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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
#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.
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.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Friday, October 9, 2015
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
#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.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
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….
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….
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
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.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
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.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Post #247
Megan is impressively tall and twiggy. She's a beanpole, in the parlance of my rural ancestors. It's very noticeable when she takes the field in her saggy-bottomed softball pants. I love baseball/softball trousers because they have back pockets. What other sport affords you this wardrobe luxury. Football pants? No. Basketball? Uh-uh. Sand volleyball? They don't even cover their butt cheeks. Anyway, as I was saying: Meg is tall and gangly, but even if she shoots up higher than the Eiffel Tower, or Ginormica – who she kind of fine-featuredly resembles, actually – she will always be diminutive next to her older brother. Michael is a big boy.
Michael went 3-for-3 with a walk in our first playoff game. I batted him 2nd (in the order) and he delivered, reaching base in every at-bat against tough postseason pitching. It's hard to describe how this makes me feel. Christmas comes to mind, as do the best parties and celebrations I've ever been a part of. Roaring, bouncing crowds. Buzzer-beaters. Clenched, pumping fists. Hands in the air, goosebumps, trophies, champagne. Maybe space travel as the epitome of extreme accomplishment. The admiration I feel when thinking of the great strengths and accomplishments of the forebears I share with my son. Do I sound cheesy? I hope so. To sound uncheesy would do this feeling no justice whatsover. Michael and his teammates played great and beat a higher seed. There is nothing better.
Michael earned the President's Award for Educational Excellence. A chip of the old block, I say.
Michael went 3-for-3 with a walk in our first playoff game. I batted him 2nd (in the order) and he delivered, reaching base in every at-bat against tough postseason pitching. It's hard to describe how this makes me feel. Christmas comes to mind, as do the best parties and celebrations I've ever been a part of. Roaring, bouncing crowds. Buzzer-beaters. Clenched, pumping fists. Hands in the air, goosebumps, trophies, champagne. Maybe space travel as the epitome of extreme accomplishment. The admiration I feel when thinking of the great strengths and accomplishments of the forebears I share with my son. Do I sound cheesy? I hope so. To sound uncheesy would do this feeling no justice whatsover. Michael and his teammates played great and beat a higher seed. There is nothing better.
Michael earned the President's Award for Educational Excellence. A chip of the old block, I say.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Post #246
The kids are in Gulf Shores, Alabama for a week. Without me.
There's a scene in the movie Jurassic World where two brothers are
discussing their parents' brewing divorce. The younger brother is in
tears, appropriately and deeply upset. His older brother tells him to
look on the bright side; divorce means they'll get two of everything,
two Christmases, two birthdays, etc. Michael saw Jurassic World with two buddies as one of his 'two birthdays.' The movie is right. M
'n' m get more trips and vacations, also. It's a lousy trade-off for
divorce, obviously. For me to suggest there are benefits and
concessions, a silver lining, is somewhere between absurd and
ridiculous. But it's our reality, and we're livin'. We're livin' pretty well, in fact. Anyway, what I intended to express
here is how I miss M 'n' m when they're gone for long periods, days and weeks, for too
many axis-spins as we race through space to our deaths, around a very big, four-billion-year-old star that you could fit a million Earths inside of if it was an empty sphere. The sun is very bright – despite being 93 million miles away – but it's always less bright when M 'n' m are off on some adventure without their old man. Awww. And did you know the sun is only average-sized for a star? Seriously. Consider, for a moment, the enormousness of it all. And you are part of it. I hope melodramatic nerdiness is still in vogue. (The Big Bang Theory? I've never seen it but it rates in the stratosphere, and Grandma and Papa were starstruck when they shared a restaurant with one of the show's actors recently in Manhattan.) My longest without M 'n' m is three weeks in
China for work. I began to feel like I was 93 million miles away. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a soldier on deployment with babies, toddlers, or kids back home. Going weeks
without holding and kissing M 'n' m is a little like being carsick;
it creeps up and wet-blankets you with a shitty feeling in your gut and
your skull, and it only goes away when the ride stops. The ride stops
tomorrow for me. M 'n' m fly home.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Post #245
Michael has acne. Hopefully, he'll never know I announced it online. I had acne, too. I still do, in fact, but I'd say the war ended with armistice in my 20's, and the treaty is only broken now by guerrilla skirmishes or the solo fighter who just attacks my nose, for example. I wake up and there's a zit, a pimple; there is no charming word for it. Blemish? A little better but inadequate if it's Vesuvius and throbbing, and – like Michael will deal with soon – calling in reinforcements. Breakouts are never timely, and in youth the war is multi-front and the battlefields vast, raging over entire cheeks, temples, and forehead. My forehead is massive, and Michael is similarly blessed. We will marshal our allies for Michael, the various, over-marketed soaps, cleansers, washes, astringents, strips, swabs, cover-ups, and creams. It's really nothing to joke about. I even saw a dermatologist as a teenager. Some of my friends did the same. It's life, and what is life without uncomfortable humor. Ill-advised and documented. And the best joke of all... our family acne is not from steroids. I know, surprising; our killer physiques are natural. Papa Mike's first and foremost. Truthfully, Michael will settle into a sturdier build than is showcased in his paternal lineage (I'm visualizing at least four generations). No bird legs for Michael. Lucky guy. Maybe he'll escape the lovely follicle recession I'm enjoying, also. Otherwise, the family forehead only gets bigger, another fine feature he can thank his genetics for.
I decided to get Michael a cell phone. Now I pay 40-some bucks a month for a device that is often uncharged or switched off when I call it. It's an expensive paperweight. I said to Megan yesterday, "Please gently remind Michael to keep his phone on." Without hesitation, Megan said, "Do I have to be gentle?" We both laughed. When she's funny and smiley, I love her a little more than usual, which, of course, is impossible.
I decided to get Michael a cell phone. Now I pay 40-some bucks a month for a device that is often uncharged or switched off when I call it. It's an expensive paperweight. I said to Megan yesterday, "Please gently remind Michael to keep his phone on." Without hesitation, Megan said, "Do I have to be gentle?" We both laughed. When she's funny and smiley, I love her a little more than usual, which, of course, is impossible.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Post #244
Michael can be very quiet, and in these moments I assign to him a kind of noble bearing; in my mind, he is poised, stoic, brilliant. I wonder how far I am from the truth. According to experts, the male brain is fully developed by age 25. I'm guessing the 'experts' are male and flattering themselves. Even within the bounds of pure chemistry and biology (nevermind new findings on neuroplasticity), I'm still calling bullshit. A man's grey matter complete and developed? In retrospect, I was alarmingly immature, insecure, and ignorant at age 25. I'm taking the nickel if asked how I am at 39. I hope Michael is less of a late-bloomer than I am. I'm certain he's clever. Of course, I've found that the more I know, the more I know I don't know. That's a mind-bender, of course, especially for a scatterbrained worrier like me. I wonder what 'life lens' Michael looks through; I wonder how big of a picture he sees. Bigger is better to a point; then bigger becomes inimical. Distractions abound; thinking too much about eternity or injustice or ISIS is a surefire way to go crazy. Michael doesn't seem crazy; on the contrary, he seems self-possessed and outwardly calm (most of the time). Good for him. I hope it's not a happy accident; I hope he actively cultivates a constructive and optimistic mindset and internal dialogue. As they say, "It's worth a great fortune to look on the bright side of things." I love Michael. I think he knows with a solid certainty that he's deeply loved, supported, not alone. He knows that Grandma Barb is a huge advocate of his, a kind of guardian angel. He knows that others in his family love him just as much. He knows that the sun rises every day and even if hidden by clouds, it's still there. Megan is more uneasy about things; 'clouds' are more disruptive to her. Why? I wish I knew. I love Megan too, obviously, very, very powerfully. Maybe I should think about the female brain. Or not, if going crazy is a concern....
I'm reading the autobiography of Theodore Roosevelt. Of his grandmother, he says she "was distinctly overindulgent to us children, being quite unable to harden her heart towards us even when the occasion demanded it." I've never heard a better definition. I have amazing grandmas, and M 'n' m struck gold here, also. Grandmas are one of life's frostings; I can't overstate my gratitude for mine, and M 'n' m won't be able to either.
I'm reading the autobiography of Theodore Roosevelt. Of his grandmother, he says she "was distinctly overindulgent to us children, being quite unable to harden her heart towards us even when the occasion demanded it." I've never heard a better definition. I have amazing grandmas, and M 'n' m struck gold here, also. Grandmas are one of life's frostings; I can't overstate my gratitude for mine, and M 'n' m won't be able to either.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Time to teach Megan...
... that 2nd place is the first loser. I'm kidding, of course. I'm proud of her. She's a smart little creature. And gorgeous. She's a little fussy at times, but nobody's perfect. So I congratulated her on besting all but one of her classmates in timed multiplication. Attagirl. And maybe I added, "If you can't catch Richard, at least put some distance between you and Connor."
Friday, May 22, 2015
Post #243
Bowing to the whims of Megan is another glaring flaw of mine. I'm especially bad on days that end in 'y.' That's silly, of course, but so am I as Megan's marionette. There is a good caveat I offer in defense, however; I'm only a positive-energy pushover. If Megan is rude or disrespectful, I bark at her; I've even brought her to tears and only felt a little horrible. It's the other Megan that pulls my strings and runs the show, the happy, inspired, creative Megan. Suddenly I'm spineless, bouncing and hovering like a jellyfish. Or, indeed, a marionette. Bedtimes come and go unobserved, safety becomes ever-so-secondary (like when Megan wanted to saw boards recently), and if there's a burning desire to practice softball, I will squat and catch pitches until my legs are broken.
In Florida earlier this year, Papa Mike endeavored to advise Michael on matters very sensitive and personal. He said, "So you're in sixth grade, Michael, hmm, when I was in sixth grade" – this is exactly where I tensed and held my breath – "I kissed Becky So-And-So" – I don't remember her name but Papa sure did – "and then she dumped me, but let me tell ya, she really regrets it at our high school reunions!" Papa Mike is hilarious, and Michael seems intent on imitating his grandpa and namesake; Micheal's looking for his Becky So-And-So as I write this, no doubt. There are worse people to exalt, I suppose, than remarkable grandfathers.
In Florida earlier this year, Papa Mike endeavored to advise Michael on matters very sensitive and personal. He said, "So you're in sixth grade, Michael, hmm, when I was in sixth grade" – this is exactly where I tensed and held my breath – "I kissed Becky So-And-So" – I don't remember her name but Papa sure did – "and then she dumped me, but let me tell ya, she really regrets it at our high school reunions!" Papa Mike is hilarious, and Michael seems intent on imitating his grandpa and namesake; Micheal's looking for his Becky So-And-So as I write this, no doubt. There are worse people to exalt, I suppose, than remarkable grandfathers.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Post #242
All signs indicate my habit of over-disclosing is a recessive gene in M 'n' m. Or dormant or untriggered DNA or whatever. Forgive me; I took AP Chem and not AP Bio. Both M 'n' m are seemingly loathe to talk about themselves. At least to me. You wouldn't believe the stimulating questions I pepper them with only to hear "no" and "fine" and, exclusively from Michael, "what's for dinner?" I noticed the kids are talkative about Minecraft and Clash of Clans, though. Little bastards. (Good thing I have small readership here.) And Michael isn't little anymore. He officially makes Jeanette look small, although she is small.
I ask the kids what mind-blowing people and histories and theories and things they're talking about in science and social studies and literature and their eyes glaze over. They are bored. Maybe it's the caffeine; the fact I'm on it and they aren't. "Your lives need to be sung about!" I tell them. They look at me like I'm crazy which is appropriate, good modest kids, M 'n' m, but I need some shit for writing practice here :)
When I see the wear-and-tear that my kids put on my car after a few years of ownership, only a few years, I think, "Dear God, what are kids doing to me and every parent I know?! The upholstery in my car is stained and trampled. It's stretched in some places, sagging and balding in others. It looks nothing like the day I bought it. There is stuff and garbage everywhere the day after I clean it out. My car looks worn and beaten and worth a fraction what it once was. But you know what? I think the car is happy.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Post #241
Megan loves a show called Shark Tank where entrepreneurs seek investment from a panel of zillionaire businesspeople, aka the sharks. I'm curious why Megan loves the show (more than every smashing preteen hit on the Disney Channel, for example). She's only nine years old. I recognized one of the investors, Mark Cuban, because he owns the Dallas Mavericks and attempted to buy the Cubs; I wish he would've succeeded. Another of the investors is so unfriendly, unhappy, unattractive, and unhumble that I found myself praying, for the sake of his family, that it's only schtick. And so I wonder: Does Meg prefer trainwrecks or triumphs, because the show offers both. Is she drawn to the seemingly green pitch-givers at their most eager and vulnerable? Does she like it when smart people argue? Or is it the showcasing of innovative products? The presentations are brief and informative. The deal-making gets testy, but so what; human nature is on full display in life, not just in 'reality' shows. Even so, perhaps the riddle is unfogging.... Jeanette and I never watch reality TV and so our kids don't either. Is that what Megan wants? The Bachelor? Maybe later. Or never. Survivor? Is that still on? The Real World, Amazing Race, Big Brother? The singing, dancing, and talent shows on every network? I've seen a few, and they are, indeed, less interesting than Shark Tank. (Although, there's something about Dancing with the Stars that I hope my daughter isn't sensitive to yet.) I don't know why Megan loves Shark Tank but I approve if she's absorbing an education in sales, marketing, startups, presenting, negotiating, finance, and professionalism (and sometimes its antithesis), as well as the science and industries represented by the products. Good girl, Meg.
Some other anecdotes and questions: Megan has a pink bat, and she knows how to use it. When I was a kid, tequila had a worm in the bottle. Megan has cute toes and ears and the most amazing eyelashes I've ever seen. Michael is very huggable and I love that about him. Do kids still play tug-of-war with those rough climbing ropes that burn soft hands, in gym class or during picnics or whenever it was that we enjoyed this shining example of simple, primal, team sport? I wonder what it feels like to be a grandparent. I know what it feels like to be a divorced father, but I wonder what it feels like to be a divorced mother. I am only 90% certain now that college and professional football will survive long enough for me to enjoy the Chicago Bears and Iowa State Cyclones with my grandchildren. Conversely, I am still one thousand percent certain that no one will ever succeed at being the modern breed of do-everything (with a smile) superdad. I wonder if the skyrocketing costs of a college education will stop skyrocketing. Because, if trends continue, my bankroll will only cover one book, one class, and one month in a dorm; the rest is up to you, kids, which might be a very good thing, come to think of it. After nearly 40 years, the memories I possess and recall from my youth are still my most vivid; I need to remember this in everything I do with M 'n' m and S 'n' C.
Some other anecdotes and questions: Megan has a pink bat, and she knows how to use it. When I was a kid, tequila had a worm in the bottle. Megan has cute toes and ears and the most amazing eyelashes I've ever seen. Michael is very huggable and I love that about him. Do kids still play tug-of-war with those rough climbing ropes that burn soft hands, in gym class or during picnics or whenever it was that we enjoyed this shining example of simple, primal, team sport? I wonder what it feels like to be a grandparent. I know what it feels like to be a divorced father, but I wonder what it feels like to be a divorced mother. I am only 90% certain now that college and professional football will survive long enough for me to enjoy the Chicago Bears and Iowa State Cyclones with my grandchildren. Conversely, I am still one thousand percent certain that no one will ever succeed at being the modern breed of do-everything (with a smile) superdad. I wonder if the skyrocketing costs of a college education will stop skyrocketing. Because, if trends continue, my bankroll will only cover one book, one class, and one month in a dorm; the rest is up to you, kids, which might be a very good thing, come to think of it. After nearly 40 years, the memories I possess and recall from my youth are still my most vivid; I need to remember this in everything I do with M 'n' m and S 'n' C.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Post #240
Papa Mike and I are fans of a TV show called Justified; we fancy ourselves of similar character, nerve, and shooting ability as the hero (Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, a creation of the brilliant Elmore Leonard). We also admire the show's antihero (Boyd), but that's beside the point and not to be admitted. Raylan has an infant baby girl now, and this piece of indubitable truth from an episode's dialogue hit me so squarely in the head and heart that I transcribed it. It's quite beautiful, despite the whole drugs-and-guns context. Raylan has a suspect dead to rights when the suspect's father sees a way to take the fall for his son. The father insists, even as Raylan advises him that doing so is pointless and foolish. The father, who knows a little about the younger Raylan, eloquently explains his impulse, and pretty much the actions and impulses of every father – and I think it is, in fact, every father – who has done a thing perceived as foolish for the sake of a son or daughter.
Father: "You say you got a baby girl of your own?"
Raylan: "That's right."
Father: "Right now I reckon she's not much more than a lump, that cries and shits and makes baby noises."
Raylan: "It's like you've met her."
Father: "Yeah, and you're gonna tell me that absent even any personality that she might one day cultivate there ain't one thing in this world you wouldn't do for that gob. That don't stop, son. And it don't get any easier."
Amen. It don't get any easier. But as the challenges mount, so do the moments of grace and gratitude, so does the richness and depth of being a parent. My daily prayer is the same: God, thank you for my children.
Father: "You say you got a baby girl of your own?"
Raylan: "That's right."
Father: "Right now I reckon she's not much more than a lump, that cries and shits and makes baby noises."
Raylan: "It's like you've met her."
Father: "Yeah, and you're gonna tell me that absent even any personality that she might one day cultivate there ain't one thing in this world you wouldn't do for that gob. That don't stop, son. And it don't get any easier."
Amen. It don't get any easier. But as the challenges mount, so do the moments of grace and gratitude, so does the richness and depth of being a parent. My daily prayer is the same: God, thank you for my children.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Post #239
Megan is unassailably cute in her softball getup. The seat of her pants is appropriately saggy, and the rest is very professional-looking, her back pockets and occupied belt loops below a tucked-in jersey, her visor and Under Armour cleats, and – best of all – her game face. I have never felt more hopeful, charged, anxious, and blessed than I do watching my kids in a batter's box. If that's misguided, so be it; at least I'm honest. I love it. I love them. And I love softball and baseball. Of course, they are doing impeccably well in school and other things; we do have priorities.
As for Michael, he took the mound last night for the first time this season. He's a pitcher now, and a respectable one. He scattered a few runs but was sharp, pounding the strike zone with decent velocity. He's a horse of an eleven-year-old. Learning to leverage his height and heft is a big focus. He worked very deliberately from the stretch, staring down runners, and was warned by the umpire for working too slowly, taking too long between pitches. That's Michael. I love him fiercely and I'm proud; he's been putting in the hours, drilling and pushing to get better. Good man.
As for Michael, he took the mound last night for the first time this season. He's a pitcher now, and a respectable one. He scattered a few runs but was sharp, pounding the strike zone with decent velocity. He's a horse of an eleven-year-old. Learning to leverage his height and heft is a big focus. He worked very deliberately from the stretch, staring down runners, and was warned by the umpire for working too slowly, taking too long between pitches. That's Michael. I love him fiercely and I'm proud; he's been putting in the hours, drilling and pushing to get better. Good man.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Post #238
This week, my eleven-year-old boarded an airplane and flew to Minnesota. By himself. I was impressed; he didn't voice any concerns. I've flown as a twenty- and thirty-something-year-old with more anxiety. Many times. It was scary right after 9/11, but even since then I've entertained all kinds of fantastic fears. I'm more aware of common and uncommon air travel issues, but it's enough for me – compared to me, at least – to think of my son as calm and brave. Michael also loves Minnesota so much he'd probably hitchhike there if permitted, unfazed by the crazies and hazards he'd dodge on the road. He'd get there; I wouldn't bet against him. It's moot, of course. People don't hitchhike like they used to (according to Papa Mike who thumbed and mooched many a long, strange ride, apparently, in his erstwhile youth).
And it's time for another fart joke... I was tucking Megan in last night when she rolled onto her side – for optimum, undampened firepower I presume – and made a sound less melodic but more emphatic than the percussion in Sophie's band concert earlier in the evening. Yeah, the noise came from her backside. It's true what they say: Women do it better! Megan's flatulence has length, depth, and range. I was dazzled. And damaged. It was an incredible blast and Meg giggled triumphantly. I gave her a look of mock horror, which I couldn't hold, and then we laughed and roared together.
Every day, for months now, Megan has worn two bracelets I bought for her in Brazil. They're of the thread friendship variety, nothing special, but it's funny how I began to notice them and feel flutters of pride, as if her devotion to the bracelets is devotion to me. People-pleasers are an interesting breed, and I'm pretty sure I'm a card-carrying member. It's often an unappealing arrangement for me and those around me, so I'm not bragging. The impulse is very strong, and consequences vary. When it comes to M 'n' m, I can't decide if I'm more or less eager and weird than usual, and how this impacts them. Simply put, we're back to the agonizing, "Am I a good or bad parent?" Who knows. No biggie, it's only the most important thing to me.
And it's time for another fart joke... I was tucking Megan in last night when she rolled onto her side – for optimum, undampened firepower I presume – and made a sound less melodic but more emphatic than the percussion in Sophie's band concert earlier in the evening. Yeah, the noise came from her backside. It's true what they say: Women do it better! Megan's flatulence has length, depth, and range. I was dazzled. And damaged. It was an incredible blast and Meg giggled triumphantly. I gave her a look of mock horror, which I couldn't hold, and then we laughed and roared together.
Every day, for months now, Megan has worn two bracelets I bought for her in Brazil. They're of the thread friendship variety, nothing special, but it's funny how I began to notice them and feel flutters of pride, as if her devotion to the bracelets is devotion to me. People-pleasers are an interesting breed, and I'm pretty sure I'm a card-carrying member. It's often an unappealing arrangement for me and those around me, so I'm not bragging. The impulse is very strong, and consequences vary. When it comes to M 'n' m, I can't decide if I'm more or less eager and weird than usual, and how this impacts them. Simply put, we're back to the agonizing, "Am I a good or bad parent?" Who knows. No biggie, it's only the most important thing to me.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Post #237
I did laundry yesterday and was momentarily saddened. I was struck by a harsh and looming fact while I was un-inside-outing Megan's pant legs (if that makes sense; perhaps your kids, like mine, somehow remove their clothing while simultaneously twisting, balling, and tying it in knots). The cruel fact I speak of has everything to do with adjustable waistbands. You know the kind; they're sewn-in elastic strips with buttonholes that mate to buttons on the inside of little waists. Mostly I see them in Megan's jeans, but they're in other items too (shorts, capris, skirts, skorts... yeah, I just said skorts). Anyway, I suspect they'll be gone soon; Megan's laundry will be adultlike (and scary). And I won't notice and smile at the little-girl things. Where did the puppies go? Where are the rainbows and unicorns? I remember when Megan loved giraffes and butterflies....
Speaking of cute, I don't watch the kids sleep as much I used to. I don't wish to be labeled an over-adoring-gushing-loony parent (too late), but I often peeped in on their little sleeping selves years ago. Just briefly. I didn't put match to pipe and sit at a crib-abutting rocker puffing on Virginia Vanilla or whatever, gazing lovingly at my handiwork. Ha, what an untrue and arrogant way to put it. It's God's handiwork, of course, or Mother Nature's if you're so inclined. We'll leave it at that. But I watched 'em snooze a bit when they were younger; I recall enjoying the fact they were still. Just still. They had stopped, taken a break, they were no longer crawling, crying, jibber-jabbering, eating, pooping, and so on, all of which required exhausting supervision. Not anymore.
Speaking of cute, I don't watch the kids sleep as much I used to. I don't wish to be labeled an over-adoring-gushing-loony parent (too late), but I often peeped in on their little sleeping selves years ago. Just briefly. I didn't put match to pipe and sit at a crib-abutting rocker puffing on Virginia Vanilla or whatever, gazing lovingly at my handiwork. Ha, what an untrue and arrogant way to put it. It's God's handiwork, of course, or Mother Nature's if you're so inclined. We'll leave it at that. But I watched 'em snooze a bit when they were younger; I recall enjoying the fact they were still. Just still. They had stopped, taken a break, they were no longer crawling, crying, jibber-jabbering, eating, pooping, and so on, all of which required exhausting supervision. Not anymore.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Post #236
I had an impromptu dinner date with my finicky princess the other day, before her softball practice, and I let her choose. She chose two drumsticks from Popeyes. This seemed like a swerve from the normal humdrumness of Megan's food choices. Bread, bagels, English muffins, rice, noodles. And it's white rice and plain noodles, by the way. So drumsticks? I was puzzled. But I remained silent, as I often do waiting to be hit between the eyes at the ease with which I'm manipulated. By women, especially. I was a little distracted because I love me some Lousiana cookin', also! I ordered green beans and slaw with strips and barbecue. And then we were unpacking our dinner and it all made sense. Sitting in Megan's food box was a beautiful biscuit, buttery golden and flaky, and delicious as hell. The 'delicious as hell' part is speculation, because I didn't feel like asking for a bite and skirmishing. We had a nice dinner and then an awesome softball practice.
It was great but Popeyes chicken did a number on the interior of my car. I know; letting the drive-thru detail slip renders the phrase 'dinner date' a goodly embellishment. Yes, Meg and I feasted in my car, not at a cloth-covered table, but it must've been fun because we apparently, happily, touched the dash and every single dial, button, and surface in the vehicle. We left a thousand greasy fingerprints on everything. Even the slowest cat from CSI could tell that two clumsy folks ate a shit-ton of dripping chicken and biscuits and fumbled for napkins in the glove box, fiddled with the AC, rolled down windows, and did some party-bumpin' DJ'ing. Hellz to the yeah! All the while eating Popeyes chicken. Case closed.
It was great but Popeyes chicken did a number on the interior of my car. I know; letting the drive-thru detail slip renders the phrase 'dinner date' a goodly embellishment. Yes, Meg and I feasted in my car, not at a cloth-covered table, but it must've been fun because we apparently, happily, touched the dash and every single dial, button, and surface in the vehicle. We left a thousand greasy fingerprints on everything. Even the slowest cat from CSI could tell that two clumsy folks ate a shit-ton of dripping chicken and biscuits and fumbled for napkins in the glove box, fiddled with the AC, rolled down windows, and did some party-bumpin' DJ'ing. Hellz to the yeah! All the while eating Popeyes chicken. Case closed.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Post #235
What is my 'job' as a father? Caregiver? Sure. (Some moms bear the brunt, but dads provide care, too.) Guardian and protector? You betcha. Self-explanatory. Worker and earner? Yes. (I'm referring to work outside the home and this can be Mom too, of course.) Entertainer, comedian, tour guide? Absolutely. I want my kids to smile, laugh, and explore. And then there's the job I agonize over most of all. The other roles are more natural and clear to me; this job, not so much. I'm unsure of its definition, priority, and execution. I am sure that it's a delicate thing, like catching a soft-mouthed fish; it's easy to blow it and the fish won't bite again. I'm talking about the role of teacher and coach. Some of it's easy; we show our mini-me's how to tie their shoes. Under our tutelage, they learn how to use forks, toilets, and bikes. Useful stuff. But what about less traditional things? What about teaching them intentional practices involving optimism, gratitude, grit, willpower, and meditation? Science, as an institution I mean – which can be very curmudgeon-ish, despite its brilliance – has recently proved and praised things that were formerly, in my circles anyway, dismissed as mumbo-jumbo. Even mainstream medicine – which bafflingly postponed earnest study of the well-observed and documented placebo effect – is now studying cool stuff like mind-training, neuroplasticity, and epigenetics. Positive psychology – the study of human flourishing instead of just disease – is a recent movement. But I digress. There are countless other examples of things we may or may not want our children clued into. We teach them to work hard, make friends, be respectful, be positive. I taught my kids how to pray. But we can, of course, go deeper in every aspect. Should we? What, when, and how can we teach them the finer points of optimal
living? Even as we, ourselves, fail in many ways, our kids can benefit from our coaching. Right? Part of the answer lies in teaching and coaching by example. But even so, children are notoriously attention-deficient; should we direct their focus to the underlying habits of the folks they look up to (which, hopefully, includes us)? I think so. I'll keep coaching M 'n' m to give thanks and stay positive, two proven pillars of happiness. This seems like enough for now. (And it's a struggle with Megan!) We'll emphasize breathwork, mantras, malas, crosses, and baseball curses when they get a little older.
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