, that can't be good. Fail. My hair is thinning. I mean this instant. But before I just post and get it over with, I should probably agonize over every word. Melodramatic? You think 'melancholy' is better there? And Megan will go to prom someday? How crazy will I be then?! Because this is just writing.

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter – it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. – Mark Twain

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Hemingway said that. There's nothing to parenting either.

Post #250

I asked Michael to scribble Uncle Bill a thank-you for a special birthday gift. Michael nodded, busied himself, and later handed me six envelopes, for Bill and five others. My son, the epitome of unspoiledness. Maybe not, but he's generally grateful and optimistic, and I love him for it. His completion of six thank-yous instead of one is a sure sign that decades from now, his lucky spouse won't have to apportion his duties, tell him twice, or bug the shit out of him. He'll never have to be over-reminded or threatened. He'll be proactive, thoughtful, and attentive. And he'll leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Megan and Michael played in their respective All-Star games. They both played well. The Cox kids can hit. It was maybe my proudest day since their births. I'm not kidding, even if I sound shallow and dumb, even if I radiate fatherly folly and misguidance. When Michael hit one over the fence this year, my eyes welled with tears. Just last night, in my softball game, I took a screaming grounder off the face. I know it's better to use my glove, and not my face, but it was a bad hop and it split my chin. And now I'll wear my scar with pride. Shallow and dumb, but proud.

I'm undecided whether to celebrate or censure certain behaviors in my children. If Michael takes out a bully at school, in spectacular UFC fashion, do I applaud or admonish him? The easy answer is the former, of course – I'll feel like buying him a steak and new shoes – but temperance and awareness of consequences are advisable. Imposing physicality isn't Michael's way, but who knows. I was wary of schoolmates who had a militant streak, even if its appearance always seemed justifiable. I would peg Meg as the more likely to attack and scold those who do her wrong, and isn't this an important skill in our seemingly dog-eat-dog world? A 'willingness to close with the enemy,' as they say in the Army, is admirable and predictive of good things. Papa Mike possesses this in spades. So does Grandma Barb. I wouldn't say it's a dog-eat-dog world entirely, though. Empathy is important. Relationships are important. Selfishness, greed, and neediness can be very ugly. What makes some of us more susceptible than others? I dont know, but the Cubs have won six in a row. That's good.

Post #249

I wonder where the wild wanderings of M 'n' m will take them, not just geographically, but in every other conceivable way, frankly, if I may express that curiosity – or several curiosities – without sounding weird, obsessed, paranoid, possessive, vicarious, or too much like myself. A wise and loving man once said, "Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone." Let he who is without weirdness...? So, I'm curious. M 'n' m and I share DNA, ancestral roots, family values, a Midwestern USA upbringing, and stunning good looks. Why wouldn't I be interested? Oh, and I'm their dad. Starting with the obvious...
Geographically: What continents and countries will M 'n' m visit? How will these experiences change and expand them?
And some other 'conceivable ways'...
Professionally: Will Megan be a veterinarian? Will Michael be Magic Mike?
That's wrong, but as Chris Pratt, says, “It’s appalling that for a long time only women were objectified, if we really want to advocate for equality, it’s important to even things out.” Chris Pratt doesn't say much that isn't ironic or humorous.
Academically: Future Cyclones? Or will some other lucky place get them, the military, police academy, art school, the stage....
Psychologically: How will they see and process the world? How will they see themselves?     
Spiritually: Will they lean to orthodoxy or exploration? There are things to sink one's teeth into, and there is mystery; I hope they embrace both. At a minimum, I hope they 'sink their teeth' into kindness. They know Christianity and ritual, charity and prayer. They can go deeper and wider as adults.
Intellectually: What subjects and books will light their fire?
Physically: Will they be health and fitness nuts? Or normal people? (I aspire to be the former, and probably succeed and fail in equal measure.)
Artistically: Every kid is an artist, everywhere and everyday, at school, at home, on restaurant tables, on chalk-covered sidewalks. Kids sing. They are photographers and filmmakers (with smartphones and YouTube). They create things. I hope M 'n' m sustain and nourish their creative drives. Michael is already an excellent cellist. 
Sartorially: Will Michael's shoes, ties, or T-shirts be the most obnoxious? (So far, shoes.) Will Megan wear a one-piece or a one-piece? Under her baggy shorts. (Honestly, I don't have a big hangup about this.)
Recreationally: Will they compete, play, run, ride, row, swim, climb, camp, fish, hike, hunt, shoot, dance, fly, sail, travel, you name it? 
Romantically: Commenting here would be weird. So I will. Love is wonderful. Heartbreak and betrayal are tough teachers, but they are honest and soul-stirring. There is no energy like the energy inspired by love. Thus endeth the sermon. Amen.

Post #248

Megan is stingy with 'Pleases' and 'Thank-yous' and it irritates me. I have a tendency to overuse them and gush (and I abuse 'Sorry' to the point, I'm afraid, of annoying superfluity) but I believe in the elegance and power of politeness. 'Please' is always deserved and appropriate when asking for something. Why is that so hard, Megan?! Just say it! Your middle name is 'Grace' goddammit! :) As for 'Thank You,' I am not especially prim, proper, or British, but I use it simply, genuinely, and without exception. (I think. If you're reading this and at any point in my long life I forgot to thank you for something, please forgive me, I'm sorry.) See Megan, I just dropped a please, a thanks, AND a sorry all in one pitiful plea! THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE! ... Am I crazy?! Don't answer that. Am I over-sensitive, at least, wasteful with civility, at times corny, syrupy, overzealous? Maybe. But Megan's way is NOT wiser. It's not even cooler. This is not a currency we can overspend. Yet I wonder: When Megan finally shows gratitude, does it have more meaning and pop because of its scarcity? No. It just reminds me she's fickle, and her behavior, for example, may get a smile, a smirk, or a gum-smack from our restaurant server who may or may not feel appreciated. I remind myself that Megan's only nine years old and I'm her dad; it's our destiny to be familiar and lock horns. When I pursue other perspectives, everything comes up roses. Megan's teachers assure me she's a perfect angel at school. I call bullshit – at least a little, begging them to admit they've seen flashes of her attitude or impoliteness – and they earnestly, honestly insist that my daughter is delightful. Delightful! Then they go too far, pining for an entire class of Megans, twenty of them; they wish all their students were like Meg. She's perfect to adults and fellow students alike, they laud and praise and then, noting the perplexity on my face, chuckle and explain, "Oh, every child acts differently around family than they do at school." I shouldn't be surprised, they say, if she's challenging and moody at home. Thank you, but it's not a surprise, it's a pain in the ass. Megan also tests high and gets good grades, and has nice friends, and is a good player and teammate during softball. If I could just get more 'Pleases' and 'Thank-yous' I'd be satisfied.