Loop-y

Recently, over a lunch of flavorless tilapia and cold fries, I was berated for not blogging enough lately. I reminded the assembled audience my intention with Urf! was never to write just to see something on the internet and that I wouldn’t post unless I had something to say. And I haven’t had much to say in the vein of what you’re used to reading here. The truth, though, is that I have had something to say, or an idea of what to say, for some time now, but every time I sit in front of the computer I keep going back to this woman’s blog to read this post and then this one. I bet I’ve read each of them dozens of times and each time I read them I think I’m going to write an entire post around them because a comment just won’t do. But then I don’t because I haven’t been confident enough in my writing to attempt to match her own. And this is all very personal between her and me, so you may not be interested, and may choose to stop reading now, as I make a stab at explaining where I’ve been.

Specifically what I’m trying to figure out as I read these posts is how my wife and I, traveling in the same car at the same speed on the same road have arrived in two very different places. Kristy is happy with her life and comfortable in her own skin. She’s at peace with who she is. And I … am not. I worry. I obsess. I am held captive by the stress in my life. Is it all more than most adults have to deal with? Probably not. Do I realize this? Do I understand that what I’m dealing with is anxiety and a form of depression? I do. I’ve dealt with it for years, 12 of those years I’ve known exactly what it is, yet I’m just now reaching the end of my rope. I’ve controlled it mostly through diet and exercise, and though it doesn’t affect me now nearly as badly as it did when I was 25, it’s still something I can’t shake. It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head. During good times, moments when I shouldn’t have a care in the world, when I’m at the pond with the kids feeding ducks on a perfect Fall day or when friends are over and we’re all talking and laughing, it’s still there. The song. Only it isn’t Sinatra or Costello, it’s impending doom. It’s a recorded loop playing in the back of my mind that reminds me what it is I’m supposed to be worrying about instead of playing with my kids or laughing with friends or reading a book.

Understand, too, that Kristy and I have been going through some difficult times recently. Not with our marriage or anything, but other things, and they have been weighing on me heavily, leaving me both uninspired and unamused. Certainly unable to write a blog post that would do anything other than depress all of you as well. And yet, it was during this time that Sassy wrote the two aforementioned posts. The very situation that was dragging me further down is what inspired her to relish her family and friends and relative wealth compared with so many truly unfortunate across the city and around the world. And I know that this is what I should focus on, what my attitude should be. My family is not yet at poverty level, we can afford to eat well and the kids are healthy. We have great friends, a loving extended family, and we’re all happy. They’re happy. I should be happy but there’s that loop in my skull, remember? I should ignore it, I should know it for what it is and not listen to it, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the hole I’ve found myself in. This is the rub. I am unable to pull myself up out of the misery and smile and know that things will only get better. I admire the hell out of those who can. I envy Kristy and her optimism. I hope with everything I am that our children inherit her disposition. I also hope that when The Quartet is old enough to read this that it’s all news to them, that they don’t remember their dad as a worried, anxious, pissy man. I try to keep it from them and I hope I’ve hidden it well. Other steps need to be taken, I know, and Kristy and I are discussing them because I’m tired of this particular obsession, I’m tired of the loop. I’m just tired. But I haven’t yet grown tired of writing so I’ll be returning here soon if not immediately. I felt, though, that I needed to get this out of the way, not for you, necessarily, but for myself. And now it’s done.

High Waters

Mornings around the castilo have been running fairly smoothly so far this school year. Sure, C and S are pretty difficult to wake up, but JP springs out of bed and lately GK has been sleeping in a bit, which helps. So the a.m. unfolds leisurely for the most part. But that time is mainly the calm before the storm. The calm lasts from around seven, when I first start waking them, until about 7:45. That's when the storm hits. That is the moment, regular as clockwork, when the dressing starts and the gathering of backpacks and lunches and the telling me that this or that piece of paper needs to be signed - elementary school teachers love signatures - begins. As much of a whirlwind as it is, though, it's manageable and we're normally out the door by eight. Unless, of course, something goes wrong. Not much has to go wrong, but it's like I learned when I scaled Sugarloaf, one bad foothold or misplaced rock can set you back on the journey to your goal. This morning it was JP and his pants.

Today is picture day and the general understanding seemed to be that jeans were allowed to be worn, but JP questioned this. Questioned it for about 10 minutes, in fact, until I finally told him just to wear his khakis, which he was perfectly willing to do but just needed someone else to voice that solution. But where are his pants? Big Mama is already on the comment button to tell me, and all of you, that JP has more pants than anyone in the house, and this is true. The kid is flush with trousers. However, the majority of them are just a tad too large in the waist and slip right off of his emaciated, Iggy Pop-like frame. I told him to go look in the dryer, the defacto chest of drawers for our family, so he went in the kitchen and peeked into the toaster oven or the dishwasher or whichever appliance confused him this morning, and then came back to report he couldn't find any. So I went in, hunched into the opening with GK in my arms, further straining my back, and pulled a pair of khakis out, threw them at him from across the kitchen and implored him to hurry and get dressed because I could feel me and these kids slipping off Sugarloaf's sheer rock face. The winds were whipping our 15-minute storm into a frenzy now and I almost lost S in it all when she left the house without her ballet costume for her class today, the one I'd set out for her and told her to pack up. GK's lunch, sadly, was lost in the typhoon, I never even located her lunch box.

Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure. I'm sure because yesterday was better, but things have to fall apart every once in a while, the system has to break down. I'm only one man, after all, and not FEMA.

Oh, and I realized as the kids disembarked from the Volvo at school and trudged up to the door that there's a very good chance JP is wearing S's pants today. Should you see him, please don't point that out.

Saying It Loud

When I was a kid in school, I recall taking field trips to Chucalissa Indian Village, where the high point of the visit was buying an authentic Indian arrowhead in the gift shop. We also went to the Pink Palace, when it was actually in the house, to see the shrunken heads. And, of course, there was the zoo when all it boasted was a fetid concrete box housing the lions, just a short walk from an island of monkeys.

Today, I chaperoned C's class at the Rock 'n Soul Museum in the FedEx Forum. We walked there, his school being only a few blocks from this venue, and along the way there were impromptu history lessons given by Dr. Max on the Robert Churches, W.C. Handy and the history of Beale St. The museum tour begins with a 15-minute film on the evolution of blues to soul and rock-n-roll and it was great to see the kids' heads, from my vantage point in the back of the theater, bobbing and dancing along with Carl Perkins, Sam and Dave and Elvis. At certain points, too, they broke out and sang along on "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Respect." The tour was self-guided, each child and adult wandering around with headphones and an MP3 player that allowed its user to punch in a three-digit number to hear a narrator discussing a particular display or, most often, to listen to song lists on any number of juke boxes set up throughout the museum. The kids danced and strutted to everyone from Furry Lewis to Al Green and it was great to hear them singing, with no thought as to their volume, along with "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)," "That's All Right (Mama)" and "Walk The Line."

Just as I said about the Stax Museum of American Soul Music last January, music and the history of Memphis music in particular, is a great catalyst for the discussion of civil rights, its history, and the proper way one human should treat another. The Rock 'n Soul Museum is no different as they devote much time in the introductory film to this cause and there is a large display on nothing but the Civil Rights Movement. But as I watched these black and white children, all of whom were born at the turn of this century, dance and sing together while laughing and helping each other with the given assignment, it occurred to me that all of the strife and tension and heartache of the last century is mostly lost on them. And that's a good thing, because it left their hearts and minds wide open to the music in their ears.

Student Becomes Teacher

From the backseat:

Me: JP, do you have piano today?
JP: Yes.
Me: Tell her you want to play like McCoy Tyner.
JP: It's called a pianist.

And Not A Single Missing Toe

There are certain rites of passage for our children, and ourselves, that are always well documented. The first time our babies roll over, first steps, first words, the very first time a Pop-Tart is independently procured and liberated from its foil. And then there were firsts like the one this weekend. Sunday marked the first time C mowed the front yard. He's finally old enough to start earning the cost of his cable television habit.

I sat on the front porch in my seersucker pants, my wide-brimmed Panama hat, sipping lemonade and smoking a cigar while I watched him miss patch after patch of lawn while mowing other strips three or four times. It was hot yesterday, 92 degrees on Oct. 7, which made it all that much better. It made the shade I was in a little more pleasant, the lemonade a bit more refreshing.

I'm not sure what age I was when I began lawn mowing. C is nine-ish now and I want to say I was about seven when I started. I want to say that because it will make him feel worse, and a bit more guilty about what he is and isn't required to do now. I want to say I was seven, so I probably will. I was there, after all, and I write the history book in my house.

The house we lived in when I first cranked up the lawnmower had a driveway of loose gravel, and this gravel would be strewn all over the yard due to our skidding bike tires and handfuls thrown at each other. Mowing across all of those tiny rocks was like mowing a field of shrapnel and I would finish the chore with my thin, pasty shins pitted and red from those angry projectiles. When my mother remarried and Steve moved in, he required the lawn to be mowed twice a week. Twice a week? You can't even imagine my mutterings as I was out there under the blazing Memphis sun for hours twice a week. It made absolutely no sense to me why anyone would need this kind of attention paid to a yard, especially in what is normally a drought-ridden Southern summer. Made no sense, that is, until yesterday. So, Steve, come on by any time to sit a spell on the front porch, the lemonade is on me. Sundays and Thursdays seem like a good schedule.

On The Seventh Day He Did Laundry

It's already planned out. Has been for a while now. My biography will be written by Michael Chabon (with forward by Richard Russo), the movie version will be filmed by the Coen Brothers with soundtrack by Elvis Costello (starring role is still in negotiations). There will be a documentary of my life directed by Ken Burns with the music of Miles Davis as background. Naturally there will be action figures and various other toys to accompany the opening, these will all be made in China. They make the best toys there.

So, yeah, I've given it all some thought. The consultant on all of these projects will be C, as it turns out. He had an assignment for school this week to produce a time-line of someone's life. Now, he could've chosen anybody in the world, anybody from history. He could've chosen George Washington, Fidel Castro, Mel Blanc, Willie Herenton, Groucho Marx, Bart Simpson or Al Pacino. But he didn't. Who did he choose? Me. He chose to document the life of his old man. Why did he choose me? For the very same reason a kid chooses For Whom The Bell Tolls for a book report, because he can watch the movie instead of reading it. Tracing my life took no studying, hardly any effort. More than an open book, I am a cinematic feature. Or a comedy short.

He did a bang up job on the project, too. He and his mother. I gathered Big Mama was the consultant's consultant when I noticed the gap between kindergarten and meeting her in high school, which becomes very important when you discover what all came after that auspicious day. That's a lot of missing time, though, like the Nixon tapes or adolescent Jesus. Perhaps I'm not as fascinating as I think. Perhaps I should have taken charge and suggest that he begin the story of me with Buddy Bolden stepping out of the chorus with his cornet the way my friend the artist begins his own chronology with Bill Traylor being born in 1854 and Gustav Klimt in 1862.

But I didn't take charge of the project, as I shouldn't have, because here is the time-line of me, according to C (and Kristy) and I wouldn't change a thing:

RJA (he has no clue what my real name is)
a.k.a. My Dad

August 14, 1970 - My dad, RJA, was born to R and E A in Memphis, TN
August, 1975 - RJA entered kindergarten at Idlewild Elementary
August, 1987 - Met KD, his future wife, in drama class at Kirby High School
May, 1988 - RJA graduated from Kirby High School
June 4, 1994 - RJA married KD in Fisher Gardens at Rhodes College
January 5, 1998 - Had his first son, CA
January, 1999 - Bought his business at 152 Madison Avenue
July 1, 2001 - Had his second son, JPA
September 14, 2002 - Had his first daughter, SA
May 28, 2006 - Had his second daughter, GKA

This time-line is made on a poster board with pictures drawn of me reading a book, riding a bike, running and carrying a baby. There are also photographs of me as a baby, a young boy, at my wedding and with each of my kids as babies. Except GK. Apparently we have no physical photo of her so there are, instead, two pictures of me with baby S, but one with the GK label. I'm hoping to add December 2007 - Finally ponies up for a decent camera to the time-line this year.

I'm Back

As both of you know, I had back surgery in May of last year. After that, I had a good recovery, and eventually was back to my old, mildly-achy self. I slowly started running again and was up to six miles on a good day and had run several 5ks this year, which I was proud of because, honestly, I never thought I'd be running again after the excruciating pain of a ruptured disc.

But then, two mornings ago, that all stopped. Or rather, started, again. I was carrying GK around the house and going through what I go through each morning to get The Quartet up, fed, dressed and out the door for school, and I bent over to get something out a drawer for S and went to my knees in pain. The girls' bed was right there, luckily, so I was able to set GK down when I caught myself. Once I regained my composure, and because I'm stubborn, I stood up and picked GK up and went about the business of getting the kids where they needed to be.

That day was spent at work, taking small steps and with no lifting. That night the family went to The Fair and I went home to lie on the floor with a dinner of a peanut butter and banana sandwich, one gin & tonic and two Darvocet; the Elvis Presley Special. It's still stiff, but I think I may come out of this one okay. I think it may work itself out, loosen itself up. It had better, because I need to start running again before I begin looking like Elvis, or a regular Fair-goer.

My War

I've been endeavoring to watch Ken Burns's The War on PBS this week. I admire Mr. Burns and the history that he manages to bring alive from black and white photos and personal letters, and I sincerely want to know more about that day that lives in infamy, Guadalcanal and the invasion of France. However, what I'm learning is that my kids are louder than World War II. I'm catching about one-eighth of everything Keith David says. So what we have so far, as I understand it, is that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, General MacArthur left ... somewhere but then went back, women in America went to work, Winston Churchill wanted to visit Africa and then we all went to France. Did I leave anything out? Did somebody, at some point, grind a piece of cheese pizza into the newly washed sofa cushions? Did Tojo do that or was that JP? Because if it's JP, then Big Mama is going to declare a whole different kind of war on the home front.

Because I Said So

I've told you all the truth here. I've shrunk away from nothing. You've read at Urf! that sometimes your very own children can drive you away, that it's perfectly okay to want to leave your kids from time to time. You've seen here that sometimes parents pick a favorite from their four (or, you know, whatever number you have) kids, even if it is for just an afternoon, or one season. And we've all learned that sometimes one child will be chosen to be a mole, a rat, a turncoat with his siblings. These are all ugly truths that parents know deep down, but don't often speak of out loud for fear of reproach from other parents that they don't know so well who may be listening in at the food court. But those parents know it, too. And here's another: all first-time parents think that they will do a better job raising kids than their own parents did. [DISCLAIMER: Mom, I'm speaking in generalities here. This isn't necessarily something I've ever thought, and when Katherine first mentioned it to me I thought she was, quite frankly, insane. You just can't tell with post-partum.]

This isn't to say that we think our children will end up more well-adjusted than we did, or have a more well-rounded childhood, but there are some very specific things that new parents plan on. I'm not giving my child any sugary cereals, I'm not letting my child watch television all night, I'm always going to use a car seat. One way we all think we'll be different - better, if you will - is in how we talk to our children; refusing to talk down to them, to treat them like, well, children. With the words still ringing in our ears from our own childhood, we swear on a stack of Dr. Spock books that we will never use Because I said so as reasoning for anything, that we will explain our decisions in a way that is not threatening and that even a toddler can understand and make sense from.

I've been a father now for nine and a half-ish years to four or so kids, and one thing I've learned is that Because I said so may be the finest reason for just about anything. I am the parent. I am the pater familial. I am the king ... okay, the co-ruler, of this fiefdom. Why do you have to pick that pizza up off the floor? Because I said so. Why do you have to get in the bathtub? Because I said so. Why do you have to take your hands from your brother's neck? Because. I. Said. So. Why do I say so? I usually don't know, maybe because whatever they're doing is loud or gross or potentially dangerous. I just kind of make it up as I go along. What didn't I make up? The mortgage payment I just mailed off so these kids will have a roof over their heads, the gargantuan grocery bill I just paid, the fact that I have to wake up at 6 a.m. so everything can get done that needs getting done to get them to school on time. All of these things give me carte blanche to say so.

All you new parents, go ahead and repeat that line to yourself and learn to love it. And learn that you are, in fact, no better or smarter than your own parents. Parenting is hard and we have few adequate resources in our arsenal. Because I said so is tried and true, it's the B-52 of reasoning.

Now, I have to prepare for the phone call I'll get when my Mom reads that I thought I could out-think her on how to be a parent, and then I will come back and possibly delete this post. Why? Because she said so.

On A Clear Day

Tonight, GK and I watched a film called On A Clear Day. It’s a story, on the surface, about a man attempting to swim the English Channel from England to France. When I told Kristy the plot before watching it she asked why I like movies like that. I’d never really thought about it before, but I suppose I do enjoy a story about someone who is attempting something that seems impossible, whether circumnavigating the globe solo, cycling through the Alps, diving to new depths or swimming a large body of water. These are stories of accomplishment, and whether the person attempting actually succeeds or not, he’s taking on a challenge. I’m not sure why this resonates with me. Perhaps because I’ve never committed to anything in that way, not just a supreme physical feat like running an ultra-marathon, but something more within my grasp like refurbishing the Honda Rebel that’s sitting in my garage, building a boat or running 26.2 miles. Something that, though it isn’t necessary for life, really is so for living. I go to work in the mornings but at the end of every workday, of every six-day workweek, everything I’ve spent my time and effort on is, quite literally, up in smoke. I can’t hold something in my hand and say, “Look at this. This is what my skills and my knowledge made today” and that’s something that I think I would like to be able to do. I admire anyone who sets out to accomplish a thing, perseveres, and has something to show for that effort.

On a Clear Day is the story of Frank, a middle-aged man who has lost his job and is unsure of what to do with his life. He sets out, with a group of close friends as trainers and advisers, to swim the English Channel. But there’s more to the story than just training for a grueling swim. It’s the story of a man and his pride, a father and son, grieving, a husband and wife and that woman’s independence, boat building, human worth, accomplishment, failure, and GK was pleased to find that it even has a nice little homage to Jaws. It’s a delightful movie.

When I got the DVD from NetFlix, it was damaged and halfway through became unplayable, so I sent it back. They sent me a new copy immediately and we made it through the 99-minute movie. So there you go, sometimes my tenacity pays off.

Good Morning To You

For those of you who may be considering inviting The Quartet for a sleepover (and really there are only two readers out there who may be, possibly, entertaining this idea), let me go ahead and warn you that S does not appreciate being awakened by dripping icy water on her face. I found that out this morning.

Over There

Guestlist!

What's He Building In There?

I'm not sure this post is going to work without the aid of pictures, but I need to give it a shot anyway. I tried to get a picture of the thing, but it was being wheeled away by the time I found the camera buried under The Quartet's pile of "art work" that was inexplicably on my desk.

C's friend, Butch Cassidy, lives around the corner and was over on Sunday to ride bikes and tramp through our backyard and house, into the front yard, back to the back and then into the house again. I never know where these kids are headed or what they may be in search of. At one point, though, they headed down to Butch Cassidy's house and when they returned shortly after, C walked in to the living room and said matter-of-factly to JP, "Get your helmet." Naturally, JP didn't question, he just ran into his room to get his bike helmet. And, naturally, I had to know what was going on. I went outside to see this ... vehicle? ... they'd manufactured. What I saw was one of those chairs that is molded from one big foam cushion, a red chair, tied to a skateboard that was jacked up. It was taller than a normal board with some sort of springs or shocks, and Butch Cassidy explained to me that it was the kind of skateboard that somebody named Cody Banks rode in a movie I've never seen. So the red cushion chair is tied to the extra-tall skateboard and then two other regular-sized skateboards were tied to either side like outriggers.

Be sure, I tried to get them to take the maiden voyage on this shuttle down the neighbor's driveway, which has a nice, gentle slope that would allow them to build up enough speed to amuse me. But they seemed to have other plans, and these plans were to take place at Butch Cassidy's house and may have involved being pulled by a bike. Or a car, who knows? All I can picture, though, is JP strapped into that thing with his helmet on, a grin on his face, and having the time of his life. For about 12 seconds.

Five Things About S

1. Her first name is actually E.
2. She has her mother's eyes and my family's nose.
3. She has plans to get a garden tattooed on her arm some day.
4. Her favorite book is Clarice Bean and I taught her to pronounce "Clarice" like Hannibal Lecter.
5. Her favorite olive is kalamata.

Happy birthday, S!

Achtung!

GK and I watched The Great Escape last night. She's a film buff and it's been surprising to discover that her favorite films are also my favorites, and this one is no different. However, I noticed last night that instead of paying rapt attention to cinematography, composition, dialogue and mies-en-scene, as she usually does, this time she sat with a fearful look in her eye, stealing glances at me periodically, and trying in vain to hide that tick she gets when she's nervous where she babbles incoherently through bursts of crying. And, in fact, during the scene where the Germans locate the tunnel known as Tom, she actually crapped her pants. I think The Quartet is planning a break-out. I'm fairly certain they're tunneling, too, as evidenced by all the dirt in their rooms. They haven't quite figured out how to disperse what they dig and instead have opted to just spread it around. All over. The "escape" of Harpo, it's clear now, was planned - that little hamster was running recon, getting the lay of the land, making maps, possibly laying in a store of Pop-Tarts and cheese pizza in a safe house someplace.

What they don't realize is that all of this effort is for naught. That if they want to leave, I'll unlock the door for them, even give them the keys to the Volvo as long as C agrees to be the designated driver. But I'll let them carry on with their plan, figure out who fulfills which roles. I see C as Intelligence, JP is the Cooler King, GK is the Scrounger and S, obviously, is Big X. Big Mama in this scenario is the Gestapo and I want to be that laid-back British officer who wears a tie and sips proper tea throughout the movie.

After the movie, once GK had regained her composure, we talked about who the coolest character is. She put up a good argument for Steve McQueen as Hilts, but I still like that James Garner as Hendley. Who is your favorite character?

The House Was Open

We attended open house at the kids' school tonight as a family because I wasn't quick enough to come up with a way out of it. We have three kids in the same school now so we hit every hallway in that building, some of them twice. C, JP & S's teachers all had very nice things to say about them, but there was a common theme throughout the evening with these quick, five minute meetings with each of their teachers. It turns out our kids talk a lot. Really? It took up an hour and a half of tonight to find out my kids can't shut their mouths?

The eye opener of the night, though, was in C's class when his teacher, who was also his teacher last year, said, "Do you notice anything different about C this year?" Kristy and I looked at each other, just a hint of fear in our eyes as to what might come next. She said, "He's talking." Kristy and I said something literate, such as "Wha?" or "Huh?" Turns out he never really talked much at school in previous years. He was saving it all for home, all for me, because he knows I often sit around here thinking Damn, I wish the people I live with were more vocal.

Also, there were plenty of Memphis Parent magazines being handed out to the attendees at the open house this evening. This month's issue features an interview with me about Urf! by the very talented Stacey Greenberg, so the cat's out of the bag on the blog. I'm pretty sure my kids' teachers will be reading this, which is fine because we really, really like their teachers. They're very smart. Very dedicated. They should be paid more. A lot more.

After the open house at the elementary school I came home and washed my hands. Repeatedly.

No, It's A Tiny Sandwich

The Saucier and Big Mama have a delightful little, irritating discussion going on in the comments section of the previous post. This is the only place you will see me weighing in on that inane discussion between Uber-Mom and Non-Parent. The reason we don't force JP to eat what JP doesn't want to eat is, in part, due to dialogs like the one he and I had this morning:

Me: Does anybody know what a panini is?
JP: Yeah, it's what boys pee out of.

Sam-I-Was

Legend has it that when I was just a young boy in short pants I was a huge fan of Dr. Seuss. And who isn't? So one day my mother, who found her own kids amusing even in a time before blogs, made me a big plate of green eggs using food coloring. If the storyteller is to be believed then I took one look at that plate of emerald embryos and ran shrieking in terror from the room.

One of The Quartet's favorite books is Green Eggs and Ham and I read it to them all the time as part of their Three Books At Bedtime routine. I still enjoy the story and I'm thrilled that the kids do as well, but someone really should address the 800-lb. fox in the box in the room. See, my kids, just like the protagonist, could not, would not, try new foods either. And this isn't lost on them. They realize, and comment upon, the fact that this is the point of the story, that this ... whatever he is ... doesn't like green eggs and ham simply because he's never tried them before. But they won't admit to their own culinary trepidations or that meat and eggs are one of the best sources for irony. They just won't admit that they're all chicken. Chicken nuggets only, of course.

Man Solo

Kristy and the kids just spent a weekend away, leaving me alone with the keys to the car. I should tell you what went on around here but I’m too tired to couch it in a witty story or lesson in raising kids, so you’re on your own with that. I’m just going to list what I did, but with the days of the weekend in bold to make it seem exciting and important. Read on …

Friday: I’m starting with Friday, the day before they left town, because that’s the day I learned that Kate Beckinsale will be coming to Memphis in a month to film a movie, thus hastening the end of my marriage. I’m so excited! That night we went to SAM and The Admiral’s for Cocktail Hour which turned out to be the best yet. There were bloggers and business owners, writers and carpenters, midwives and musicians, boat builders, an archeologist and … gasp … an electrician. Oh, and a bunch of kids.

Saturday: I said goodbye to my family and watched them as they cast off, heading for the faraway lands of east Tennessee. And then I went to work. After work I watched The Good Shepherd and ate chicken parmesan and drank wine. Lots of wine. I did not win the lottery. Again.

Sunday: I cleaned the boys’ room. For five hours. Why did it take five hours? Because it takes five hours to clean my kids’ rooms, that’s why. Afterwards I was exhausted and starving, so I ate turkey and dressing alone at Dino’s followed by a trip to Lowe’s and then to purchase Thelonius Monk’s Solo Monk which, for some reason, I didn’t own already. I watched Woody Allen’s Scoop that night with Scarlet Johansson. She was in the movie, I didn’t actually watch it with her, Kristy, she’s never returned one of my phone calls. Then I fell asleep by 10:30 because once I turned the movie off it was just so very quiet in my house and because that’s how crazy I can get while the family is away.

Monday: I ran the AutoZone/Chik-Fil-A 5k in 28:11 which I was pretty happy with considering I’d trained all week with Hendrick’s and cigars. This was Labor Day which means cookouts and beer and friends and memories, except my family was gone and my friends let me down with the cooking out and the friends and the memories. So I went to Celtic Crossing by myself instead and had a corned beef sandwich and a Guinness, did the Sunday crossword and watched soccer. I also ran into an old friend from the paper, Stephanie H., who was with one of my kids’ teachers who I met for the first time. We discussed … phonics?

Sitting at a bar, watching sports on TV and drinking a beer alone is something I haven’t done in a long, long time. Those few hours alone gave me time to think about how things used to be, years ago before kids and so much responsibility. It gave me time to talk to other adults and not have to worry about whether a child needed to go to the bathroom or was choking on his or her chicken finger. But more than anything it gave me time to think about how much I actually missed my family that weekend. Sure, the house gets quiet, pleasantly quiet, but then when I do or think of something really funny, there’s nobody to tell and impress, and what’s a showman without his audience? He’s usually asleep.

The Cat Is Away ...

Kristy and The Quartet left town 17 hours ago. How crazy can it get around here? The toilet seat has been left up for two hours now.

Born Free

Alright, listen up, people. Our fugitive has been on the run for nine hours. Average foot speed over toys, spilled milk and soiled clothes barring injuries is 1200 sq ft-per-hour. That gives us a radius of six rooms. What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in that area. Checkpoints go up at fifteen feet. Your fugitive's name is Harpo. Go get him.

That's right, the hamster is on the loose. We're not sure how, but his cage door was open this morning and before the search even commenced C was looking to blame somebody. But that seemed counterproductive so he just ate a waffle and watched Curious George instead. The hunt, I assume, will begin in earnest tonight and I'm sure Harpo will be found, whether by sight or by smell, eventually. The Quartet, if they truly care for this thing, better hope I don't find it first.

Overheard In The Living Room

S: Daddy has two big, round circles on his chest.
JP: They're called nipples.
S: You mean like a cow?!

A Lust For Glory And A Tape Machine

At 15 months, GK, just as her siblings before her, has found that her favorite rung on that double helix is the one where vocalizing is kept. Her vocabulary has grown exponentially of late and her favorite thing is to point at your face and say "Mao! Mao!" or "No!" or "Aye!" She has her facial anatomy down. She's very smart, and very cute.

For My Sisters

I don't do the grocery shopping. Or rather, I don't do the bulk of it. The grocery shopping I do is the after-grocery-shopping grocery shopping - stopping on the way home from work to get milk or bread or Ovaltine. I can't be trusted even with this because a cool third of everything I pick up will be the wrong something, the wrong brand, the wrong size, just the wrong thing. If I'm sent for six items then two will be wrong, nine then three are wrong. You get the idea.

Tonight I was sent for three items and, you guessed it, one was wrong. Instead of the usual Kraft Parmesan Cheese which, I suspect, has no cheese in it whatsoever, I picked up actual grated Parmesan. The kids who eat spaghetti in this house eat it with only butter and Parmesan (or, spaghetti cheese as it's called [I know, I know, no red gravy? I'm not really sure these kids are mine.]) So as the pasta with its inferior superior cheese was being refused by little people who don't even contribute to the bottom line around here, I was catching the blame. In my defense I raised my voice with "As long as all these kids are going to eat on spaghetti is butter and cheese is it too much to ask that they eat butter and cheese in a couple of decent rooms and a bath?!" That's right, I channeled George Bailey, which I suppose is better than channeling Jack Torrance.

I do this a lot, actually, channeling this wonderful, indelible movie character. Unfortunately, however, it's not usually the good-natured, optimistic dreamer who longs to help his friends and clients and be the best family man he can. It's usually the George Bailey who trashes his scale model suspension bridge and doesn't understand why they have to have all these kids in the first place. But I'm trying. I hope to be the responsible George Bailey someday, the George Bailey with all the character, and especially the George Bailey who gets all that cash dumped on his table and a peck on the cheek from Violet. Va-voom!

Who Do I Think I Am?

I was suddenly struck by the pretentiousness of my bedside table and thought I might share it with you. It is the duty of The Quartet to keep me grounded, humble, broken, if you will. According to the landscape of this small territory of mine, they are failing, miserably.



The photo above is one of the piece of furniture next to the piece of furniture where all the magic happens. That's right ladies, my bedside table is also next to my desk, where I write most of this witty blog. On the table you can see a copy of Woody Allen's Mere Anarchy, Jazz Modernism From Ellington and Armstrong to Matisse and Joyce by Alfred Appel Jr., a NetFlix DVD envelope swaddling The Dick Cavett Show: Comic Legends: Disc 2, a copy of The New Yorker and the CD Elvis Costello and Bill Frisell Deep Dead Blue Live 25 June 95. I have very intelligent furniture.

Incidentally, the entire rest of the house is full of Pop Tarts, dinosaurs, Legos and lead-based toys from China.

I Made This

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about creativity, about writing mostly, but mixed in there is photography, sculpting and some sketching. But mostly writing. I’ve been reading The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby, one of my favorite writers. This book is a collection of the column he does on reading for Believer magazine, so he’s one of my favorite readers as well. He puts me in the mind to read and he reveres reading as it should be. It’s good to know that there are others out there who get the same rush from a good book, from just the idea of starting a new book, that I get. Recently, too, I’ve spoken with a few people close to me who have encouraged me to write. Not just to write, though, but to write and publish. This is a very nice sentiment and I’m truly touched by their confidence in me. However, it resonates as well as if they were encouraging me to jump off the Sterick Building and fly. Would I love to fly? Of course I would, who wouldn’t? But the jumping is the simple part, anyone can jump. The flying? Well, that’s a whole different matter. Not many have pulled that off.

With my thoughts of creativity, I naturally have thought of my kids, because they always seem to creep up into my thoughts, even when all I want to do is think about myself for just a minute. It’s like when I was growing up and in Catholic school and we were taught that God thinks of us constantly and that if He ever stopped thinking of us then we would cease to exist. That’s a lot to think about and a lot of pressure. What’s to keep God, and all that’s on His plate with making the weather and creating fish and seeing to it that all those R&B singers win Grammys, thinking of a scrawny 10-year-old boy? So I taught myself to juggle and painted pictures and I did a little soft shoe to keep him entertained, to keep me in his mind so I wouldn’t disappear. I became creative. Much like this, my kids do things to stay in my mind. They leave half-eaten food laying around for me to find - I always think of them when I see this. They smear toothpaste around various surfaces of the bathroom, they leave lights on, they yell. They yell a lot. So I never stop thinking of them, and I don’t possess enough faith to think that they would go away even if I did.

I want for my kids to be creative. I don’t necessarily need for them to make a living with their creativity, as far as being an artist or musician, though I do know that there is plenty of call for creativity in business, especially entrepreneurship. I would simply like for them to have the outlet of creating something, something they can take pride in and that will make them happy. A feeling that no one can take away from them.

I can only imagine what each of The Quartet’s talent would be, where their creativity would lie. C enjoys both drawing and writing, but is far too literal for a fine art gig. I see him maybe working for Lucasfilm or Pixar, some place where he’ll be called upon to make a character come to life through the magic of counting pixels and equalizing bandwidth, or however they do that stuff. JP will sing, act and dance. He’ll be on the stage, on the screen and, if it’s at all possible in the future, he will wow Tom Snyder on late night television. JP is our entertainer. S, if she ends up in the entertainment world, will be a studio chief or an agent. I suppose that’s creative. Perhaps her talent will be recognizing others’ talents and then exploiting them for financial gain. I’m cool with that. GK I’m not so sure about, she’s still awfully young and really short. I’d say maybe a model, but the idea of that makes my palms sweat, so we won’t even consider that just yet.

In re-reading what I’ve just written I see that I’ve blatantly paired the kids’ talents with possible careers when I said that all I wanted was for them to be happy doing whatever it is they’re good at. I suppose, deep down, I’m hoping that what makes them happy is making a lot of money with what their good at to spend on me. They’re more than welcome to spend it creatively, too. Shoes, a boat, Caribbean homes, stocks, another boat, trips to New York, whatever it takes to make them happy making me happy.

I come from an inspired family, whether it was drawing, painting, engineering or writing, and I feel that there is something in me waiting to be let out. And while writing this blog is a nice outlet, a release of steam like the valve on a pressure cooker, it’s not the full-on geyser of a novel, short story, the ol’ soft shoe or a painting. I suppose it will come to me one day. One day I’ll have the time to sit down and explore, perhaps I’ll discover it as my kids are realizing their own artistic expressions. It may be right here at this tiny desk, in front of this iBook G4 or, hopefully, on that 46-foot sloop S will buy for me with the sweat from some hungry, struggling actor.

As Seen On The WWW

Some of my people and I can be seen here, here, here and here.

At Thirty-Seven

Things that happened to me yesterday:

• Was given a cake at lunch.
• Received three books and two CDs.
• Had lunch with my sister.
• Friends came to my house to toast me, but there was no toast. They just drank my alcohol and left.
• Received an E-mail from someone who could change the course my life is currently on.
• Ate pizza.
• Talked on the phone to my mother, an aunt, an uncle, my father and my sister.
• Watched The Quartet run around the house playing with Monistat applicators (I was told by one of my editors to explain here that the Monistat was purchased for GK's diaper rash or something, which is why the applicators were unused).
• Decreed that the kids should greet me every day with "Buon giorno, Papa!"

814

Nineteen Seventy
At St. Joseph's Hospital
Mimi kissed the doc

S Is For Spirit

I’ve written here many times, and have entertained friends and family for hours on end, about the toughness of S. She’s mean, she’s stubborn, she can be ruthless. At only 4-years-old she has her brothers, her friends and, at times, her parents walking on egg shells, giving her a wide berth and skirting the jagged edges of her impulsive rage. But here’s something I know: S is not so tough. My wiry little blonde who can’t seem to break 40 lbs. is mostly bark, largely smoke and no fire. Sure, I’ve seen her rain terror down on her siblings, I’ve borne witness to her striking down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy her, and I’ve heard her argue toe to toe with someone 30 years her senior. But I’ve also seen this little girl hide when someone addresses her, been there when her shyness – my shyness – takes hold. I’ve comforted her when her feelings were hurt and she’s curled up in my lap just to be close to her daddy.

S can take care of herself if need be, of that I have no doubt. But tomorrow I send her off to her first day of kindergarten, her first day of real, day in and day out, school. And though I’ve had this first day twice now with C and JP, this is my little girl and I know this will be the most difficult yet. And even as I write this I’m not sure if I’m talking about a problem for her or for me. I’m so familiar with her trigger-like defenses, her prickly veneer and willingness to argue a point until accession, but I also know how she shrinks from attention and of her confusion by authority. Likewise, I have experience in leaving the kids – leaving them somewhere in the mornings has been my dire task for nine years, so I’ve created this persona of myself as a parent who doesn’t really mind leaving his kids someplace, and an image of his daughter as a little girl who, among all of his other children, is a child confident in her own survival skills. But we’re neither all the time. Truth be told, we’re both a little scared. For her because tomorrow is the unknown, it’s School, school with a capital S, with all its homework, schedules and order. As I sit here in the early morning, writing, thinking, sipping my coffee and smoking my cigar while she sleeps somewhere nearby, I realize that my greatest worry isn’t that S is scared of her first day or uncertain about just what is going on, but that tomorrow is the first day for something that will last for at least the next 12 years. And my greatest concern for my little girl is that they will break her spirit with their order and their desks and their conduct grades. That the beast that is the City School System will do what they strive to do best, create a tepid child.

The little girl S is now, with her faults, with her concoction of sweetness and callousness, is the woman I want her to become so that I don’t have to worry about her wherever she may end up, though I know I always will.

Don't Make Me Come Over There

This morning was the first morning back to taking the kids to The Island for the sitter. Today she has all four, God bless her, but next week the older kids will be in school. The morning went fairly smoothly before leaving the house with only minimal crying from GK at her mother not being on hand when she awoke. Rousing the other kids from their late night summer reverie went as well as could be expected with C and S finally waking up just before time to walk out the door. We loaded the car with all the snacks and accoutrement it takes to move these kids from one place to the other and lit out for The Island which, as I've stated before, is nowhere near downtown, though it purports to be.

At the sitter's GK went into full meltdown mode when she realized just what was going on - that Daddy was once again abandoning her. The other kids settled right in on the couch and chairs and, I imagine, are asleep again by now. I like to impart a few words for each new day to The Quartet, something to open their eyes and get their mornings off on the right note. It's what I do. I'm motivational, I'm positive, I'm the kind of person who sees each sunrise as cause for celebration and adventure, but you probably get that from everything you've read here. So this morning I made it a point to get the kids' attention before letting them know "You kids better behave, I'm close by and can be here in two minutes to jerk a knot in you if need be." I think I read that on a poster with a kitten hiding in a basket of yarn or else it was in a book on how to be an exceptional parent. Either way, they went almost immediately back to ignoring me for whatever was on the big screen TV.

We have every confidence in our sitter. We know The Quartet will be safe and reasonably happy and that they're in good hands. And the day will go much smoother for her with the kids knowing that my hands are only minutes away from them.

13 Things

13 things I have yet to get used to as a parent:

1. Sharing a bed with more than one person.
2. Entire meals in the garbage can.
3. Toothpaste. Everywhere.
4. Relentless television viewing.
5. The question "What's for dinner?"
6. The stench of microwave popcorn.
7. The pitter-patter of little feet, followed by heavier footfalls, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor, followed by crying, followed by apologizing.
8. The demanding of ice cream (but that's from the Mommy).
9. The door opening and closing ad nauseam.
   
10. Plastic cups with traces of milk left in the refrigerator.
11. The question "Where's Mommy?"
12. Random stickiness.
13. My youngest crying when I leave her in the mornings.
    

Anything Could Have Happened

Do you remember that feeling that anything could happen? And I’m not talking about just on Wednesdays, either, but for a full weekend, in the middle of the night to early morning, summer vacation, daydreams. For me, that feeling stopped coming around maybe three or so years ago, and I miss it. I miss it all the more because I’m reminded of its absence almost daily when I see its presence in my own kids. As children, we have that natural wonder, that inborn optimism and we think of what is possible in terms of cities in space, mansion-esque tree houses, flying cars, rescuing people like the Lone Ranger and X-ray vision among the other daydreams of seven-year-old boys. Once becoming a young adult there are promises of a career path to greatness, wealth, writing that novel or that screenplay, or even meeting your true love and having the perfect family. There are days when you wake up and you actually believe that today anything might happen that will set the next stage of your life into motion. I used to have that feeling, maybe it was called optimism, but it’s mostly gone now, eroded over years of responsibility, the headaches of business ownership and trying to get a grasp on a very realistic picture of the future.

Yesterday, though, I witnessed the amazing feeling of possibility first-hand. One of The Quartet had acquired a helium-filled balloon and the other three convinced the owner to release the balloon with a note attached explaining who had let it go. The note began: We are in America. They had such high hopes, literally, for this balloon that they felt compelled to let the eventual recipient know from what country it originated. This sad little, red balloon that was already losing its loftiness is probably in a tree one block over, but as far as The Quartet is concerned it’s in China or Bolivia or the Polynesian Islands, in the hands of some other child who is trying to decipher that note in wonder. And as jaded and pessimistic as I may be now, I’m not inclined to change their minds. I wouldn’t dare. Because I miss the days of imagining that I’m Tarzan or that I might fly with a jet pack one day or that a balloon, released in Midtown Memphis could journey halfway around the world.

Do Not Try This At Home

As readership here at Urf! continues to climb, our attorneys at the law firm of Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga and McCormack require that we periodically remind all of you that Urf! is in no way an expert at child raising. If you choose to have and raise children of your own then you should consult an expert such as J.K. Rowling, The Oprah, episodes of Eight is Enough or any member of Congress. We are simply making it up as we go along and the following photo is Exhibit A in testimony to that fact:


In the above photo you will notice that the junior most member of The Quartet sits unattended three feet up on the counter and within arm's reach of the rum, the gin, the wine and the Angostura bitters. The small orange can you see there is a flea bomb and if you look in the foreground you can just make out the edge of the silver blade of the largest kitchen knife we own. We were using that knife to cut garlic, which we did not feed to the baby. Luckily, in this little playground of hers, GK chose to play with that glass bottle of tonic over everything else. And we'd just used the last of the matches.

So, no, we're no experts. However, I do think I have a certain flair when it comes to parenting, and while I normally don't like to talk about my flair, I do think it's time I begin taking questions from the audience. So, good readers, if you have any questions for me, The Quartet or Big Mama regarding child rearing, schooling, patience or the lack there-of, or any recipe involving garlic and rum, then please address them to urfblog at gmail dot com and I will answer them, if I feel like it, right here on the interweb.

In Triplicate

I made my annual trip to the Shelby County Health Department this morning for copies of my kids' birth certificates because God forbid we should put them in a place where we can actually find them from year to year. Some of you will recall my adventure there at this time last year, and many of you will understand that I only just now finished scrubbing my hands from that visit. The kids need these certificates so they can enroll in the very same school they went to last year. The School System needs proof, again, that they were born. Well, I proved it this morning in just under an hour and a half. The School System is a hungry beast that needs its paper, its forms, to look at and smell, rub all over its body and, I imagine, while no one is looking it sits in its gray-toned cubicle to gnaw on the corners of these forms. The proof is also there by the way, in black and white (at least legally), that I am indeed the father of these miscreants. Dammit.

Now that we're past that stage of the registration process, I've moved on to the school supply lists which can be found online, surprisingly. It seems that my family will be responsible for taking 13 glue sticks to school. Thirteen glue sticks? Seriously? It seems that as much as the School System loves its forms, the school itself relishes its glue. What do they plan to do with all of these sticks of glue, wallpaper their cinderblock building with forms and birth certificates? Use them to keep the kids in their seats? Make school cafeteria pizza?

The insanity begins in earnest next week when Big Mama starts back to work but the kids have another week of vacation. And I'm in charge. I plan to keep the order by having them fill out their own forms for school and, if need be, gluing them all to each other to better control them. Now, if you wouldn't mind picking up 13 14 glue sticks for me, I'll be in the back washing my hands. Again.

Welcome, Vermin

As a kid growing up we had a couple of dogs. We had goldfish when I was really young, two of them - Ernie and Bert - and I wanted to see if fish could sneeze so I put pepper in their bowl, they ate it and died. I had a turtle that ran away. We had a cat for a weekend once, I think. And at some point I acquired a mouse. A little white mouse with red eyes that I managed to keep secret from my mother until one weekend when my sisters and I were at our father's house and she called to let me know this mouse that she hadn't even been aware of had escaped and was running wild in the house. That was the end of that. When I moved out on my own I racked up a menagerie of snakes and lizards, a Great Dane and Weimaraner for a while.

I like animals, I just don't have a lot of time for them now what with all the people that require tending to in this house. But tonight I walked into the house after work and was greeted by JP who was bouncing off the walls because of the newest resident here at Castilo Urf! Harpo is a Teddy Bear Hamster and he lives in the boys' room, in a cage, for now. I'm certain that this is the first in a long line of small animals on our Ark, both furry and scaly. A long line of buried shoeboxes and flushed memorials. But no need to dwell on that now. Tonight The Quartet is having a great time with Harpo and it seems to be doing well. I know it's doing well because the kids are coming in to us every four minutes with updates on what it's doing. They've set stools up in front of the cage so they can sit and watch it as though the hamster and its antics are the afternoon matinee. Poor little guy, scurrying around his shavings, pooping alongside kin one minute, stared at by three giant child heads the next, wondering how hungry they are but not yet realizing that these kids subsist on cheese pizza and Pop Tarts, nothing even approaching hamster meat.

Welcome to our home, Harpo. We'll see to it our kids take care of you as best we can, though we can't really be responsible for their friends so watch out for them. And try to remember that around here it's first come/first served in the bathroom, the volume is always up, the littlest kid may not necessarily be the safest and should someone try to feed you pepper, just pretend to sneeze and then run away.

The Daddy Wears Prada

I picked up my new glasses today. It took the Italian elves two weeks to put them together, which is almost as long as the initial eye exam lasted. They’re Prada frames. There, I said it. I have a designer on my face because I’m just that much of a fashion maven. I just today read in Vogue that nothing goes with cargo shorts and a 5k T-shirt better than Prada specs. I think it was in Vogue, but it may have been in the liner notes to the newest Amy Winehouse album. Nevertheless, I feel like I need to live up to the frames, that the Prada People expect more of me, for me to be chic for the first time in my life. Or like I’m French kissing an architect. Regardless, I need to put my face out there with confidence, yet I feel I’m trapped somewhere between being a strutting, nearsighted peacock and that sixth-grade RJA sliding down in his desk chair when his mother appears at the classroom door with the uncoolest coat ever that he’d “forgotten” at home. This all seems somewhat confusing to me, and even more vain, but I know that what will win out in the end is the price tag. They cost me and Blue Cross/Blue Shield way too much money to not be worn proudly. So look out world because I’m strutting out there and I can finally see where the hell I’m going.

Children Of The Sand

The week at the beach went off without a hitch, mostly. The wild card in this whole trip was the kids, all eight of them. That's eight little wild cards and they're all Jokers. But they did pretty well, considering. They got along well, for the most part. There was some arguing, naturally, but considering the amount of time they all spent together the percentage of time spent defending the territory of the couch, the damn blue chair, The Admiral's lap, a hermit crab, the color orange, a towel, a television station and a juice box, was pretty small. Their skirmishes and their playfulness weren't all that unexpected since these kids spend so much time together in Memphis. In fact, what surprised me the most, I think, was the way all of us adults handled the children and what a wide berth we allowed them. Upon arrival speeches and threats were made that no child was to wander down to the beach and the water without an adult, and that if an adult was already down there then that child was to make his or her presence known to the adult on duty. That lasted about 12 hours. After that, when the kids asked if they could go to the beach then the answer was, "Yes" and then, as an after thought, "Don't get in the water!" And they didn't. They scurried around in the sand collecting shell parts (there were hardly any full shells on our beach), digging holes and tormenting crabs, but they never broached the surf and we didn't lose any of them ... that I know of.

The adults were as relaxed as I've ever seen us. And, while there was plenty of imbibing, it never got out of hand, the youngest people were never in danger. However, there was the epiphany on one of the last nights that if we were to get out of hand, if we were to pass around the Benadryl for one night of peace (this never happened) then the worst the Department of Human Services would do is take the kids from us. Take the kids from us? As punishment? Hang on, let me just pack a few things for them. Now remember, they require 12 hours of exercise a day, 18 hours of sleep and they feed mostly on cold cuts and hermit crabs.

If any of The Octet are able to take any memories from this trip - C will, but the others may be too young and are possibly already confused why there is sand in their crevices - then I hope those memories are full of salt and sand, juice and chocolate, fire and late nights, sun and smiles.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Johnny

I need to squeeze this in under the wire here because I just looked at the calendar and realized it's my Uncle Johnny's birthday, so I wanted to say Happy Birthday to him. And how apropos that it would come just after a post about having fun, because who better to learn to have fun from than Johnny? He has taught me how to hit golf balls, drive on ice, build things, watch movies, bet on horses and play craps, cook shrimp, be a terrific father and, I hope, a good man. Over the years he's taken me to Chicago, St. Louis, Florida, on a bike ride across the city, to many casinos, an OTB and hunting. He first piqued my interest in sailing. He was there for me at my Confirmation and at my wedding. He did a lot of this when he was a much younger man and I was a much younger boy. A teen, in fact, and who wants to spend their time with an obnoxious teenager? He did. He is the big brother I never had and for that I'm grateful and I hope he's having a wonderful birthday.

One Funky Bunch

Being home sucks. We returned home from our trip to the beach an hour and a half ago and the Post-Vacation Funk has set in in a big way. It is now 9:30 p.m. and at 9:30 p.m on the beach for the past seven days I’ve been sitting down to dinner with friends. That’s right, dinner at 9:30, with drinks, yelling at kids to control themselves so we could eat, and some delicious food. After that? We burned stuff on the beach. After that? It probably won’t be blogged about. The point is, it’s 9:30 in Memphis and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m having a beer. I guess I could go out on my deck and drink it, but there’s no sound of the surf, just a dog a couple houses down and the train. It’s getting to be FedEx plane landing time, so I guess I could pretend that’s the sound of the surf. There are no friends here, though, no sand, no cool Gulf breeze. And I’m wearing way too many clothes. The Funk didn’t begin for us as we pulled into the driveway, though, as we walked into our stale-smelling, one-week-vacant house. No, it started as we pulled away from Beach Walk West and drove down that long highway to reality. That’s when I looked over and saw the tears running from behind Kristy’s ever-present sunglasses. You see, it’s more than just Post-Vacation Funk for Team Urf!, it’s Post-Beach Funk, and that’s a whole different level of depression. It’s the very feeling in our bones that led us to move to Florida only six weeks after a vacation there just after we were married. That’s all I’m going to say about that, it’s the very. same. feeling.

I realize this isn’t the post you’ve all been looking for. I’ve been away for a week and the descending stair-steps of my stat counter tells me you’ve stopped expecting new posts. Perhaps you were expecting daily posting on the activity of a houseful of bloggers and their kids on the beach. Well, Alabama has the beach, the sun, the surf, copious wood to burn, alcohol, kids, but apparently no internet. And you know what? I didn’t miss it one bit. I don’t think any of us did. We even turned the clock on the microwave off because who cares what time it was? We were as far from reality as we could get.

There’s plenty more to be said here about the week, it was a blast. But right now there’s a pall on our homecoming because, well, we’re home, in the real world, and I’m not at all sandy, way too sober and overdressed. Now, if you need me, I’ll be in the backyard hunting for crabs alone with just my key chain (inside joke!).

One Night Of Peace

Strange evening. Tomorrow we head out for the Gulf Coast, where six adults will desperately try to keep eight kids’ cracks mostly sand free. Tonight, however, seems to be the calm before that storm. Kristy took the kids to the nerdfest for Harry Potter, which means I’m home alone. Just me, Billie Holiday and a glass of wine. This is the quietest time I will have for the next eight days. It is bliss. Not that I’m not looking forward to our trip, mind you, but the quiet, it’s so … quiet. So peaceful. Except for earlier when I took care of a mouse. A rodent came into my home, where my children sleep, but this evening it met with the business end of a Louisville Slugger so our house is vermin free. Completely free of pests – no mice, no kids. Just quiet. Listen … here that? Me either.

I’m going to go now and enjoy the nothingness that I’m ensconced in. The next sound you hear will be the sound of a car engine turning over, followed almost immediately with the first of many, “Are we almost there?” Stay tuned …

Wait, Am I The Diva?

Lindsey, over at theogeo, is also a guest blogger on iDiva. She references Urf! in her latest column as a way to introduce her own memory of a lovely childhood trip. She remembers a lot more than I do of mine, but hers happened in 1987 when she was six, which means she wasn't even born when I took the trip I wrote about. But I'm okay with that. I'm comfortable with the fact that I'd just started dating my future wife while she was waiting on line at Space Mountain, a pair of mouse ears perched haphazardly on her head. I read theogeo daily and so should you. If you like blogs that update regularly then this is the one for you, she updates it several times a day, either with cool photos or a glimpse into her day and life. I worked in editorial at The Commercial Appeal about nine years ago, though she didn't work there then. She was barely even born at the time. We've never met but I thank her for the mention, and I know she'll appreciate that I'm drinking a nice pinot noir and toasting her now.

The Good Foot

As many of you know, I'm being trained in the sweet science by Uncle Toby (you can read more about that here). As we get more into it, and now that the crunches, the hip-ups and the barrel rolls are, or close to, second nature, we've progressed into more actual punch-throwing and footwork. What I've found is that boxing is very much like dancing in its movement. And I don't dance (you can read more about that here). It's not that I can dance, but choose not to, it's that I can't dance. I simply can't make my legs and arms move in any sort of combined fashion that is not completely embarrassing to me and my family, and this is a hindrance when on the heavy bag or, like tonight, in the ring. I'd like to dance. I'd like to be able to move as gracefully as Ginger Rogers across a ballroom floor or a canvas-covered platform. How many times have I wished to take my bride by the hand and move with her to the sultry sounds of Mel Torme? But my legs, hips and torso just don't want to work with me, which is why Uncle Toby, just like Kristy, has his work cut out for him. I may not ever vie for middle-weight champion, or whatever weight class I am, or King of the Tango, or whatever title the dance world offers. I might actually never be a contender. And while I may not be able to glide like Ginger Rogers, with the ab work and strength training, along with what punches and footwork I have been able to pick up, I'm fairly certain I could whip her ass within three rounds. Or, maybe four.

You Either Surf Or You Fight

In 1975 or 6, I went to Florida with my parents, my sister and a bunch of aunts and uncles. I would have been 5- or 6-years-old so my memory of it isn’t clear but I, instead, have a sense of the trip. I remember riding a long way in a hot car, I remember a pink stucco house with scrub and sand in its front yard, and I remember we had to walk to get to the beach. I learned how to shuffle cards on that trip. I may have tasted a beer. My memory is a patchwork of photographs, stories everyone has told about the trip over the years and paintings my sister has done from photos. It’s a good and familiar memory, if that is what it is.

At the end of this week, Team Urf! is taking part in something that is part family vacation, part reality TV show and part social experiment. We are traveling to the Gulf Coast with two other families, all of whom you’ve read about here, to live in a house on the beach for one week. There will be six adults and eight kids, the youngest will be four-weeks-old, the oldest is 9 1/2. At the end of the week we will all either be closer and more of a family or we will not be speaking to each other. There’s just no way to tell.

There will be plenty to keep the kids entertained: building sand castles, surfing, burying each other in the sand, swimming, screaming, crying, jumping, laughing, sleeping?, watching a different TV, drinking juice boxes, asking questions, complaining, searching for the last kid they buried in the sand, playing games, watching Le Tour, counting stars, gambling. As for the parents, well, it will be a week of sitting. Sitting and staring at the water. At least that’s Team Urf!’s way. Kristy and I have spent a lot of time at the beach and we’ve spent most of that time sitting and relaxing. Perhaps reading. Maybe having a drink or two. Is the whole idea insane? Of course it is, but this is our first real vacation in several years and we are giddy with an excitement that is clouding our judgment, which is how we ended up with four kids in the first place.

This trip reminds me of the trip I took with family over 30 years ago. And maybe I don’t have all the facts right. Maybe as many people as I think didn’t go. Maybe we were closer to the beach or that house wasn’t pink. But what I take with me is the memory of spending that much time with family, and I remember the laughter, and that’s what this week will be. It will be great fun and great memory for The Quartet and the other kids, as well as their parents.

Oh, and the house we’re staying in is a duplex, so whoever is on the other side, I’m really sorry, in advance, for … everything.

Water, Water Everywhere

My kids have survival instincts only when it comes to certain things. They monitor the television for hours on end for any breaking news involving world catastrophes, terrorism or The Simpsons movie previews, the boys can and will pee outside, sliding down a slide head first is still taken very cautiously and only after hours of slide observation, wind sheer vectoring and the employment of an actual slide rule. And then there’s water. At home, The Quartet wants milk, chocolate milk, tea, Coke and the occasional juice, if it’s in a box. But get them out of the house and they want water, lots of it. When we go to the park they need a water bottle, yet rather than run around, swing and calculate slope and speed first, they want to drink that bottle of water until it’s dry. Why? Because it’s there. It’s there at home, too, but so are too many other choices, I suppose. Yesterday, we were leaving to go sailing with friends and before the Mazda MPV pulled away from the curb here at the Castilo they were asking, nee demanding, a bottle of water. You know, just in case we became shipwrecked on the way to the ship. Their world – Midtown and Downtown Memphis – must still be a strange landscape to these young people and the fear of being stuck somewhere without hydration is still too great. So if you come across these four out in public and they look a little parched, would you mind terribly if they drink all of your water?

And because I can’t laugh at them without laughing at myself, as The Admiral and I were bringing down the rigging, tying and untying lines and stowing away sails yesterday after the outing, my survival instincts, or lack of, led me to step on someone’s (no names mentioned) lit cigar, thus bringing my running career to a grinding halt … for now. Ironically, there wasn’t any water left for me to pour on the burn.

Dixon Dinner

We just now returned from a dinner at the home of Click, M, and The Brain, with Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Toby, and I can't thank them enough. As much as I'd like our house to be the house of gatherings, I'm afraid The Dixons have beat me to it. Tonight, around a hand-painted table full of some sort of wonderful sausage, rice and watermelon/blueberry concoction, we discussed children, childhood, parenting, mustaches, art, frozen bananas, travel, McCoy Tyner, soccer, food, careers and many, many other topics. Click and I damn near polished off a bottle of Tanqueray and I dare say we'll achieve this next go round. And I hope there is a next time. I hope they'll have Team Urf! over again, if not for dinner, then to move in. The futon in the office looks quite comfy, there's plenty of Super Chewies in the backyard and the doorframes account for hours and hours of fun. We'll bring the milk next time.

Steady As She Goes

In the course of day-to-day life, with the pressures at work and the stress of raising a family of four kids, it’s easy to lose focus and appreciation of the good times that are happening right in front of our faces. Events come along, daily if you’re looking for them, that will make you stop and smile, remembering the very reason you wanted children in the first place. For me it has been a series of moments this week. GK has become more comfortable walking to the point that it is her main mode of transportation. It turns out that laughing at my kids is the reason I’ve had them, and have kept them around, because there is nothing funnier than watching her toddle around the house like a drunken sailor on deck and then fall down. And then get back up and keep going. I know there’s a more emotional point of view to be taken here with our last baby growing up and becoming more independent, and that this is only the beginning of more milestones that will accumulate to make a little person who retains only a slight resemblance to the baby we once held in our arms. But really, right now, it’s just funny. It’s like having a tiny Dean Martin stumbling around, holding her arms up to maintain balance while trying not to drop whatever it is she might be holding – remote, baby doll, toothbrush, highball. If you listen closely you’ll hear me in the background encouraging her, praising her, but mostly laughing, not with her, but at her.

Is This Better Than This?

I went to the eye doctor today for the first time in nine years. Eye doctor offices have changed a lot since the last time I passed the Craftsman tools and plaid shirts to get to the optometrist department at Sears. Walking into the Eclectic Eye in Midtown is like walking into a nightclub in South Beach with its black-clad staff, clean open spaces and thumpy techno music. I half expected for my shorts and T-shirt to get the once over and then be escorted from the premises with all the other tragically unhip. But the good Dr. Weinberg and his team of attractive Igors did a wonderful job taking care of and doing a number on me once they got me into their little room with all its evil devices. There were pupils dilated, my chin and forehead were forced into place and air forced into my eyeballs, and bright lights shined into my irises. And then there were the questions: Is this better than this? Is this clearer? Can you read the top line? Second line? The whole situation, from the iron maiden they had me sit in to administer the exam to the interrogation, was like the Spanish Inquisition, if the Inquisition had taken place in a Miami night club.

All went well, though. No glaucoma, no macular degeneration, no blindness. I currently have the first pair of contact lenses I've ever had on and a pair of stylish new frames on the way. I know I shouldn't wait so long to visit the doctor and I should have regular exams, and I know there are those of you who think that my priority should be more urologist than optometrist, but today was the day I tended to my eyeballs.

Maybe next time I'll take The Quartet for their first exams, if they can get past the velvet rope, and see how they like being questioned repeatedly with a white light shining in their eyes while trying to dance to a funky beat.

Do NOT Wake The Baby

GK and I found ourselves alone last night, which was quite a shock, actually. I came out of the bathroom to find GK sitting on the couch with the remote in one hand and a Tab in the other and no one else around. She informed me that Big Mama had taken the other three kids and Satchel to see a movie, but that she hadn’t felt like going, though she did expect me to entertain her for the evening. Great. So I did one of the only things I know to do with a one-year-old, I took her to the park. Usually there are other moms at the park for me to chat up, but not last night. No, just two other dads and that’s no good. Once we were sufficiently bored by the other dads, their kids, and the swings, we headed out east to the bookstore. GK fell asleep before we were a block from the park.

I’ll admit something here because I’m not ashamed. I am scared of babies. Not sleeping babies, mind you, they’re harmless and funny looking. But when they wake up and I’m in charge of them, they cry. As long as they’re sleeping, though, then everyone is happy, until somebody finally pokes them with a stick or something to wake them, then the good times come to a screeching, sobbing end. So I drove out to the bookstore anyway, thinking that once we got there I’d ease her out of her seat and carry her in and then, if she awoke, at least she’d have colorful toys to taste. But once we got out east I just couldn’t bring myself to possibly wake her and I just kept driving. I drove all around neighborhoods out there and then I meandered back to Midtown where I made the mistake of going through a Burger King drive thru. That’s a mistake on several levels, but I was hungry and was more than willing to spend $30 in gas to keep this kid asleep. However, I looked in the mirror and saw her big, brown eyes looking at me in wonder at what it was I was requesting from that little box, and what she was going to get out of it.

We went home and she cried from eight until just after nine when Kristy got home, with only intermittent dozing when the exhaustion was too much. It’s not the crying, specifically, that gets to me, though it does get irritating. It’s more the fact that I can’t soothe her, that my kids cry because I’m not their mother. I’ve never been able to quiet any of The Quartet. And it’s not just the nursing, though that is certainly a big part of it, they just want to be held by her more than anyone, more than me. You’d think I’d be used to it after four kids and nine years of parenthood, but you never get used to your baby crying uncontrollably and the helpless feeling that comes with it.

Last night’s frustrations were still on my mind this morning when I got to work and realized that GK’s mood is easily attributed to her giddiness for the start of the Tour de France, which began today in London of all places. After a year of waiting, she just couldn’t control her excitement and anticipation and it manifested itself as deafening screeching and tears. With today’s time trials and the soothing voice of Phil Liggett, I’m sure she’s as calm and silent as only a true cycling fan in the arms of her mother can be.


Photos courtesy of Elizabeth.

Geoffrey Scheldenfeld

I knew this guy once named Geoffrey Scheldenfeld. Geoffrey’s situation was that at certain times, once he was holding an object, he would feel the urge to continue holding that thing for anywhere from two hours to four days. He never felt compelled to pick something up and carry it around, but rather, upon lifting something, whether it be the TV remote, a dirty glass, a briefcase or sack of potatoes, some part of his mind needed him to hold that thing for a while before setting it down. And once he set that thing down, it was squarely in the center of his kitchen table, where it would remain for anywhere from two to five days before he could then pick it back up and put it away in its proper place. He all but stopped buying produce at the grocery store but, if he did, he usually just left it in the bag on the kitchen counter if he was lucky enough to put it down immediately at all.

This made life awkward for Geoffrey, as you can imagine. He had to be very picky about what he lifted. He eventually refused all requests from friends to help move, not wanting to be caught in the awkward situation of holding a lamp or one end of a sofa for three days. When traveling, he usually asked the cab drivers and bellmen to carry his luggage as far as possible. He was never quarterback or receiver in our pick-up games of football and, when he finally, six years ago, got married, he had to wait a day and a half past the night he was planning to propose to hand the ring to his fiancée, and even then she had to get it herself from the center of his kitchen table.

The point is that we never know what we or our kids are going to be inflicted with, whether it’s depression or hives, left-handedness, some mild form of OCD causing your kid to ask what time it is every three minutes or something more severe like poor Geoffrey Scheldenfeld’s case. God forbid there should be blindness, deafness or something dire enough to send a child for a stay at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Kristy and I have been very lucky at our house and we realize this every day. Geoffrey Scheldenfeld is none of my kids, he is not me. What we do have is GK and something called Breath-Holding Spells. These spells hit her during fits of crying when she’s so upset that everything seems to stop for her, both the crying and the breathing. The internet assures us it is not harmful, certainly not fatal. The child will always begin breathing again on her own within a minute and the greatest concern seems to be that she will pass out, though only momentarily, and fall, so we have to watch that. She may also turn blue, though again, no great need for worry.

Breath-Holding Spells is just something else that you don’t prepare for as a parent. Who could? No parent wants to think of his one-year-old being so upset that all animation ceases for a few seconds. It’s a scary thing to watch, but something we just have to be ready for. It will go away, if it keeps up at all, within the next couple of years. Until then it’s just something that we and GK have to carry around with us. Like poor Geoffrey Scheldenfeld. Last time I saw Geoffrey he was getting off a trolley downtown to get some lunch. He was carrying a brand new toaster oven. That seems like a bad decision.

A Week Of Non-Blog

I guess I have things to say. After a week away from Urf! there seem to be people who want to know what we’re all up to. So I ask myself, What are we up to? Well, beginning with Tuesday of last week, we’ve welcomed someone new to our circle of friends, I saw the fourth installment of Die Hard, I jogged through the Evergreen neighborhood with StephChockleyblog, JP turned six, Pops turned … older than six, the country turned 231, I ran my best time ever in the Firecracker 5K, ate homemade mojito ice cream and nearly wiped out my whole family (except JP) with undercooked chicken, took The Quartet to see the Fantastic Four movie, began watching HBO’s Rome series, ate Mexican with friends and Italian with family, witnessed an iPhone, found it necessary to learn about breath-holding spells thanks to GK, began Michael Chabon’s new book, drank some wine, tried to counsel C on the proper way to light fireworks, pictured my own mother cringing as my 9-year-old lit the fuse on those fireworks, smoked a new cigar with Uncle Toby on his deck, made a little love, did a little dance, mistakenly introduced The Quartet to Hong Kong Phooey, had inappropriate conversations in front of in-laws from Michigan, listened to my first podcast, E-mailed Brooklyn Dan, cheered JP as he rode his new bike, read a friend’s newest short story, and planned a trip to Las Vegas next year with The Admiral. And, probably, a little more.

How to best sum up this week? I believe the young lady working the register at Buster's Liquor did so after the Firecracker 5K. I was wearing the T-shirt from the race and she pointed to it and said, "Is that from today?" "Yes it is," I answered, "I just ran it." She lowered her eyelids halfway and said, "That's awesome."

Awesome, indeed.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled program …