The kids and I flew to Texas for spring break. Grandma, Papa, and
Uncle Bill scooped us up at the airport and we all sobbed a little over
Iowa State's last second NCAA tourney loss to Ohio State. The game ended
only minutes before we landed and – a frustrating thing in many sports –
the outcome hinged on a controversial referee decision, a charging /
blocking call. Charles Barkley was livid and insisted, in post-game TV
commentary, that Iowa State was robbed. I'm not one to disagree with
Charles Barkley. So we shook off disappointment and headed straight for
the Fort Worth Stockyards, a place that looks and feels – and smells – like a real cowtown. Real cowboys and cowgirls ride up and down the streets –
they ride horses, I mean, not Harley's or in cars, although those were
mixed into passing traffic also. The horse-riders appeared very capable
and authentic, with all the proper accessories and tools; they had worn
and dusty boots and hats, spurs, chaps, ropes, and Wranglers. They had
humongous belt buckles. Yosemite Sam comes to mind, and not as a
caricature or exaggeration. And many had holstered guns, which really
consummated the image until I noticed they also had holstered cell
phones. The area gets its name from cattle drives that still pass
through the town and into nearby sale barns and pens, aka stockyards. We
saw wagons and steers and several mustaches. We heard twangy voices and
sounds – I'm pretty sure they aren't words –
like y'all, reckin', fixin', and pardner. People were very nice. And I
was relieved to see exactly zero cowboys squinting at Google Maps on
saddle-mounted Android devices. Yee-haw!
I am
Megan's sherpa. If we go for a walk, or to a store, or a restaurant, or
anywhere at all, Megan will say, "Dad, will you hold my chapstick?" Sure. Then, "Dad, will you carry my scarf, please?" I guess,
followed by, "Dad, I'm hot; will you take my coat," and "Dad, can you
carry my sweater?" and "Dad, here's my hat." We go through everything
after that – purse, book, water bottle, paint chips, stupid pamphlets she picks up, (which I discard immediately) – until finally, "Dad, will you carry me?"
I oblige, because I won't be able to do it forever, and I don't get to
snuggle and sniff her much otherwise. And it's good exercise. And, I
don't know, shit, do I need more excuses not to sound like putty?
At dinner last night, Michael said, "Do we ever vacuum the kitchen floor?" I said, "As a matter of fact, Michael, we do not ever vacuum the kitchen floor, but I
do." Sometimes. Maybe not super-often. Maybe not often enough. Okay, I
get it. Although, in my defense, I just vacuumed last weekend (after a
minor, month-long hiatus) and I am definitely not one of the two people
who leave mountains of crumbs every time a cracker, cookie, or chip is
consumed, or a slice, piece, or bite of anything whatsoever is handled,
or, rather, mishandled. And, for the record, Michael has never
complained about the toilets. I clean those often. Maybe it's time he
clean those often. I still have the dishes, laundry, sinks, counters,
tables, mirrors, tub, and shower to keep me busy. And the floors! Don't
forget the floors!
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Dad Entry #158
It's been a long time since I recorded any lies about my children. Or, rather, any lies about my patience and unwavering optimism as consistent response to all they do. Maybe that sentiment is fictionalized the most here, in over-glowing commentary. Because I'm pretty certain – my favorite oxymoron – that everything I've written about the kids is true. Have I embellished? Maybe a smidgen. Have I selectively remembered and edited? Sure. Will Iowa State go to the Final Four this year? Hell yeah!
Megan has not received more notes from her admirer named Will. Accordingly, I've taken some staff off of retainer. No longer on the payroll are the private investigator, for example, and Megan's two bodyguards. Speaking of money, Michael is very clear and adamant he'll be lavishly-heeled someday, richer than a pharaoh. I was probably adamant – and self-assured – about that also, at Michael's age. Then life happened. Now I tell myself money's not important. Did I mention 'lies' above? Michael is already making plans, though. He'll find and examine some long-forgotten toy or knick-knack on his shelf. He'll squint his eyes or tilt his head (whatever mannerisms indicate that he's ruminating, plotting), and he'll say, "I bet I can sell this online for tons of money."
Meg has an American Girl diary. She writes in it, and sometimes wants to share what she's written. I know the feeling.
I drafted Michael's baseball team last Saturday. It was difficult; I tried to get a team of nine-year-old Jeter's (he's a good clubhouse guy, has great baseball skills, and only dates A-list movie stars and models). We'll see. Maybe I got a Cabrera. If so, I get a triple-crown-capable prodigy, but I gotta keep him from partying all night. I can't wait to coach again; they are good kids, and decent ballplayers, too.
Recently, Michael's attention was caught by a black-and-white photo of the Greek restaurant we were eating at. The picture showed the place when it opened. Michael studied it. It was dated 1989. Michael said, "Oh, back in the 80's everything must've been in black-and-white. And there were probably no TVs." The second part of this revelation, especially, was uttered with an absolute sadness for the poor souls who endured this decade. I didn't respond; I didn't even know where to begin. I think we each pitied the other for a moment. No one commemorates the 80's for fashion, or hairstyles involving bangs, but it might go down as the last great decade, the perfect blend of humanity and technology.
Megan has not received more notes from her admirer named Will. Accordingly, I've taken some staff off of retainer. No longer on the payroll are the private investigator, for example, and Megan's two bodyguards. Speaking of money, Michael is very clear and adamant he'll be lavishly-heeled someday, richer than a pharaoh. I was probably adamant – and self-assured – about that also, at Michael's age. Then life happened. Now I tell myself money's not important. Did I mention 'lies' above? Michael is already making plans, though. He'll find and examine some long-forgotten toy or knick-knack on his shelf. He'll squint his eyes or tilt his head (whatever mannerisms indicate that he's ruminating, plotting), and he'll say, "I bet I can sell this online for tons of money."
Meg has an American Girl diary. She writes in it, and sometimes wants to share what she's written. I know the feeling.
I drafted Michael's baseball team last Saturday. It was difficult; I tried to get a team of nine-year-old Jeter's (he's a good clubhouse guy, has great baseball skills, and only dates A-list movie stars and models). We'll see. Maybe I got a Cabrera. If so, I get a triple-crown-capable prodigy, but I gotta keep him from partying all night. I can't wait to coach again; they are good kids, and decent ballplayers, too.
Recently, Michael's attention was caught by a black-and-white photo of the Greek restaurant we were eating at. The picture showed the place when it opened. Michael studied it. It was dated 1989. Michael said, "Oh, back in the 80's everything must've been in black-and-white. And there were probably no TVs." The second part of this revelation, especially, was uttered with an absolute sadness for the poor souls who endured this decade. I didn't respond; I didn't even know where to begin. I think we each pitied the other for a moment. No one commemorates the 80's for fashion, or hairstyles involving bangs, but it might go down as the last great decade, the perfect blend of humanity and technology.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Dad Entry #157
A few weeks ago, Megan wiped out on a snow hill and sledded on her face for a distance, or so it seemed according to her wounds, which included a big scab over cheekbone and temple, and some black-and-blue around her eye. The damage was impermanent; all signs have vanished already. Kids heal fast. I wasn't there for the accident, but Megan cried out for me, Sara said, which makes me both happy and sad.
Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.
Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?
Last night was a rough night. The kids were exhausted from sledding again, and suddenly a dramatic crabbiness seized us all. I leave for China tomorrow and I hate departing after a weekend of threats, standoffs, and discipline, but it happens, since I'm missing them already, and they likely sense the kind of weakness every child is expert at exploiting. It's not malicious, but I have to meet it; we need to love and respect each other especially before I leave for 10 days. Parenting has its share of irony; this is one of those times I'm pretty certain I'm no good at it. I'm only saved by the times I'm pretty sure no one else is always good at it either.
Megan is a pistol. A spitfire. A tough cookie. I love her dearly, and do my best to parent her, but I'm afraid I often fail. I want my children to be emotionally nourished, so I lavish them with love and encouragement. Pretty simple, right? Of course not. Because coddling them is a disservice. But I believe the surest way to diminish any sense of well-being and fulfillment in adults is to stunt them emotionally as children. There are some stiff people out there who could've used more hugs. But on the flip side, when I see egotists, I wonder if they were spoiled as kids. Overall, I'm certain of nothing but the fact that raising humans is both complex and comprehensive; and each critical balance to be struck, phase to navigate, infraction to punish, infraction to ignore, hug to be hugged, emotion to oppose, emotion to temper, emotion to validate... these and a thousand other things should be managed precisely specific to each child's unique and evolving personality. This suggests a moving target, not to mention one that's volatile, intricate, sensitive, not at all invincible, and often complicated or clouded by deep, deep love. What could be easier?
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Dad Entry #156
Michael is pretty tidy when it comes to schoolwork. I'm most aware of things that require my involvement, of course, things like his reading log which I bless with my autograph. Not so valuable, my autograph, but it's nice to give it. Michael puts papers I need to sign (his reading tracker, yes, but also stuff like permission slips and notes about curriculum) in front of me like an attorney at a closing, neatly ordering, stacking, and sliding them across the table. "Oh, and here's a good pen, Dad," he'll say, clicking one to arm it and handing it over with a smile, pleasantly, expectantly, ready to sweep away each paper once signed. He's a pro. Instead of asking him appropriate questions about the upcoming field trip, or school subjects, I pretend I'm Lebron or Verlander with a Sharpee signing posters. (I wonder if my son realizes how juvenile most adults are. Probably not. I didn't realize this until I was about 35.) Well, it seems logical, or chronological, to talk about Megan next, in this context, but I'm unenthusiastic. Oh, Meggie. Unlike her brother, Megan will ask me if I've signed her stuff before she's even taken anything out of her backpack. And sometimes her backpack is still in the car. "Umm, Honey, I'm not going to dig your papers out for you, if I can even find them. Get your binder, and bring it over here, and we'll review things together, please and thank you." We're working on it. But, this part is equally true; Meg practices her spelling words over and over again, and she asks for math problems to do on her whiteboard. She's a good student, also.
Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.
Megan's desk is fascinating. Why, exactly? Well, I'm simple-minded, I guess, and achingly in love (two reasons will do for now, hopefully). Please don't disapprove of my strangeness (too late) but I enjoy sitting at her cramped, little desk, imagining how she interacts with the mishmash of stuff I see littering its surface. This exercise relieves me instantly of any family-familiar OCD concerns, at least of the 'sock drawer' variety, because it's quite obvious that Megan's desk is not clean whatsoever, many miles from the flawlessly ordered and arranged sock-drawer scenario referenced above (the scary-perfection of which is terrifying; if you've seen one, you know what I mean), but instead Megan's desk looks like Barry Bonds - at his PED peak - took a swing at a bulging pinata nearby. I sit there and envision Megan concentrating on the works of art, the colored pages, the Shrinky Dinks, the Mosaic crafts. Right now there's a Geronimo Stilton book she's so very proud to have finished. It's a "chapter book!" There are various hair-thingies, ponytail holders, barrettes, headbands. There are plants, pens, crayons, markers, erasers, photos, knick-knacks from China, a "Tangled" activity book, an "Angry Birds" coloring book, a pink lamp with a zebra-striped shade, a pink peace-sign stencil, a few pieces of candy from who-knows-where, one of the 'big four candy holidays' I presume; it starts with Halloween, and then Christmas, Valentines Day, and Easter all do their thing, nearly on top of each other it seems, and even if given in moderation, the pieces and piles of candy somehow come back faster and thicker every time like beard stubble. Endeavoring to raise healthy children is really a grind sometimes.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Dad Entry #155
Before Christmas, Megan received a note from a classmate: "Dear Megan (with at least one letter partially scribbled out and rewritten), Here's my phone number (omitted for security reasons) Call me over break, Love, (we'll call him Richard)" Aunt Gretchen was highly critical of everything about Megan's suitor, including Richard's choice of paper. Aunt Gretchen's response: "Dear Richard, a. Get her name right. b. Equipment rental stationary, really? c. You've just ruined any chance you had in high school. Her dad considers you a predator. Move on." God bless Aunt Gretchen! My response, if I gave one, would've been simple and kind: "Richard, I trust this was an accident. You are forgiven. Once." Others in the family, like Uncle Scott, while not approving of Richard whatsoever, were still impressed by his boldness. It's hard to discount; I was in my third decade before closing letters to women (who weren't members of my family) with "Love, Dan."
The baby fish in our tank died. We had several, actually, that didn't make it. They are born so tiny it's common practice to sequester them for a spell (so they won't be snacked on). We did this, but something went wrong. Obviously. Megan coined a word describing what happened; she said the little ones, in their isolation, died from "unloveness." That sounds like a terrible affliction (and reminiscent of the very real and documented "failure to thrive" syndrome). My kids are lucky to have an incredibly loving array of family and friends. We have other concerns and challenges, but I'm not worried about unloveness right now.
Michael discovered Youtube a while back. There are great things on Youtube (fishing clips, tutorials, science videos, sports highlights, sharks!) and some things not so great (angry people, cutting commentaries, rambling nonsense, occasional lewdness). Michael knows there's a monster called the media, powerful and many-tentacled, and he knows it's impressive as both a service and disservice; it's a lavish furnisher of information - and Michael loves information - but it tends to be clownish and to hyperventilate in its insatiable eagerness to caricaturize, sensationalize, and profit from everything. Even the weather. But we like entertainment. Everyone does. The media may seem far-reaching and omnipresent, but there are places to hide from it. And we will hide from it. Often, I hope. I don't want my children to live the media's values. I want my children to live their own values.
We still sing Christmas carols at bedtime, cheerfully but softly. We are far from raucaus. It will be February soon, after all. Michael will tell you the Earth has to rotate over 300 times before we get Christmas again. Bummer. But carols are familiar songs, and Megan has a sweet voice. It's not uncommon for her to lose the melody reading lesser-known verses (from pages of lyrics) but she sings on unvexed. It might be painful if she wasn't so earnest and cute, and snug in her bed with her stuffed animals, fleece blanket, and bowling pin picture frame.
The baby fish in our tank died. We had several, actually, that didn't make it. They are born so tiny it's common practice to sequester them for a spell (so they won't be snacked on). We did this, but something went wrong. Obviously. Megan coined a word describing what happened; she said the little ones, in their isolation, died from "unloveness." That sounds like a terrible affliction (and reminiscent of the very real and documented "failure to thrive" syndrome). My kids are lucky to have an incredibly loving array of family and friends. We have other concerns and challenges, but I'm not worried about unloveness right now.
Michael discovered Youtube a while back. There are great things on Youtube (fishing clips, tutorials, science videos, sports highlights, sharks!) and some things not so great (angry people, cutting commentaries, rambling nonsense, occasional lewdness). Michael knows there's a monster called the media, powerful and many-tentacled, and he knows it's impressive as both a service and disservice; it's a lavish furnisher of information - and Michael loves information - but it tends to be clownish and to hyperventilate in its insatiable eagerness to caricaturize, sensationalize, and profit from everything. Even the weather. But we like entertainment. Everyone does. The media may seem far-reaching and omnipresent, but there are places to hide from it. And we will hide from it. Often, I hope. I don't want my children to live the media's values. I want my children to live their own values.
We still sing Christmas carols at bedtime, cheerfully but softly. We are far from raucaus. It will be February soon, after all. Michael will tell you the Earth has to rotate over 300 times before we get Christmas again. Bummer. But carols are familiar songs, and Megan has a sweet voice. It's not uncommon for her to lose the melody reading lesser-known verses (from pages of lyrics) but she sings on unvexed. It might be painful if she wasn't so earnest and cute, and snug in her bed with her stuffed animals, fleece blanket, and bowling pin picture frame.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Dad Entry #154
Michael is a bit averse to chivalrous concepts like "ladies first." Of course, the lady in question is very often his little sister, gorgeous and sweet, unless she isn't, which can happen, and nearly every offending episode - an unladylike lapse into name-calling, for example, or farting - is witnessed by her brother. So I understand Michael's confusion, frustration, often exasperation, when I instruct him to get the door for Megan, simply and only because of her femininity, even if she's just acted blatantly impolite or inelegant. "Be a gentleman, Michael," I tell him. And then I add, because self-interest is a great motivator, especially for nine-year-olds, "You won't regret it; it will pay you back tenfold." He really doesn't understand that part.
I often wonder what Michael "will be when he grows up." I wonder the same about Megan. I don't think about it as a demanding, expectant, or prideful parent. Life can be so full, so much comedy, tragedy, and romance, whether we are pothole-fillers or brain surgeons, both very necessary jobs. Potholes wreak havoc on tires, axles, and alignment. And brains are useful. We are not defined by our occupations, in my opinion, or our habits, hobbies, and other pursuits, or even our friends, families, or bodies. We are something deeper, something, somehow, ethereal and yet more real than the material, the physical. Blah, blah. I've digressed. Megan is really cute in skinny jeans.
A few times in my life, very serious and anxious times, my father has said something like, "Don't worry about that," or "That will not be a problem for you," or "That will never happen." Such pronouncements from him carry impressive weight for me, following an accident, a scare, a moment of error or embarrassment (they happen to us all), a teaching moment or impetus for growth (nicer ways to put it). I believe him when he says, "You'll be fine," with a finality, authority, and confidence that remarkably allay some of my worst doubts, and bolster me in the face of these rare, severe scenarios. And this despite his notoriety for embellishment (insert smile). My father has resources, influence, and presence in these moments; I want to possess these for my children, also. I hope they view their father the way I do mine.
I often wonder what Michael "will be when he grows up." I wonder the same about Megan. I don't think about it as a demanding, expectant, or prideful parent. Life can be so full, so much comedy, tragedy, and romance, whether we are pothole-fillers or brain surgeons, both very necessary jobs. Potholes wreak havoc on tires, axles, and alignment. And brains are useful. We are not defined by our occupations, in my opinion, or our habits, hobbies, and other pursuits, or even our friends, families, or bodies. We are something deeper, something, somehow, ethereal and yet more real than the material, the physical. Blah, blah. I've digressed. Megan is really cute in skinny jeans.
A few times in my life, very serious and anxious times, my father has said something like, "Don't worry about that," or "That will not be a problem for you," or "That will never happen." Such pronouncements from him carry impressive weight for me, following an accident, a scare, a moment of error or embarrassment (they happen to us all), a teaching moment or impetus for growth (nicer ways to put it). I believe him when he says, "You'll be fine," with a finality, authority, and confidence that remarkably allay some of my worst doubts, and bolster me in the face of these rare, severe scenarios. And this despite his notoriety for embellishment (insert smile). My father has resources, influence, and presence in these moments; I want to possess these for my children, also. I hope they view their father the way I do mine.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Dad Entry #153
Michael asked for a glimpse inside Papa Mike’s gun safe. This is a
touchy subject, always, and especially following the unspeakable horror
in Newtown. It’s too early to show him, but someday I’ll ask Papa to
open ‘er up and have a moment with his grandson. We hunt and handle
guns. Some awareness of them – and their use by militaries, hunters, our
pioneering ancestors, and, frankly, criminals, gangs, and terrorists –
is entirely appropriate for my children, in my humble opinion. I will
teach them how to use guns, with extreme safety and not even the tiniest
speck of glorification.
Michael and I listen to AC/DC to get fired up for his basketball games. "Back in Black" and "Thunderstruck" both trigger the urge to metamorphose into the Incredible Hulk, a little bit impossible for me, but a potent feeling nonetheless, and one Michael agrees is repeatable and powerful, when the guitars kick off, and the sound and energy lift us. I struggle with the impossibility of the Hulk’s pants (shredded perfectly into shorts that still fit), but I love the associated invincibility, the feeling I can run through brick walls, like high school athletes through decorated paper hoops held by cheerleaders. I wonder if high schools still do these silly – but memorable and important – things. Michael, possessing the heart of a young artist, likes the thought of being green-skinned more than tough-skinned (and able to plow through masonry and pound it to dust). To each his own.
Listening to Megan sound out words, and learn to read, is one of the great pleasures of my life. I appreciate the recitation and rhythm of sentences, their construction and variety; I like sentences that are blunt and crisp, and sentences that wander. And I like Megan.
Megan will stop in the middle of something - tying shoes perhaps, or eating – and just stare ahead, peacefully. Apparently I do this too (impossible for me to believe because I feel self-harried and riddled with anxiety so often), and if noticed in this state, I’m accused of going to “Planet Dan.” Megan spaced-out last night, and when she finally came back to us, she credited a voyage to “Planet Megan” for her absence. I can’t decide if Planet Megan, which I proudly announced must orbit Planet Dan, is a healthy and safe place, and not inhospitable or barren, entirely gaseous, volcano-covered, radiation-blasted, 800 degrees, and hammered by asteroids. Or frozen and grey. No, I think Planet Megan is restful and welcoming; I think it's a happy place.
Michael and I listen to AC/DC to get fired up for his basketball games. "Back in Black" and "Thunderstruck" both trigger the urge to metamorphose into the Incredible Hulk, a little bit impossible for me, but a potent feeling nonetheless, and one Michael agrees is repeatable and powerful, when the guitars kick off, and the sound and energy lift us. I struggle with the impossibility of the Hulk’s pants (shredded perfectly into shorts that still fit), but I love the associated invincibility, the feeling I can run through brick walls, like high school athletes through decorated paper hoops held by cheerleaders. I wonder if high schools still do these silly – but memorable and important – things. Michael, possessing the heart of a young artist, likes the thought of being green-skinned more than tough-skinned (and able to plow through masonry and pound it to dust). To each his own.
Listening to Megan sound out words, and learn to read, is one of the great pleasures of my life. I appreciate the recitation and rhythm of sentences, their construction and variety; I like sentences that are blunt and crisp, and sentences that wander. And I like Megan.
Megan will stop in the middle of something - tying shoes perhaps, or eating – and just stare ahead, peacefully. Apparently I do this too (impossible for me to believe because I feel self-harried and riddled with anxiety so often), and if noticed in this state, I’m accused of going to “Planet Dan.” Megan spaced-out last night, and when she finally came back to us, she credited a voyage to “Planet Megan” for her absence. I can’t decide if Planet Megan, which I proudly announced must orbit Planet Dan, is a healthy and safe place, and not inhospitable or barren, entirely gaseous, volcano-covered, radiation-blasted, 800 degrees, and hammered by asteroids. Or frozen and grey. No, I think Planet Megan is restful and welcoming; I think it's a happy place.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Dad Entry #152
Santa brought Michael a gecko. An Eyelash Crested Gecko, to be exact
(Michael is often annoyed by imprecision, no doubt signaling a budding -
but hopefully mild - case of OCD, not uncommon in his extended family).
The gecko is called Nick; named by Michael in honor of the giver. I like
Nick. He has mottled, earthy coloring and watchful eyes and five-toed
feet so much like human hands I wonder if he can dribble and shoot a
little basketball. Maybe I've seen too many Geico commercials. We all
have. But lizards are cool. Kids are right after all; running with
dinosaurs would be amazing (until they ate you, or crapped, or exhaled a
big plume of moist, rotten breath in your face). Nick’s a jumper. He
will leap from a shoulder all the way to the ground without injury. At
least we think he’s okay; no bones are sticking out; everything appears
connected at appropriate angles, unlike, for example, Joe Theisman’s
leg.
I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the news, an after-midnight missed call from my mom and a voicemail she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, consistently, confidently; he became a tough out. From then on, he was comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fought and fouled off tough pitches and made good contact on meaty ones. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War.
There has been some discussion among my family (never initiated by me!) about my longish – and dwindling – hair. Megan has been listening, apparently; the other day, out of nowhere, she blurted, “I like your mullet, Daddy.” Yes, it was spoken sweetly, believe it or not, with a kind of compassionate assurance; I think she knew hers was a differing opinion, a positive one. But clearly she missed the term’s previous connotation, the mean-spirited, injurious, poisonous, hateful – okay, that will do :) - way it was used to denigrate my hair before. Of course, I burst out laughing, even as the accused; the word possesses a delightfully enormous amount of comedic power. It simply cannot, however, be used in a compliment. But Megan tried.
I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the news, an after-midnight missed call from my mom and a voicemail she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, consistently, confidently; he became a tough out. From then on, he was comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fought and fouled off tough pitches and made good contact on meaty ones. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War.
There has been some discussion among my family (never initiated by me!) about my longish – and dwindling – hair. Megan has been listening, apparently; the other day, out of nowhere, she blurted, “I like your mullet, Daddy.” Yes, it was spoken sweetly, believe it or not, with a kind of compassionate assurance; I think she knew hers was a differing opinion, a positive one. But clearly she missed the term’s previous connotation, the mean-spirited, injurious, poisonous, hateful – okay, that will do :) - way it was used to denigrate my hair before. Of course, I burst out laughing, even as the accused; the word possesses a delightfully enormous amount of comedic power. It simply cannot, however, be used in a compliment. But Megan tried.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Dad Entry #151
Christmas! We survived. Although, things aren't over yet; we have one more Christmas to celebrate, this weekend, with the kids' paternal grandpa's branching family, if that makes sense. They'll be young kids and old ones (like me) and just enough adult supervision to make sure everyone is richly fed, given gifts, and uninjured. It's really wonderful, all of our Christmas's are; we're fortunate.
Megan was stubbornly ungrateful for a certain present last year, and I was nervous for a repeat offense. Why the anxiety, you ask? Aren't you in control as a parent? Control is a complex, and often ambiguous, concept to me, and to employ and enforce it in a healthy, non-stunting way is perhaps the challenge of challenges when it comes to parenting. Did I answer the question :) Back to my story, I was nervous because we 'prepared' last year, also, but my daughter can be as obstinate as she is beautiful. Opening presents... it's one of those iconic moments for parents, your children before an audience in a scenario with tremendous potential for awkwardness and judgment (judgment dispensed by all, and rightfully so, but most liberally by people without children of their own, which I understand; as a person, I have no patience for rudeness either, and fear for children who routinely display it, but as a parent I've walked the tightrope, and therefore, right or wrong, I have a dash of sympathy to soften or sweeten an otherwise big pot of collective condemnation directed at erring children and their parents). So this year there were no supremely egregious violations of gift etiquette, although Megan - at Uncle Bill's, of course, with the same group of witnesses as last year - was too quick and deliberate in announcing that a shirt she received had an identical twin already in her dresser. It's always nice to have things to work on, I guess.
Megan still has a distaste for perspiration. She does, however, like physical competition, especially in gym class; she says it's just very exciting, beating the boys and knocking them out of games, and so on. These seem mutually exclusive to me: "I want to kick ass but stay cool, clean, sweet-smelling, and dry." I'm anxious for these competing preferences to clash, to see if a winner emerges. I know who I'm rooting for.
At moments, I'm purely certain Megan is the cutest human being on the planet. This poses issues, of course, or rather it imposes or attempts to sway, pull, move, like gravity or a strong magnet, but then the forces I perceive collide and cancel, and things seem to correct themselves or come back into balance, when Megan acts like a little shit. Therefore, somehow, I'm not afraid of any relinquishment of reality, or authority. But it's a daily struggle.
Megan was stubbornly ungrateful for a certain present last year, and I was nervous for a repeat offense. Why the anxiety, you ask? Aren't you in control as a parent? Control is a complex, and often ambiguous, concept to me, and to employ and enforce it in a healthy, non-stunting way is perhaps the challenge of challenges when it comes to parenting. Did I answer the question :) Back to my story, I was nervous because we 'prepared' last year, also, but my daughter can be as obstinate as she is beautiful. Opening presents... it's one of those iconic moments for parents, your children before an audience in a scenario with tremendous potential for awkwardness and judgment (judgment dispensed by all, and rightfully so, but most liberally by people without children of their own, which I understand; as a person, I have no patience for rudeness either, and fear for children who routinely display it, but as a parent I've walked the tightrope, and therefore, right or wrong, I have a dash of sympathy to soften or sweeten an otherwise big pot of collective condemnation directed at erring children and their parents). So this year there were no supremely egregious violations of gift etiquette, although Megan - at Uncle Bill's, of course, with the same group of witnesses as last year - was too quick and deliberate in announcing that a shirt she received had an identical twin already in her dresser. It's always nice to have things to work on, I guess.
Megan still has a distaste for perspiration. She does, however, like physical competition, especially in gym class; she says it's just very exciting, beating the boys and knocking them out of games, and so on. These seem mutually exclusive to me: "I want to kick ass but stay cool, clean, sweet-smelling, and dry." I'm anxious for these competing preferences to clash, to see if a winner emerges. I know who I'm rooting for.
At moments, I'm purely certain Megan is the cutest human being on the planet. This poses issues, of course, or rather it imposes or attempts to sway, pull, move, like gravity or a strong magnet, but then the forces I perceive collide and cancel, and things seem to correct themselves or come back into balance, when Megan acts like a little shit. Therefore, somehow, I'm not afraid of any relinquishment of reality, or authority. But it's a daily struggle.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Dad Entry #150
I wonder who Michael's first crush will be? Or, more specifically, I wonder what familiar or striking qualities will draw him in? Quiet and cute? Strong and loud? Makes the best paper airplanes? Loves dissecting owl pellets? Capable of naming, both alphabetically and chronologically by appearance in Clone Wars episodes, every single Star Wars bounty hunter? (Holy shit, he'd be a goner.) One would think a sweet face could play a part. I'm sure the truth lies in a magical mix of things obvious and not so obvious, things apparent and other things odd, diverse, and difficult to specify. Is there someone, already, who quickens his pulse and flushes his cheeks? Do you remember your first crush? Around Michael's age, I was enchanted by a neighbor and classmate named Desiree. Oh Desiree, I tried so very hard to impress her. She didn't notice. It's about that time for Michael.
Megan loves to decorate Christmas trees. It's reason number seven million and something that I love her. Megan's brother, however, doesn't help much. I think it's time for coal in his stocking.
Following my last post I searched for "Zubaz" on eBay. I couldn't resist. I watch horror movies on occasion too. I detest but completely understand, and often add to, gapers delay on Chicago highways. As expected, eBay had several items like "Dallas Cowboy Zubuz RARE Extra Large" up for auction. Rare? I hope so.
I played pickup basketball with a herd of nine-year-olds last night. It was an optional practice for Michael's team. Comparatively, of course, I was a giant (always nice when playing bball) but I never blocked any shots or did anything obnoxious. Michael's a good shooter. He sank around ten baskets; he just needs the ball delivered to him, somewhat softly and accurately, when he's wide open. Lucky for him he had an assist-focused teammate. I ran the show like Steve Nash. The kids quickly realized I wouldn't shoot though - I only passed (beautifully, I must say) - so they adjusted; they jumped in passing lanes and blanketed open players. They were smart and scrappy and smothered each other on defense. There were pile-ups and scrums. At least once, I pivoted or turned too quickly and flattened a poor kid nearby. Multiple times, little players were hit in the face by flailing limbs or errant shots, rebounds, or passes (but never by me). They shook off tears, and got right back in the mix. Kids are resilient. They constantly show things like energy, effort, eagerness, excitement, earnestness. And that's just the E's.
Megan loves to decorate Christmas trees. It's reason number seven million and something that I love her. Megan's brother, however, doesn't help much. I think it's time for coal in his stocking.
Following my last post I searched for "Zubaz" on eBay. I couldn't resist. I watch horror movies on occasion too. I detest but completely understand, and often add to, gapers delay on Chicago highways. As expected, eBay had several items like "Dallas Cowboy Zubuz RARE Extra Large" up for auction. Rare? I hope so.
I played pickup basketball with a herd of nine-year-olds last night. It was an optional practice for Michael's team. Comparatively, of course, I was a giant (always nice when playing bball) but I never blocked any shots or did anything obnoxious. Michael's a good shooter. He sank around ten baskets; he just needs the ball delivered to him, somewhat softly and accurately, when he's wide open. Lucky for him he had an assist-focused teammate. I ran the show like Steve Nash. The kids quickly realized I wouldn't shoot though - I only passed (beautifully, I must say) - so they adjusted; they jumped in passing lanes and blanketed open players. They were smart and scrappy and smothered each other on defense. There were pile-ups and scrums. At least once, I pivoted or turned too quickly and flattened a poor kid nearby. Multiple times, little players were hit in the face by flailing limbs or errant shots, rebounds, or passes (but never by me). They shook off tears, and got right back in the mix. Kids are resilient. They constantly show things like energy, effort, eagerness, excitement, earnestness. And that's just the E's.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Dad Entry #149
It's interesting, and nostalgic, to list the things my children may never lay eyes on, or take seriously, or witness being used proudly for their original purpose or effect. And all because they were born in the new millennium. Examples? Cassette tapes, dial telephones, short-sleeves with neckties, Zubaz. Actually, outrageous bodybuilding getups are alive and well. But these are cringe-worthy things I never cringed at (except for Zubaz). My children however, would shudder with awkwardness, pity, or confusion at one and all. Think of the clever but clumsy technology we endured, or the interior design concepts that flamed-out spectacularly. There are things vivid in my memory that will be incomprehensible to my kids. NFL running backs without tattoos. Tight NBA shorts. Pros like Spud Web. Mr. Rogers. Alarm clocks with bells. Big, fat, 700 pound tube televisions. Big, fat technology of any kind. The Atari 2600. Phallic joysticks, simple joysticks, the word joystick (not as innuendo). Wood-paneled walls. Telephone cords. TVs with zero remotes but several humongous, uncooperative, telescopic antennas augmented by coat-hangers. Rap without obscenity. Pants above the waist. Perms. Sky-high bangs. Hairspray as a cornerstone of heavy metal (think of the ozone we're saving now). Ashtrays in vehicles. Smoking in an airplane, smoking in the dugout, smoking in a restaurant. Megan is 7 and Michael is 9 and neither have seen a record spin. Sound, of course, is part of this miracle, but visually it's also remarkable and open; you can see the needle - with intricate suspension - surfing the grooves, and there are enormous dials, buttons, and switches involved too, and amber-tinted plastic. I know some things will circle back. Fashion is fickle and startling. Lately I've seen decorative stitching on pants worn by men. At one point, I might've taken for granted the extinction of corduroy, bell-bottoms, boots with zippers, parachute pants, break-dancing, acid-washed denim jackets, and tight-rolled jeans. Wrong-o!
The kids are expert-builders with Legos. Their stuff is like Frank Lloyd Wright meets the Swiss Family Robinson (mixed with a child's imagination, enthusiasm, and disregard for proportion and building codes). Not surprisingly, Megan uses more color; she loves pastels and pinks. Michael uses gunmetal gray. Meg builds homes with fabulous bedrooms, kitchens, and windows. She makes salons and stables. Her interiors have artwork, potted flowers, and bowls of fruit. Michael's structures lack amenities that Megan would never overlook, but his aircraft hangars and weapons rooms are impressive. They are elaborate and precisely functional. If his kingdom were to advance across the Lego table and attack Megan's, his stockpiles of guns, swords, spears, halberds, axes, and lightsabers would wreak bloody havoc during the siege. But warfare requires rations, and Michael has none; Megan hoards all the food. (Lego makes carrot sticks, fish, turkeys, apples, bananas, grapes, pizzas, dishes and utensils now, small but obvious pieces.) I'm starting to think the Lego table, with boy on one side and girl on the other, goes a long way in divulging key differences between the male and female of our great species.
The kids are expert-builders with Legos. Their stuff is like Frank Lloyd Wright meets the Swiss Family Robinson (mixed with a child's imagination, enthusiasm, and disregard for proportion and building codes). Not surprisingly, Megan uses more color; she loves pastels and pinks. Michael uses gunmetal gray. Meg builds homes with fabulous bedrooms, kitchens, and windows. She makes salons and stables. Her interiors have artwork, potted flowers, and bowls of fruit. Michael's structures lack amenities that Megan would never overlook, but his aircraft hangars and weapons rooms are impressive. They are elaborate and precisely functional. If his kingdom were to advance across the Lego table and attack Megan's, his stockpiles of guns, swords, spears, halberds, axes, and lightsabers would wreak bloody havoc during the siege. But warfare requires rations, and Michael has none; Megan hoards all the food. (Lego makes carrot sticks, fish, turkeys, apples, bananas, grapes, pizzas, dishes and utensils now, small but obvious pieces.) I'm starting to think the Lego table, with boy on one side and girl on the other, goes a long way in divulging key differences between the male and female of our great species.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Dad Entry #148
Megan spiked a 105 degree fever yesterday. I imagined her brain cells
simmering, as if in a sauce pan. I was concerned. Someone - who loves
Megan dearly, believe it or not - suggested that, with luck, her 'crazy
brain cells' would be accordingly affected (meaning, I assume, boiled
away and destroyed), and the rest of her lovely grey matter spared. (At
least this alleged loving relative added that part, the bit about
some of her brain surviving). Megan is okay, and therefore we can jest.
But we'll know soon enough if her crazy brain cells.... kidding. Megan
isn't any crazier than the rest of us. She is, however, very energetic
and excitable, and beautiful, and occasionally, if not often, moody. In a
word, she's a woman.
I saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a hypocrite." Maybe. But another quote comes to mind: "Hindsight is 20/20." We have the benefit of retrospect and replay. Even college football uses replay now, despite a foolish tournament-less system to crown a national champ. So does hindsight excuse hypocrisy? Absolutely! We parents have been there! Intoxicants, lies, laziness, love triangles, betrayals as both perpetrator and victim, broken laws, brain-killing substances and behaviors and television shows on networks like the CW and the WB... the more we've experienced, the better! Okay, that's not exactly right, but as parents we wear a different hat now, and hypocrisy is the least of our worries.
I saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a hypocrite." Maybe. But another quote comes to mind: "Hindsight is 20/20." We have the benefit of retrospect and replay. Even college football uses replay now, despite a foolish tournament-less system to crown a national champ. So does hindsight excuse hypocrisy? Absolutely! We parents have been there! Intoxicants, lies, laziness, love triangles, betrayals as both perpetrator and victim, broken laws, brain-killing substances and behaviors and television shows on networks like the CW and the WB... the more we've experienced, the better! Okay, that's not exactly right, but as parents we wear a different hat now, and hypocrisy is the least of our worries.
Dad Entry #147
Megan is a crumb factory. The most prolific and industrious of its kind.
EVER! At meals, crumbs fall and drift like snowflakes under her chair.
Other crumbs are captured in the folds of her clothes, to be incubated
and generously sprinkled about. Still others take up residence on her
face, only to be rudely dusted off and sent to the tile, the carpet, the
couch, her bed, in between cushions, swept this way and that, under
appliances, beneath pillows, and stuck to socks. Awesome.
Megan got her 'magical old men with white beards' mixed up yesterday. During a prayer, Meg said, "And God, I hope you eat all the cookies when you come down the chimney." She hesitated, about halfway through the statement; I think she knew she was off. Michael sought immediately to correct her, a favorite pastime of his. I was more gentle and playful in straightening out the two celebrities who, I pointed out, "Probably know each other!" It occurred to me that my fundamentalist friends - who perpetuate, more perfectly than anyone, the woefully inadequate and unbecoming image of God as an old, white-bearded human male who makes lists - might be concerned by this mix-up. Not me. Little bits of happiness, gratitude, and love just tumble out sometimes, when Megan prays. I think that's a good start for a seven-year-old. She never gets scornful and never asks for cash (things many professionals do). Thinking of Megan, and the unconditional love I feel for her, excites my belief that God loves us the same way, and is a very creative and generous maker of things besides. Toys included? Sure. Definitely children included; I'm so very happy He made my children. And their mother helped an awful lot too; thank you, Sara.
I feel pleasure, and a pang of something else - dignity? - when I put a decent meal in front of the kids. It has nothing to do with 'bringing home the bacon' or 'putting food on the table,' because one phrase uses the word 'bacon' and the other is boring - and I'm not chest-pounding (which sounds funny to me in the context of cooking even if some chefs are ass-kickers) as in, I made a very nice white wine reduction with shallots that I drizzled over Megan's chicken nuggets. No, it's just that baking chicken, boiling noodles, concocting sauces, setting a table, chopping and steaming vegetables - AND making sure each thing is ready within a TV show of the others - is just not easy enough to be inappreciable to my sensibilities. I'm aware it hints at the possibility that "putting a decent meal in front of my kids" is the exception, and not the rule. I wouldn't go that far. No need for snickering, Mothers. But do the kids and I still hit the drive-thru a lot? Hell yeah.
Megan got her 'magical old men with white beards' mixed up yesterday. During a prayer, Meg said, "And God, I hope you eat all the cookies when you come down the chimney." She hesitated, about halfway through the statement; I think she knew she was off. Michael sought immediately to correct her, a favorite pastime of his. I was more gentle and playful in straightening out the two celebrities who, I pointed out, "Probably know each other!" It occurred to me that my fundamentalist friends - who perpetuate, more perfectly than anyone, the woefully inadequate and unbecoming image of God as an old, white-bearded human male who makes lists - might be concerned by this mix-up. Not me. Little bits of happiness, gratitude, and love just tumble out sometimes, when Megan prays. I think that's a good start for a seven-year-old. She never gets scornful and never asks for cash (things many professionals do). Thinking of Megan, and the unconditional love I feel for her, excites my belief that God loves us the same way, and is a very creative and generous maker of things besides. Toys included? Sure. Definitely children included; I'm so very happy He made my children. And their mother helped an awful lot too; thank you, Sara.
I feel pleasure, and a pang of something else - dignity? - when I put a decent meal in front of the kids. It has nothing to do with 'bringing home the bacon' or 'putting food on the table,' because one phrase uses the word 'bacon' and the other is boring - and I'm not chest-pounding (which sounds funny to me in the context of cooking even if some chefs are ass-kickers) as in, I made a very nice white wine reduction with shallots that I drizzled over Megan's chicken nuggets. No, it's just that baking chicken, boiling noodles, concocting sauces, setting a table, chopping and steaming vegetables - AND making sure each thing is ready within a TV show of the others - is just not easy enough to be inappreciable to my sensibilities. I'm aware it hints at the possibility that "putting a decent meal in front of my kids" is the exception, and not the rule. I wouldn't go that far. No need for snickering, Mothers. But do the kids and I still hit the drive-thru a lot? Hell yeah.
Dad Entry #146
I'm helping coach Michael's basketball team. I'm not the head coach,
just a bumbling assistant. But it's a start, and I love it. I want badly
for all the boys to succeed. It's like parenting, in that respect,
elation, frustration, suggestion, correction, observation, exasperation,
reflection; all circling, colorfully, in a big carousel. Coaching, like
parenting, exposes nerves that at any moment can be struck - stomped
on, in fact - and sent ringing, producing exquisite sensations not
unlike those encountered in Soviet dentist chairs only 30 years ago (I'm
told by my Russian and Ukrainian coworkers), in gray, spartan medical
offices, made suddenly and spastically very brilliant with color, when
the drill was applied without novocaine. Well, coaching isn't that bad,
or good (consider the relief when one escaped that Soviet dentist
chair), but it really gets me fired up! Since I have spent many months
of my life, in aggregate over the entire span, on a basketball court, I
fancy myself somewhat knowledgeable. Of course, there's a lot of
know-it-all parents out there too, many of whom aren't even parents at all!, or
whom, someday, inevitably - it happens to us all - will be humbled by
events that occur when they're on the job (a job that lasts forever).
It's funny to notice the insecurities that surface while I'm coaching. As a player, I'm pretty sure I could handle with ease - all the kids in the league, of course, none being especially agile or tall or over 100lbs - but 99% of the dads and coaches too, face-to-face in the flow of a game, or one-on-one if they insisted. No sweat. (None look like former college players or in that dreaded early- to mid-twenties age-range that I can no longer own off the dribble and freely create against... I have lost a step). So despite a stubborn, soothing confidence as a player, I'm bombarded by uncertainty when trying to verbally instruct the kids, describe a fundamental, deliver a pointer, run through a play, organize a drill, obtain and maintain attention. I will get better. I'm tempted to impress the boys as a player, to get them to listen. The desire to impress is, of course, the surest sign of insecurity. I could spin the ball on my finger or dribble through both legs and around my back in a blur, show a wicked crossover to freeze my nine-year-old defender, thread a no-look pass (that would only hit a kid in the nose causing bewilderment, shooting pain, snot, and insistent tears - I hate getting hit in the schnoz) or I could drain a smooth pull-up three, but they wouldn't notice. They would only notice a dunk, and I can't do that. Shame on me. That would impress. Then they would hang on my commands and advice, and the very rim itself sometime in the future; they would be focused, hungry, eager to "set a pick," "maintain spacing," "use your left," "box out," "BE QUICK!" and so on. Go get the basketball, it's yours!!
It's funny to notice the insecurities that surface while I'm coaching. As a player, I'm pretty sure I could handle with ease - all the kids in the league, of course, none being especially agile or tall or over 100lbs - but 99% of the dads and coaches too, face-to-face in the flow of a game, or one-on-one if they insisted. No sweat. (None look like former college players or in that dreaded early- to mid-twenties age-range that I can no longer own off the dribble and freely create against... I have lost a step). So despite a stubborn, soothing confidence as a player, I'm bombarded by uncertainty when trying to verbally instruct the kids, describe a fundamental, deliver a pointer, run through a play, organize a drill, obtain and maintain attention. I will get better. I'm tempted to impress the boys as a player, to get them to listen. The desire to impress is, of course, the surest sign of insecurity. I could spin the ball on my finger or dribble through both legs and around my back in a blur, show a wicked crossover to freeze my nine-year-old defender, thread a no-look pass (that would only hit a kid in the nose causing bewilderment, shooting pain, snot, and insistent tears - I hate getting hit in the schnoz) or I could drain a smooth pull-up three, but they wouldn't notice. They would only notice a dunk, and I can't do that. Shame on me. That would impress. Then they would hang on my commands and advice, and the very rim itself sometime in the future; they would be focused, hungry, eager to "set a pick," "maintain spacing," "use your left," "box out," "BE QUICK!" and so on. Go get the basketball, it's yours!!
Dad Entry #145
I spent about 24 hours with just Meg-Pie and my niece, E-Lo (Ellie
Laurienzo). Both are seven years old. And female. Here's what I learned:
1. That annoying song - that I like now - is by Taylor Swift
2. Side ponytails are trending, and are a fashion tier above the regular variety
3. Little girls fart a lot, like way more than chili-lovers, teenage boys, frijole-fans, you name it. The demographics I formerly thought of as world-champion are likely shameful underachievers.
Birthdays come and go, organic material fossilizes, glaciers move, then melt, Donald Trump's hair would even crack or unravel! in the time it takes my children to tie their shoes. And that's only after they locate them. And after they discard them for another pair they suddenly favor (with obvious unawareness of the weather, or 'what goes with what' outfit-wise). And that is only after - the worst part - they untie the strongman-tightened triple-knotted rats-nested laces perfectly preserved from the previous wearing. Because it's possible - very easy, in fact - to just slip their shoes off and kick them aside when no longer needed. But putting them back on again takes millennia. Go figure. There is paradox and irony and metaphor here to chew on and twist for days. I'll have more time to think about it the next time M & m are putting on shoes.
1. That annoying song - that I like now - is by Taylor Swift
2. Side ponytails are trending, and are a fashion tier above the regular variety
3. Little girls fart a lot, like way more than chili-lovers, teenage boys, frijole-fans, you name it. The demographics I formerly thought of as world-champion are likely shameful underachievers.
Birthdays come and go, organic material fossilizes, glaciers move, then melt, Donald Trump's hair would even crack or unravel! in the time it takes my children to tie their shoes. And that's only after they locate them. And after they discard them for another pair they suddenly favor (with obvious unawareness of the weather, or 'what goes with what' outfit-wise). And that is only after - the worst part - they untie the strongman-tightened triple-knotted rats-nested laces perfectly preserved from the previous wearing. Because it's possible - very easy, in fact - to just slip their shoes off and kick them aside when no longer needed. But putting them back on again takes millennia. Go figure. There is paradox and irony and metaphor here to chew on and twist for days. I'll have more time to think about it the next time M & m are putting on shoes.
Dad Entry #144
I got to sit by Megan during Thanksgiving dinner :)
We had the rare doubleheader yesterday: Iowa State football followed by Iowa State basketball. Seven hours of glorious stress. I wonder if Michael will be a Cyclone. Or a Hawkeye, Jayhawk, Gopher, Husker. Who knows. They all sound good to me, although I'll instinctively and happily open my wallet to some institutions more than others. Iowa State has beaten all of the above recently in some, if not most, contests, so I'll likely be amenable to my son bolstering a lesser university that needs his awesomeness. At Iowa State I was taught to share; mostly things like answers to homework and tests, and beer, but the principle stuck.
Megan giggled and announced pridefully, "I've pertzed 24 times today!" I frowned. Then she betrayed the tiniest bit of exertion, revealed in a slight narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips, or straining of her organs, I'm not sure, but I knew what was happening and then she said, "25!" in the instant she exhaled and slumped her shoulders a bit, like a weightlifter after racking the bar. My lovely princess, everybody!
I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." They are probably more valuable to me than all other items of paper I possess, like Ernie Banks baseball cards, money, and the deed to my car.
We had the rare doubleheader yesterday: Iowa State football followed by Iowa State basketball. Seven hours of glorious stress. I wonder if Michael will be a Cyclone. Or a Hawkeye, Jayhawk, Gopher, Husker. Who knows. They all sound good to me, although I'll instinctively and happily open my wallet to some institutions more than others. Iowa State has beaten all of the above recently in some, if not most, contests, so I'll likely be amenable to my son bolstering a lesser university that needs his awesomeness. At Iowa State I was taught to share; mostly things like answers to homework and tests, and beer, but the principle stuck.
Megan giggled and announced pridefully, "I've pertzed 24 times today!" I frowned. Then she betrayed the tiniest bit of exertion, revealed in a slight narrowing of eyes or pursing of lips, or straining of her organs, I'm not sure, but I knew what was happening and then she said, "25!" in the instant she exhaled and slumped her shoulders a bit, like a weightlifter after racking the bar. My lovely princess, everybody!
I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." They are probably more valuable to me than all other items of paper I possess, like Ernie Banks baseball cards, money, and the deed to my car.
Dad Entry #143
Michael has a new war-cry: "I hate zits!" We're fast approaching an
interesting phase. And Michael is 92 pounds now, according to Papa Mike,
who proudly conducted a weigh-in last night, no doubt mimicking a
sportscaster, or the ring announcer before a title fight. My son is
pretty stout. I'm happy for him. And it's evenly distributed volume;
he's tall, with feet that grow so fast I bet you can see them getting bigger if you just stare for a moment.
Megan told me yesterday that when she touched her right ear, it burned. That didn't sound good so I investigated. Her earring was stuck to her earlobe by an organic adhesive, I assumed, comprised of leaking, crusting, coagulating fluids. I went to work with Grandma. First, we removed the earring, which bubbled up, when dropped in peroxide, like a hot-tub when the jets kick on. Megan screamed when we touched her ear. There was blood. At one point Megan cried out, "I want Michael!" Michael joined us eventually, although I'm afraid only because he was curious about the commotion; I didn't sense compassion from him, which constantly irks me in matters between him and his little sister who unfailingly, unflinchingly, absolutely adores him. We cleaned and medicated Meg's ear, and then she shook, literally, shivering in my arms, afraid, anticipating more sharp pain which she probably felt when Grandma slipped the clean earring back in during another fit of hysteria. As I suspected, the offending accessory gets reinserted or the hole will close. For a moment, I thought, really, we're gonna put that thing back in?! Although, I know her ear won't turn gangrenous and fall off. Since I've never had any piercings, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, since I've never had a daughter with an infected piercing, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, there's just a lot of uncharted territory during fatherhood. Yeah, that one.
I was stealing veiled glimpses at Megan's grill the other day. Then I just said, "Honey, show me your teeth." Megan flashed a forced, toothy smile and I cringed. Then I kissed her forehead and lied, "Perfect and beautiful," to cover my honest reaction. Megan skipped away, light as a feather. She's still gorgeous and flawless, of course, but there's a storm brewin' and it's gonna be costly. Hurricane Orthodontia. Things aren't exactly looking like piano keys in there.
Megan told me yesterday that when she touched her right ear, it burned. That didn't sound good so I investigated. Her earring was stuck to her earlobe by an organic adhesive, I assumed, comprised of leaking, crusting, coagulating fluids. I went to work with Grandma. First, we removed the earring, which bubbled up, when dropped in peroxide, like a hot-tub when the jets kick on. Megan screamed when we touched her ear. There was blood. At one point Megan cried out, "I want Michael!" Michael joined us eventually, although I'm afraid only because he was curious about the commotion; I didn't sense compassion from him, which constantly irks me in matters between him and his little sister who unfailingly, unflinchingly, absolutely adores him. We cleaned and medicated Meg's ear, and then she shook, literally, shivering in my arms, afraid, anticipating more sharp pain which she probably felt when Grandma slipped the clean earring back in during another fit of hysteria. As I suspected, the offending accessory gets reinserted or the hole will close. For a moment, I thought, really, we're gonna put that thing back in?! Although, I know her ear won't turn gangrenous and fall off. Since I've never had any piercings, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, since I've never had a daughter with an infected piercing, this was uncharted territory for me. Or, there's just a lot of uncharted territory during fatherhood. Yeah, that one.
I was stealing veiled glimpses at Megan's grill the other day. Then I just said, "Honey, show me your teeth." Megan flashed a forced, toothy smile and I cringed. Then I kissed her forehead and lied, "Perfect and beautiful," to cover my honest reaction. Megan skipped away, light as a feather. She's still gorgeous and flawless, of course, but there's a storm brewin' and it's gonna be costly. Hurricane Orthodontia. Things aren't exactly looking like piano keys in there.
Dad Entry #142
Megan has a poncho-looking sweater that is super-cute, in a kind of
elegant, old-fashioned way. I have no idea what it's called; it looks
like a thick-knitted tablecloth with holes for appendages, although it's
smaller, like a doily, and soft. Yep, Megan looks beautiful and chic in
anything, even a tablecloth.
The outcome of board games with M and m is always good. I like to win as much as the next guy, but I can tolerate losing to them. In fact, I prefer it, but in the interests of mimicking life in general, once in a while, when the cards or dice are falling my way, I not-very-quietly-or-politely give them a drubbing, at Uno, for example, or Trouble (nothing serious). M and m, like most kids, hate losing; they see zero benefit in it. That takes a few decades to pick up as a life lesson. I want them to win every time, but I know life isn't amenable to that; they're gonna take some lumps. So be it, learn something, use it as fuel.
Megan brushes and fluffs and flaunts her golden hair - pretty common among women, I'd say - twirling and splaying it in the air, like the model in a shampoo commercial. These days, I wish I had that much hair to tousle. Which reminds me...
Papa Mike asked Megan, "Who has a bigger bald spot? Me or your daddy?" Megan, bless her heart, said, "Let me see your's, Papa," and when he leaned over and showed her, Megan concluded instantly, "Your's is way bigger, Papa! It's ginormous! You need to grow some hair, Buddy!" Good girl.
On the way to Alanna's birthday party, Megan advised, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart would've shattered into a million pieces, except I'm pretty sure she still needs me. And I really, really, really hope she always needs me, at least a little; to listen, give a little advice, or just listen!, give a little money, carve the holiday turkey!, show my grandkids how to shoot a basketball or a gun. Who knows; I just might come in handy, occasionally, all of her life. That would be swell.
The outcome of board games with M and m is always good. I like to win as much as the next guy, but I can tolerate losing to them. In fact, I prefer it, but in the interests of mimicking life in general, once in a while, when the cards or dice are falling my way, I not-very-quietly-or-politely give them a drubbing, at Uno, for example, or Trouble (nothing serious). M and m, like most kids, hate losing; they see zero benefit in it. That takes a few decades to pick up as a life lesson. I want them to win every time, but I know life isn't amenable to that; they're gonna take some lumps. So be it, learn something, use it as fuel.
Megan brushes and fluffs and flaunts her golden hair - pretty common among women, I'd say - twirling and splaying it in the air, like the model in a shampoo commercial. These days, I wish I had that much hair to tousle. Which reminds me...
Papa Mike asked Megan, "Who has a bigger bald spot? Me or your daddy?" Megan, bless her heart, said, "Let me see your's, Papa," and when he leaned over and showed her, Megan concluded instantly, "Your's is way bigger, Papa! It's ginormous! You need to grow some hair, Buddy!" Good girl.
On the way to Alanna's birthday party, Megan advised, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart would've shattered into a million pieces, except I'm pretty sure she still needs me. And I really, really, really hope she always needs me, at least a little; to listen, give a little advice, or just listen!, give a little money, carve the holiday turkey!, show my grandkids how to shoot a basketball or a gun. Who knows; I just might come in handy, occasionally, all of her life. That would be swell.
Dad Entry #141
Megan likes broccoli. She does, however, voice disgust if there's a
single decaying floret mingled with the otherwise plush and perfect
green. "There's a brown spot here," she says, squinting and glaring at
the poor vegetable. "It's rotten," she declares, and I know a door slams
in her head; she has made up her mind. I counter-declare that a touch
of yellow or brown on a single, tiny, cruciferous outcropping, a little
bruising perhaps, will not harm her, especially since it's all been
rinsed and steamed, and since the discoloration she's referring to is
barely noticeable, even under magnification. I hope she scrutinizes men
like this. Then we'll agree; if we can detect - or even imagine - a flaw, a blemish, we don't discriminate between obvious and miniscule... it's rotten! All rotten! All bets are off!
Hanging out with two boys, Megan gets a heavy dose of things like football, cardboard sword fighting, Avengers cartoons, and tackle box arranging (yes, Megan has her own). Most days she doesn't seem to mind. She loves the "Iron Man: Armored Adventures" show. And "Star Wars: The Clone Wars." And fishing and adventure shows. This is good; Michael and I don't have to do any selling. And Megan is just as eager, as her juvenile father and brother, to play with action figures. We have a terrific collection, a mix of Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superhero figures like Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk (my favorite since I was their age; I had the Underoos and everything). So we divide up 'the guys' (although there are some female characters in the pile also, like "The Baroness") by conducting a sports-style draft, and then spirited weapons-hoarding, character-positioning and fighting ensues. It's good fun.
I wonder if I'm overdoing it when I say things like, "Michael, do you know what excites me when I start thinking in the morning?" Since he knows this is rhetorical, he doesn't offer any answer or comment, maybe just an eye-roll, as I continue, louder and more deliberate, with a kind of pious fervor building (I've usually had a little coffee by now), "Life with you as my son. That is what excites me." And then I drop a quote from one of my great heroes, Ferris Bueller, "The question isn't 'what are we going to do,' the question is 'what aren't we going to do?' We're going to fish, play sports, make things, fix things, hunt, woodwork, travel, debate, get straight-A's, be super-good to Megan, hang out with loved-ones, watch our families grow, and someday - someday! - watch the Cubs win the World Series." Amen.
Hanging out with two boys, Megan gets a heavy dose of things like football, cardboard sword fighting, Avengers cartoons, and tackle box arranging (yes, Megan has her own). Most days she doesn't seem to mind. She loves the "Iron Man: Armored Adventures" show. And "Star Wars: The Clone Wars." And fishing and adventure shows. This is good; Michael and I don't have to do any selling. And Megan is just as eager, as her juvenile father and brother, to play with action figures. We have a terrific collection, a mix of Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and superhero figures like Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk (my favorite since I was their age; I had the Underoos and everything). So we divide up 'the guys' (although there are some female characters in the pile also, like "The Baroness") by conducting a sports-style draft, and then spirited weapons-hoarding, character-positioning and fighting ensues. It's good fun.
I wonder if I'm overdoing it when I say things like, "Michael, do you know what excites me when I start thinking in the morning?" Since he knows this is rhetorical, he doesn't offer any answer or comment, maybe just an eye-roll, as I continue, louder and more deliberate, with a kind of pious fervor building (I've usually had a little coffee by now), "Life with you as my son. That is what excites me." And then I drop a quote from one of my great heroes, Ferris Bueller, "The question isn't 'what are we going to do,' the question is 'what aren't we going to do?' We're going to fish, play sports, make things, fix things, hunt, woodwork, travel, debate, get straight-A's, be super-good to Megan, hang out with loved-ones, watch our families grow, and someday - someday! - watch the Cubs win the World Series." Amen.
Dad Entry #140
Michael wants to get a lizard. I think Mom wants to put this one on
Santa, and then be miffed, along with Michael, at the
formerly-thought-of-as-perfect paragon of gift-giving when he doesn't
come through, when the lizard freezes in his sled or something, forcing
Santa to leave another present, one without a heartbeat and scales and a
digestive system, maybe something without a cage.
I'm pretty sure every male is a renaissance man, at least for a period. I'm referring to our early years, of course, as very few of us are Michelangelo's or Leonardo's in adulthood. The magnitude and variety of their achievements, not to mention their historical fame, render them a high bar, but we're all pretenders as kids, and none more than Michael. He does it all! On any given day, he might paint, sketch, sculpt with clay, play sports, race, swim, compete, design, diagram, build, wrestle, catch fish, catch frogs, write stories (however brief and simple), play music (even if painfully discordant and only with sticks), play with 'weapons' (which, ideally, are also just sticks), dance, act, perform, study, scribble in notebooks (Bill Gates bought one of Leonardo's for 30 million), draw comic strips, water his plants, collect and dissect insect specimens, and so on. I will encourage Michael to hang on as long as possible. And hopefully, in my efforts to 'lead by example,' he will help me do the same; tonight I will write and workout; tomorrow I will play softball; yesterday I played basketball; last week I hunted and fished and blasted targets with a variety of different caliber weapons (9mm, .357, .38, .22, .30-06 scoped rifle, and 12 gauge shotgun); Saturday I was with friends listening to live music; I practice chords and learn riffs on the guitar (thank you, Youtube); I cook, simple stuff and poorly, but still; I've built wood furniture from raw lumber; I think I fixed a toilet once, and changed a tire, and tiled a bathroom; I'm reading several books (although many won't get finished); I have way too many plants (although none right now are consumable... like vegetables, or basil, to be clear); and I appreciate theaters (albeit the kind that serve popcorn). I really should take the kids to a Broadway show sometime.
Speaking of hunting: I told the kids a week ago I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends - and their dogs! - to hunt birds. Megan asked if she could come. I told her, and reiterated for Michael, "You can't take a hunter safety class until you're 12, and you can't hunt until you take the class and learn gun safety." And I added, for good measure, "And even then I don't think it's wise to handle guns until you're older." I was thinking specifically about the kick and awkward heft of shotguns - versus handguns - but Megan had another weapon in mind; she said, "Well, I could get a bow and arrow then, and come with you, and hunt with that." Needless to say, it was an earnest appeal. Somehow I managed to say no.
Speaking of the bow and arrow: Michael still attends archery classes through the park district. He loves it, and is quite good now; bullseyes are not uncommon. Something else to add to my 'renaissance kid' list of activities above. Maybe someday he'll teach me how to bow hunt.
I'm pretty sure every male is a renaissance man, at least for a period. I'm referring to our early years, of course, as very few of us are Michelangelo's or Leonardo's in adulthood. The magnitude and variety of their achievements, not to mention their historical fame, render them a high bar, but we're all pretenders as kids, and none more than Michael. He does it all! On any given day, he might paint, sketch, sculpt with clay, play sports, race, swim, compete, design, diagram, build, wrestle, catch fish, catch frogs, write stories (however brief and simple), play music (even if painfully discordant and only with sticks), play with 'weapons' (which, ideally, are also just sticks), dance, act, perform, study, scribble in notebooks (Bill Gates bought one of Leonardo's for 30 million), draw comic strips, water his plants, collect and dissect insect specimens, and so on. I will encourage Michael to hang on as long as possible. And hopefully, in my efforts to 'lead by example,' he will help me do the same; tonight I will write and workout; tomorrow I will play softball; yesterday I played basketball; last week I hunted and fished and blasted targets with a variety of different caliber weapons (9mm, .357, .38, .22, .30-06 scoped rifle, and 12 gauge shotgun); Saturday I was with friends listening to live music; I practice chords and learn riffs on the guitar (thank you, Youtube); I cook, simple stuff and poorly, but still; I've built wood furniture from raw lumber; I think I fixed a toilet once, and changed a tire, and tiled a bathroom; I'm reading several books (although many won't get finished); I have way too many plants (although none right now are consumable... like vegetables, or basil, to be clear); and I appreciate theaters (albeit the kind that serve popcorn). I really should take the kids to a Broadway show sometime.
Speaking of hunting: I told the kids a week ago I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends - and their dogs! - to hunt birds. Megan asked if she could come. I told her, and reiterated for Michael, "You can't take a hunter safety class until you're 12, and you can't hunt until you take the class and learn gun safety." And I added, for good measure, "And even then I don't think it's wise to handle guns until you're older." I was thinking specifically about the kick and awkward heft of shotguns - versus handguns - but Megan had another weapon in mind; she said, "Well, I could get a bow and arrow then, and come with you, and hunt with that." Needless to say, it was an earnest appeal. Somehow I managed to say no.
Speaking of the bow and arrow: Michael still attends archery classes through the park district. He loves it, and is quite good now; bullseyes are not uncommon. Something else to add to my 'renaissance kid' list of activities above. Maybe someday he'll teach me how to bow hunt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)