Breaking the Dress Code

It's not all fun and games when you're being gnomeschooled. In fact, it's hardly any fun at all, though almost always gamy.

We have a dress code here, a strict uniform policy. Below you will see GK's attire. Mr. Baby's publicist wouldn't sign the release for photos of him in uniform, something about "Kangol not sending a check promptly."

Urf!-Tiki

I recently read a magazine article on Plastiki, a boat being built out of plastic bottles and other recycled products. Once it's complete later this month, or in early May, it will sail from San Francisco to Sydney, Australia, making stops along the way. One of those stops will be at what's called the Eastern Garbage Patch, a "huge region of floating plastic and particles" in the Pacific Ocean.

The skipper behind this project is 30-year-old David de Rothschild, adventurer and heir to the European banking fortune. He intends to collect water samples to study and use a satellite phone to send photos and video clips to the web site of the organization he founded, Adventure Ecology.

The adventure aspect of this story intrigues me. I'm fascinated by stories of survival and of pushing oneself to his limits, especially against the elements. And I'm as green as the next guy; I use those swirly little light bulbs and I haul the empty wine bottle down to the curb once a week or so.

Plastiki got me thinking, though, of what else I could do. Namely, what refuse I have around here that I could build a ship out of. We have empty toilet paper rolls, Pop-Tart wrappers, socks riddled with holes, broken remotes, stained sofa cushions and partially-chewed string cheese.

I have a feeling we could fashion all of this together into some sort of crude floatable vessel and set sail down the Mississippi River for the Gulf of Mexico.

Plastiki is named for Kon-Tiki, the balsa wood experiment sailed from South America to the Polynesian Islands 60 years ago by Thor Hyerdahl. Ours will be more in the style of the original Kon-Tiki in its crudeness and liberal use of duct tape.

Our communications will consist of three cell phones, so I hope Cingular gets reception at Cape Horn and that we remember to pay the bill before setting sail.

Provisions will consist of juice boxes, peanut butter and jelly, half cans of Pringles, hummus and Ovaltine.

Our trip to Sydney will be full of adventure and family closeness. Time outs will be spent in a laundry hamper being towed behind the boat. We’ll make it a point to sail past the Eastern Garbage Patch, traveling, as we are, from our own East Memphis Garbage Patch. Instead of taking samples, however, we’ll leave some, because these kids can’t go anyplace without having to leave a sample.

The purpose of Urf!-Tiki’s excursion will be adventure and it will be vacation-like. My kids have always wanted to see Australia and other floating detritus. They are an eco-minded lot, as well, and rarely, if ever, toss things out without first checking for an alternate use, such as something to throw at a sibling or wipe their noses on.

They’ll adapt to their new home at sea, their buoyant boat of bric-a-brac. And if they don’t, they’ll walk the plank, assuming they consume enough Popsicles between now and launch time to build a plank.

Beep

When you move, as we have recently, old toys become new again. Such was the case today when JP came across a metal detector that C got for Christmas some years back. He replaced the battery, set the sensitivity level to high and began detecting.

His method of sweeping for metal involves going straight to any obvious metal and holding the detector against it; something like a doorknob or a handful of change or the van. Such is the nature of JP's thirst for adventure and the anticipation of treasure.

The constant beeping has already brought threats from his mother, so I believe the detector has been retired - again - probably until our next move.

Ah, then again, he just came galloping through the room on the thing as though it were a horse, or maybe Harry Potter's broom. Or a thoroughbred metal detector.

Happy bUrf!day

Thirty-six months ago today I started this little blog. What began as an easy way to aggregate all of my kids' funny, clever, weird, cute, goofy, abnormal and dumb actions and conversations eventually grew into something more.

Actually, it has remained exactly that, but more people than I ever expected have read it. It also helped to spawn a column-writing gig and a new career. And, possibly, another child; GK was born only two months after Urf!'s conception. So to speak.

I've enjoyed my time on Blogger, yet the posts have been coming fewer and further apart. This is in part because The Quartet is older and less funny, just more moody. It's also because I write for a living now and that takes more energy and time than I expected.

I'm not ready to abandon the blog, though I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about it. I'm still working on finding the balance with working from home, taking care of kids, doing housework, spending time with the family and updating Urf!.

So there may be fewer posts in the future than previously, certainly more than those first few months, and there may be less on C as he gets older. I keep GK at home on Monday and Tuesday along with a friend's baby, so there may be more about those two and their love/annoy relationship.

Or there may just be more about me and what I think about things other than the kids and family; maybe save the good family fodder for the column.

Who knows? I've just been making this up, just as I raise my kids, all along and I suppose I will continue to do so, on both fronts.

But I do thank all of you for reading. With over 63,000 hits over the years, it seems that something I'm saying has struck a chord with the two of you to each come back more than 30,000 times. Thank you for that.

Incidentally, this post written back in May of 2006 is the most landed-on Urf! from Google and other searches. I don't know why, but people from all over the world have ended up here. So I submit it, I suppose, as a Best Of on this 3rd bUrf!day.

Please enjoy, and please keep reading.

RJA
March 31, 2009

PSA

I know there are people out there who feel that their dogs are their children. They are not.

And while it may be fun to take Skipper out for a run with no leash at a playground intended for children, and while you may be able to explain to me that little Skipper is very friendly and has never hurt anyone and loves kids, you can't explain that to a 2- and 3-year-old as your dog charges towards them.

Leave your dog at home. Or on a leash.

And, yes, this is intended for the ignorant SOB at Peabody Park about 45 minutes ago.

Gnomeschooled

Things learned today at home with the gnomes:

• When you're taking a 2- and 3-year-old outside to feed old bread to the birds, take extra bread for the birds
• When a little kid falls down, I'm laughing with that kid, not at that kid. Even though I'm laughing when I tell you that, that's what it is
• Sippy cups grow on trees
• Babies who spend a lot of time together will sync up on their pooping
• Enough wisteria will overwhelm and mask the smell of all that poop
• Mr. Baby has 10 fingers, which means he will slam something on his digits 10 times a day
• Bees do it
• GK can't reach the martini shaker without standing on a bar stool

Recess

On Mondays and Tuesdays I keep GK (almost 3) and Mr. Baby (almost 2) at home as a kind of remedial home school experiment. I was outside with them the other day for our morning walk-fall down-cry-become distracted-bird watch-throw a fit exercise when they decided they needed to swing. Naturally they both went for the same swing, causing a scene, which I deftly curtailed by threatening to cut that swing in half. And then we flipped a coin, which Mr. Baby later swallowed.

As the kids were swinging I grabbed the overhead bar and did five chin-ups. And by five, I mean I did just over four. Just barely more than four. GK laughed and said, "Do it again!" which I couldn't, and I told her so, and she laughed some more.

So I took each of them and held them up to a lower crossbar until they held on and I told them to do a chin-up. They just hung there, wide-eyed, looking at me like babies do while I laughed and mocked them.

That concluded recess for the day.

Memphis Connected

I attended the launch party for the new website memphisconnect.com this evening. It was a lovely affair put on by the good people of The Leadership Academy and attended by movers and shakers and those in the know in Memphis. And me.

And people knew me! Well, they could read the name tag I proudly stuck on my costume, my threadbare sport coat I don when I'm going to be rubbing shiny elbows with movers and shakers.

I was surprised, though, by why people recognized me ... or, my name anyway. I never expect to be recognized, but when I am, I don't expect it this way. It wasn't from my column or this blog or Facebook or even the retail store I owned for 10 years. It was from Twitter.

Twitter? Really? A hundred and forty characters at a time compels people to walk up to a person they don't know and say, "Hi, we've never met, but I follow you on Twitter ... " Don't get me wrong, I'm glad they did. They were friendly and engaging people, and not at all stalkery. They were folks with dreams and kids and stories to tell, and just like you and me, for the most part. Although they probably make more money. There's no reason for me to think they'll be peering in my windows tonight or standing at the end of my driveway in the morning.

This Twitter fascinates me. All of the social networking sites do, actually. I'm relatively new to it all and it doesn't quite make sense yet. I can't wrap my virtual brain around it. I feel there is a sense of community, but I can't get my fingers on it, it's ephemeral. It's there, yet it's not.

Is Memphis really such a small town that we're all connected by just a person or two, or is the internet just that good of a host; putting people with just enough in common, yet unlike each other enough for conversation to happen organically, together at this friendly, pixelated dinner party?

I wonder how much Twitter and Facebook would have affected the end of a story, and an ideal of American life, as universal as It's a Wonderful Life. The inscription from Clarence in the copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer left for George Bailey at the finale of the film reads: Remember, George, no man is a failure who has friends.

But are those I've invited to be friends truly that? Are you all my friends? Had Mary put out a call for help with her laptop, would she have rounded up enough cash to keep George out of prison? Or would she have received only a collection of "Bar w/frnds drnkng all nite. Gd luck @GBailey! U rock!!!!" along with 483 pieces of flair, 39 people bitching about the new Facebook and PayPal donations totaling $14.72?

If my wife put out a call for help to you people, would you respond? I mean, with real money? (That would be good to know, actually.)

Should you want to see what the world would be like had you never been born, you don't need a guardian angel to show you. Simply delete your Facebook account, lose your Twitter login or do the unthinkable and unplug your wireless modem. But then turn it all right back on for God's sake, you might miss something! One of your friends might have found out what '80s movie best defines her.

I think about the future and whether my will kids grow up with good friends and a community of support. Will they have wingmen, confidants and supporters ... or just a bunch of twits?

Spring Break 2009

Spring break has coasted to an end with a cool and rainy Saturday. Miserable. A good day, though, for sitting inside and watching the Tigers play in the NCAA tournament.

Luckily we got outside plenty during the week to play in the yard, have picnics, ride bikes and wash cars.

JP learned to ride his bike this week. Finally. And, in the tradition of his already-biking-siblings, he taught himself. He simply hopped on his bike and pedaled down the driveway and he hasn't looked back. Or forward, really. Not even side-to-side so much, which is why he's confined to the driveway on his bike. After a short ride to Richland Elementary's playground he crossed the street at the wrong time and at a slow and dangerous pace, he swerved off the sidewalk and into the street to avoid ... something, and he came to a stop once just before heading off the sidewalk. He's a menace to traffic on our street. He's the worst domestique ever.

I'm lucky, though, that he could teach himself. Lucky that C and S did, too, as none of us have the patience for me to teach them. That's one of those father and son and daughter bonding moments that would have ended horribly, with a lot of stomping and crying. The kids would have been upset, too.

One day I decided to take The Quartet in search of parks. We walk up to Richland almost daily, but I thought we'd get in the car and leave the neighborhood to explore. We all needed some time off the street.

We went to Shelby Farms and, I have to say, I was very disappointed in their playground. This patch of land is a jewel in the city with acres of lake, trees, trails and bison. The playground, however, is metal, rust and, in one spot at least, plywood. There is a "sandbox" which looks like a construction crew was told to dump whatever sand they had left over from a job at that spot. It's become a pile of sand, rocks and leaves.

The kids liked it, of course, they don't know any better. I'm surprised at how much I've come to expect molded plastic and recycled rubber on playgrounds. Maybe it's not so much the safety of it as it is the look of it all. After all, I grew up playing on metal and concrete and I still have all of my limbs. The playgrounds of my kids are just nicer looking environments to play on.

Maybe the Shelby Farmers have a plan for this playground. A plan to raze it and start over. If not, they need to start thinking about it because everything else in that area is picturesque and user-friendly, the one spot specifically for kids, above all, should be.

In contrast, we explored a little more and found a playground I'd seen just off of Humphrey's Blvd. or Wolf River Parkway or whatever that road is over there. It took a while to figure out how to get to it, I had to meander through some neighborhoods before stumbling on the entrance. The playground was large and contemporary with different levels of wood decking, picnic tables, lots of trees and a bridge going over a creek (read: ditch).

I'm not sure I could find it again, though we'll try. I'm not even sure what the park is called, but the kids loved it.

We didn't make it to the beach for spring break, but we did manage to make it outside, which is more than I can say for this cold and wet end-of-break Saturday. Go Tigers!

mmm, Chile

I've been busy lately. Really, I have been. And just to prove it I'm going to type in some links later on in this post so that you can click and see what I've been doing.

I went on Monday to the offices of ArtsMemphis where I was supposed to interview a woman in Chile, via telephone, and via translator, for a story in the ArtsMemphis magazine about an exhibit on human rights coming to the National Civil Rights Museum for Memphis in May.

This was daunting for several reasons: I've never worked with ArtsMemphis before and wanted to make a good impression; I was on a very tight deadline, about 24 hours, in fact; I was working through a translator, which means I had to have some questions prepared ahead of time; and the woman I was to be interviewing, Marcia Scantlebury Elizalde, is an actual journalist, something I only pretend to be.

The translator, Juan, was very nice and extremely helpful and let me know first thing that Senora Elizalde is not, in fact, the artist who created the exhibit, but the curator, doing away with almost all of my questions. Skype, though perfect on a test run, 15 minutes later would not connect with Chile for the real deal, so we had to go with an intercom call on a phone.

Once we were all on the phone and Juan was speaking his rapid-fire Spanish, I sat poised with my pencil over paper as though I should be taking notes, but really just paranoid that he was making fun of my hair to her. Juan asked Elizalde to please hold while he explained to me that, not only was she not the artist of the exhibit - or the curator - but that she has actually never seen the exhibit and is not particularly familiar with it.

So that was fun.

I found out later that the exhibit, Crowds in the Shadow, will eventually be housed in Chile's Museo de la Memoria, as a warehouse of the Pinochet-era atrocities, which Elizalde is in charge of putting together through a decree by Chile's president.

And the magazine story? Well, that's why I'm up at 12:25 a.m. I'm trying to put something together that's readable.

Being up this late, though, has given me the opportunity to see the clock and calendar move to a new day and with that a new "Because I Said So" column in The Commercial Appeal. I wrote it about eating dinner with the kids. Wrote it, of course, with tongue and pork chop in teeth.

I also wrote it not realizing that my story on the Hope & Healing Center's nutrition class for kids, Alphabet Appetite, was running the day before. And, on top of that, the piece I wrote about Mike Palazola and his produce company, M. Palazola Produce, ran in the business section as well.

So I'm quite the food writer all of a sudden with stories on dinner time, mini pizza cooking, produce and Chile.

Tomorrow will be a story on the Assisi Foundation's grant to the Memphis Rock 'n' Soul Museum in the Business section of The Commercial Appeal. It doesn't have anything to do with food, but I wrote it anyway.

So that's what I've been up to. And why I'm up late. I'll be back soon to talk about JP (finally) learning to ride a bike and why he's not allowed to leave the yard on that bike. And maybe I'll post some pictures.

But for now, goodnight and bon appetite!

The links!
Alphabet Appetite
Because I Said So
Mike Palazola

Crazy 4s

Yesterday was sunny and in the 70s, so I laid down the law and declared the day a No TV, No Computer Day. I was the least popular person in the house with the kids.

We walked to the park and played, and then when we got back boredom ensued. I sat on the patio, content with my crossword in the sunshine. The kids were content to mope around.

At one point I was alone here with the kids and lost sight of them. I went back inside and found them all gathered around the computer while one of them played a game. I watched my approval rating plunge even more when I told them to turn it off and for everyone to go outside.

These kids are not self-starters. They don't have the ability to just begin play out of nowhere without prompting. For most of the day, JP walked around announcing that he was bored. I'm like my mother in that I have no patience for this.

So we sat outside and C and I taught the others to play Crazy 8s. They learned quickly and S even won the first game she played. At the end of the day, though, I always come out on top and the kids owe me, collectively, $7.38.

A good day, indeed.

Podcast

The podcast of the Drake & Zeke show at 98.1 The Max where they mention me and my column can be found right here. It's right in the beginning and is very nice. Thanks again, guys.

Your Public Library

I wrote my column for today’s Commercial Appeal about libraries because the kids and I have taken quite a few trips to a couple of branches recently, and because that’s where I first encountered so many books.

The truth is, though, I still prefer bookstores, especially used bookstores. I could spend hours in one, and have. And I’ll always have this need, this OCD need to own my books. I don’t like to borrow books, even from friends, and I don’t really like to lend them. I would be the worst library ever. When a library book enters our house – and many do – I can’t help but wonder where it’s been: someone’s bathroom? Someone’s sick bed?

I’m not defending that line of thought, it’s just the way I think.

I like the communal atmosphere of a library. They’re the early coffee shops where people go to work or relax or just sit in a comfortable space away from their homes. And I like the possibilities, there’s no telling what you might find around the next end cap if you’re willing to explore a little.

I recently took The Quartet to the White Station library branch on Poplar Ave. where I spent so much time as a kid. It was the first time I’d been there in a long, long time. It seemed much smaller to me and laid out a bit differently. It’s well worn, like the spine of your favorite paperback, and could do with some upgrades, especially in the children’s department.

The librarians were very helpful, as they are in all libraries. In fact, walking into any library anywhere is just like walking into a home away from home. It’s the same feeling I have walking into a jumbled mess of a used bookstore. it’s very familiar, like visiting old friends.

My column is 15-inches, about 500 words, but I could have gone on for another 500 about libraries and books and the importance of both. Gather up your kids today, take them to your nearest library and leave with a stack of books. Or take them to your favorite bookstore, buy a few books and start them on their way to their very own library.

[Thanks to Drake & Zeke at 98.1 The Max for mentioning me and the column on air this morning!]

Nerds and Germs

Just because there is no new posting here in over a week doesn’t mean things don’t happen. There is no giant “pause” button. Trust me, I’ve looked.

I imagine that since it’s been so long, you’re probably wondering what we’ve been up to. Not the six of you, specifically, but the two guys who run this morass of a website from their perch high atop Mount Blogspot. The ones who keep an eye on us, who conduct their day to day, minute to minute, census of all of us and who our friends are and what we had for breakfast or whose cat did something cute.

They’re a benign and curious duo, they mean no harm. They collect the information simply for their own beguilement. Though one of these days, I can’t help but fear, they will sell that information. Possibly to the government or possibly to the Google, if they are not, in fact, the same thing.

The purchase money will be used to erect a stately pleasure dome, a 21st Century San Simeon. It will be 1,200 square feet of living space above for their parents, and a 48,000 square foot basement room for their XBOXes and their oversized Apple monitors and their poster of the Beyonce and their very own land line, in case a girl should call.

A girl never, ever calls.

But the two young men will be comfortable with their Twittering and their virtual Dungeons & Dragons and their meals still prepared by their mother upstairs even though these young men are 32 and 34. Comfort and security are what matter at home.

We’ve been in our new house for two weeks now and we are as comfortable as can be. The space, though, is somewhat disconcerting. In the old house, we could sit in the living room and see where everyone was, hear what everyone was involved in and smell what was for dinner, or what had been for lunch, from our spots on the sofa. Now, though, I really have no idea what’s going on when I’m in my office and the others are … elsewhere. In some ways that’s good, in a lot of ways that’s good, but sometimes I wonder what everyone is up to.

I read a book once about a family that lived aboard a sail boat for a year. They were a close family, both physically and socially, and the mother wrote that what was odd was upon returning to their large home after the sail, they would practically speak in whisper to a child or sibling. They were so used to having that person practically touching them at all times that they didn’t have to speak so loud to gain their audience.

It’s new to me to have to go find someone if I want to ask a question or, more often, make a demand. But I do go in search, and it’s a nice house to pad around in with sock feet looking for someone to talk to … although it’s no sailboat.

Last week, however, I was not looking for anyone to talk to. I didn’t need to. For most of the week, GK was right there on me, either throwing up, or needing her diaper changed immediately. And just miserable. I hate seeing my kids sick. Thankfully, I didn’t have to see her being strapped to a board in the emergency room to get an IV, Kristy handled that. I’m not sure I could have.

But I handled the rest of the week – three days with GK, and then two with S when she polluted with it. Whatever it was, this strain of virus, it was awful. I’ve been washing my hands ever since.

Everyone is better now and the house truly feels like ours, having been puked and pooped on. We can’t wipe it down enough with bleach and soap. I imagine soon enough it will be quarantined, once the boys on Mount Blogspot get a green, putrid wind of this. Immutable germaphobes, those two.

Bad Parent

JP had a field trip this morning to go see an IMAX movie and he really wanted me to go along. My plan was to drop off all the kids and then meet him and his class at the Pink Palace for the movie.

However, as I neared Evergreen Montessori on the second leg of my bus route, I couldn't help but notice that there were no cars in the parking lot. I checked the clock, thinking maybe I'd made a mistake and was actually very, very early, even though I'd just dropped off the older kids at a bustling school. The note on the school's door reminded parents that they would be closed today and Monday, the teachers all had some sort of out-of-town classes to attend.

After I finished my rounds, with GK still in tow, I didn't think it was a good idea to take her along to the movie with JP. She was sound asleep by that time and I still had about 45 minutes before I had to be at the museum, so we just went home.

I'm not sure what makes me a worse parent: not knowing that my daughter's school would be closed today or standing my son up for a field trip when he was expecting me.

The Unkindest Cut of All

I kid, because sometimes things are too funny to me not to. I try to be witty here, for you, for free, as often as I can. Every other Thursday, however, my wittiness is worth 50-cents in The Commercial Appeal, which seems fair. Today is one of those days and you can read the latest "Because I Said So" column here (for free).

I do kid, but the truth is that the Conrad Pearson Clinic was an experience as pleasant as possible, considering. Dr. Eber and Nurse Lori were very professional and friendly and informative. And once all that waiting was over, the procedure itself only took about 10 minutes. I recommend these good folks highly for those of you with a bunch of kids who are also at the end of your rope.

Super?

When I began working six days a week 10 years ago, I almost completely stopped watching Sunday football. I just didn't have the time on my one day off and I didn't see it as a particularly advantageous way to preserve harmony around the house.

But the Super Bowl is different, right? It's one day out of the year. It's like this country's Christmas in February. So I turned it on tonight.

Once I made it through the interminable pre-game nonsense, from the shots of the teams packed into the tunnel like so many yellow and black rodeo bulls, to some sort of grimace-inducing music video by Faith Hill and then even more subjection to Faith Hill's singing on the field, before finally getting to the point where yet another "diva" makes the national anthem all about her, the game started, though by then I thought I was watching an episode of American Idol. Well, after the coin toss, brought to us by Cialis, or whomever.

The Steelers received the kick-off, moved the ball quickly and adeptly downfield and scored. And then that touchdown was reviewed and called back.

And isn't this what everyone wants? Isn't this what a nation expects on their February holiday from one of the toughest sports around? For the first touchdown to be negated because the opposing coach wants a do-over and has a red pocket square?

So, with nothing forthcoming but crappy football and the promise of Bruce Springsteen singing "Born in the U.S.A." - again - and waxing philosophic about his new BFF, Barack Obama, I turned the TV off.

JP cheered. Vince Lombardi probably would have, too.

A Vast Difference

I love my children, I really do. All of them. But, seriously, four is enough and has been for quite a while. So tomorrow I take a stab, so to speak, at being sterile.

This little procedure (less than 30 minutes!) goes against everything I've ever held dear. From the very first I can remember, every waking moment has been spent keeping sharp, pointy objects away from the area above my knees and below my navel. It's been my raison d'etre. It's become a way of life, a creed, almost like a sixth sense.

And, yet, tomorrow I am actually paying someone - someone I have never met, mind you - to snip some wiring underneath there as though I were a faulty dashboard on an 18-year-old Volvo wagon.

Ouch! That's my blinker!

And then I will recuperate. Ohhhh will I recuperate. I plan to lie in one spot for as long as I can possibly get away with. I'll read books and watch movies and play on my laptop ... well, maybe not that. At some point I know I'll have to get up and become productive (though not reproductive!) again. There's only so long a woman who has been through labor four times is going to walk into the bedroom to see me lying prone with a bag of frozen peas on my pods.

I'm still not sure how to explain my prolonged convalescence to The Quartet, other than "It's Saturday, I'll get out of bed by dinner." Because it will be Friday ... and then, eventually, Sunday. I've had The Talk with C, but I haven't had The V Talk with him. There's no need to scare the boy just yet. I suppose I'll tell the kids that I just don't feel well.

Because I won't.

In fact, I'm not feeling so good now just thinking about it. A little nauseous, in fact. I think my vas deferens are twitching. I'd better go lie down ... just to get used to it.

An Open Letter to The Quartet

President Barack Obama recently wrote an open letter to his daughters for Parade magazine because that is the publication his 10- and 7-year-olds read regularly, so he knew they'd see it there.

I have no idea what kind of president Mr. Obama will be, but he seems to be a pretty good father. I was inspired by his letter and wrote one of my own to my children. Parade magazine declined to publish it, which is fine, as my kids have no idea what that is anyway. For them to see this letter, I'd have to have Homer Simpson read it on air. So, for now, I'll let you read it.

Dear C and JP and S and GK,

I would like to address you at this time as we embark on a new chapter of our nation's history.

I ask you today to think of things larger than yourself. As President Obama recently asked of his own daughters, I encourage you to hitch your wagon to causes greater than the individual. But first I ask you to pick your socks up off the floor and take your dishes to the sink. Wipe up that spill, please.

This isn't The White House. No one here is scurrying around to assure that your taxpayer-funded home is kept pristine.

I hope you children have taken from this last presidential campaign, and recent inauguration, that even you, too, can one day be the President of the United States. Or, at least, a voter.

Until then, however, I am the president of this house, and my vision is clutter-free. There is no spilled milk here, it is a land with no half-eaten Pop-Tarts left on a chair.

And as much as I want you to hitch your wagon of promise to great dreams, I also want you to promise me you will pull that wagon out of the front yard and to the back at the end of the day, because it looks tacky; and also because this is Memphis and someone will surely steal that wagon of hope if it's left out.

In these heady days of change, regardless of your politics, kids, embrace Barack Obama as your new commander in chief, but remember, always, that I am your commander in this house. Now, please, bring me my drink.

Love, Dad

JP/HP

We went to the bookstore the other day and JP found these glasses for sale. He had his own money, so the decision was up to him. $5.45 in quarters later, and he was the spitting image of Harry Potter. Or George Burns.

He hasn't taken them off since.

He puts these up as soon as he wakes up in the morning, as though he needs them to see Curious George. He doesn't wear them to school, yet puts them on as soon as he gets home, as though he needs them to see Homer Simpson.

They're also his reading glasses, he's wearing them to help him read the first Harry Potter novel.

Because I Said So and More

The Commercial Appeal handed their M section over to me today and I ran with it. I ran like a Mario Brother.

Read the column here. Read about a triathlete and her students here.

The new Edible Memphis magazine is out, too, and I have a piece in there on making the Zanone family ravioli. Here's a picture of us all making the ravioli, but you'll have to pick up a copy of the magazine to read all about it.

Who Is That?

I had a friend, once, who at the very beginning of any movie, when the first actor appeared on screen, would whisper, "Who's he?"

This evening we were watching a PBS presentation of Cyrano because we realize that our purpose as parents is to fill our children's heads with culture and art and the beauty of stage and screen. And because I couldn't find the remote or convince any of my kids to get off the couch for fear of someone taking their spot.

GK, at the start, asked, "Who's that?" With some authority, I said, "That is Cyrano de Bergerac."

And then she said, "Who is that?" Cyrano was the only name I knew, but I had to answer, so I said, "That is Darth Sidious." And then she asked who that was and I told her it was Julius Erving.

Who is that? Winston Churchill.

Who is that? Paul Simon.

Who is that? Oprah Winfrey.

Who is that? Kramer.

And on and on it went. She got her answers, so I see no problem, because my job as a parent is to nurture these children and fill them with some sort of knowledge to hopefully make their way in life; to teach them of philosophy, economics, civics, trivia and history. 

And to always, no matter what, appear smart to my offspring. Even if they end up thinking that Dean Martin shot Abraham Lincoln in a Ford dealership, thus beginning The War of the Worlds ... starring Woody Allen.

Staying At Home

There is an experiment afoot here at the castilo. Kristy and I have decided to send GK to school only three days a week to save a little money and today is Day One.

What we aim to learn this week is how she copes with that. Okay, just kidding. What we really hope to learn is how I cope with it. Stay at home dad? Me? Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed being a stay at home dad since switching careers back in October, but so far the kids have been in school five days a week. Staying at home with no kids has suited me just fine.

So far today has gone pretty well. We took the older kids to school this morning, and I kept GK in her pajamas. When we got home we watched Sesame Street and Sid the Science Kid. We ate sandwiches on the couch. I read. We cleaned up the living room, did dishes and laundry. I tried to teach her the names of the members of U2 and she fell asleep.

I think I may look forward to our two days together. I've never had this before.

It will be interesting, anyway, to see which of us cracks first. Who begs the other to just let her go to school five days a week. Either way, I plan on continuing to watch Sesame Street and eat on the couch on a regular basis.

My Server Ate It

C informed us tonight that, for his CLUE class tomorrow, he has to have some photos of things that define him. I stomped around here wondering what kind of teacher assigns a project to be done over the Christmas break and cursing that very teacher.

[editor's note: please understand, if that teacher is reading this, that I didn't really question or curse you and that this is all just for effect.]

It was finally mentioned by C that the project was actually due the Monday they got out early from school due to the threat of ice just before Christmas break, and that he didn't have it for that day, either. So it isn't really due tomorrow, it was due a couple of weeks ago ... but I digress.

He laid out some things that are typical C and I took the photos and then I e-mailed them to him. Now, this was the first I've ever heard that he has his own Gmail address. Apparently they set them up in computer club. Therefore, it's also the first time I've e-mailed his homework to him.

It struck me that it would have been a wonderful thing, when I was in fifth grade, to be able to e-mail homework to myself at school. Because, I can tell you this, there would have been untold number of technical difficulties with my e-mail. "My homework? Well, I e-mailed it to myself, but it didn't come through for some reason."

The "faulty" e-mail would have freed up my evenings and taken a large amount of blame off of my obviously underfed dog.


For some reason, a die defines C. Probably has something to do with the family from which he comes.

Some Un-Assembly Required

Mr. and Mrs. Claus went to bed late last night trying to wait out C and S falling asleep. It took another half hour - or two glasses of wine - after the traditional Christmas Eve viewing of It's a Wonderful Life for the low, rhythmic snoring to begin in earnest.

What was nice this year, though, is that there was really no assembly required. We've had assembly for many years and it's not so easy when you're very tired from the wine.

Assembly, however, has been replaced by un-assembly on Christmas morning. It takes me forever to de-wire all of their toys from the packaging with scissors, pocket knives and expletives flying. And I've had very little wine by 8 a.m.

I usually end up frustrated and just yank the thing out, pulling with it scraps of cardboard and plastic attached. And then I thrust it at the kid, "Here! Here's your damn toy!"

It's like something from Currier & Ives & DHS.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas and peace on Urf! from all of us to all of you.

When testing out your new computers and iPhones and whatever else the internet lives on, be sure to dial up The Commercial Appeal and read my latest column.

Yes, Virginia ...

I believe in Santa Claus. Of course I do. But I don't believe that Santa coordinates all those elves and toy making and delivering. No, that would be Mrs. Claus.

Luckily, I have a Mrs. Claus here at the house. She does the planning and the buying and the baking and makes the gift decisions. I ... carry the tree into the house. It's a lot of responsibility, really.

Oh, and then, after Christmas, I carry it back out and dump it on the street.

But Christmas around here happens because Kristy makes it happen, and without her, well, all we'd be celebrating is the winter solstice. Maybe we'd make some popcorn, or watch a little TV. Perhaps a trip to Walgreens so the kids could pick out their favorite size of battery. It certainly wouldn't be the time of year filled with wrapped gifts and cookies and a decorated tree.

So, thank you, Kristy. And Merry Christmas to all the Mrs. Clauses out there who, I know, are the busiest and jolliest of the elves.

True Believer

We all went to Davis-Kidd Booksellers today to get out of the house and do a bit more Christmas shopping. And to find out what 29-degrees feels like.

Davis-Kidd has a great area for kids and I grabbed a book and sat there with everyone watching my kids, as well as several other plague-infested children, run around. There was a kid with a glistening nose and upper lip having a grand time playing alongside my own little typhoid-riddled girl.

But it's that time of year, so what are you going to do? I don't know, and neither did the kid in the t-shirt with his name, or a name, printed across the chest. Yes, Frank and I were at a loss for how to keep the germs at bay.

There's no fighting it. My only advice to you is to not purchase any books from the children's section of Davis-Kidd. If you do, boil them before reading.

It was while sitting there among the Jack-in-the-Boxes, pop-up books and phlegm that I learned that Nick Hornby will no longer be penning the column "Stuff I've Been Reading" for the Believer magazine. This column is a kind of book diary where Hornby writes about books he's bought, books he's read, books he hasn't read and why he has or hasn't read them. It's smart and funny and the writing of it must be, without a doubt, the greatest job ever.

So, since the column has no author now, I'm officially throwing my name into the hat. If there is a hat. Believer magazine, if you're reading this, give me a call, or an e-mail, and let's talk. I'd be thrilled to write for your magazine about books and bookish things. I write now and I consider myself funny. At times. For more money, I could be funnier. I could read more and write longer. I don't know what you paid Hornby, but I'd be willing to take a little less, as I've not (yet) had a novel published, or won any awards. Or had any novels adapted into movies. Or become friends with Sarah Vowell.

So, let's say you're paying him 150,000 pounds (Nick Hornby is British and bald). I'd be willing to go less. Say, 110,000 pounds. I'm no good with weight conversions, but what is that? $300 per column? That seems fair.

Anway, you think about it, I hate to see the Believer caught in a lurch like that. Meanwhile, I'll be over here in the children's section. Just Frank and me, awaiting your call with covered mouths and anti-bacterial-soaked hands.

Hocus Pocus

Has anyone seen my eldest? I haven't. Not in a few weeks. He's been away at Hogwarts, where young people go to learn about being witches or Hobbits. Or whatever.

I haven't read any of the Harry Potter books because, well, I'm an adult. This doesn't explain, though, why Kristy has read all of them. Several times. C has read five of them in about three weeks. If you're looking for him, he's right there, at the end of the couch underneath the lamp. Reading.

Or he's in the passenger seat of the Volvo, on the way to school. Reading.

Or he's in his bed. Reading.

Or he's eating a bowl of cereal at the table. Reading.

I don't mean to complain about his new favorite past time. Since we started having kids, I've always hoped they'd become readers, and I always wanted that day to be sooner rather than later. I know that, as a kid, I did the same thing, plowing through book after book without a care as to what went on around me. But I'd like to have a conversation with my son again. And I'd like for that conversation to be about something other than whether or not Edward Cullen won a game of Quidditch in the third book. Or whatever.

Is it wrong to tell your kid to stop reading and watch TV for a while? I suppose I should have him go outside for some fresh air, at least. He could read on the front porch.

He's watching the Harry Potter movies, as well. He reads a book, watches the movie, and denounces that movie as nothing like the book. So he's building that disdain for Hollywood that all readers have, which was inevitable. He's also able to eat a meal without looking at his food, simply staring at the page while his fork goes from plate to mouth, just like a real reader. And he's staying up late to read. He would stay up late anyway, but at least he's reading and not watching reruns of Sanford & Son.

All in all, I'm glad he's reading. Constantly. I just hope those books of witchcraft aren't teaching him anything dastardly. I have enough on my plate with these four kids, I don't need one of them being able to travel to other dimensions via a wardrobe. Or whatever.

Because I Said So

It took me the same amount of time to write my latest column for The Commercial Appeal as it would to run 26.2 miles. Most of a weekend.

Coats

I did not like to wear a coat as a child. Or, at least, one specific coat. It was a pea coat with large buttons which may have had an anchor design on them. The collar was huge and the inside red. It looked feminine and what does a 10-year-old boy need to maintain more than his masculinity? So if I could get out of the house without it, then I would, regardless of the outside temperatures. And that is how I found out that wearing a large-buttoned, naval-themed, possibly woman’s, pea coat isn’t half as embarrassing as looking up to see your mother standing at the classroom door with said coat in hand.

The temperature has finally nosedived and it seems that winter has settled in for the duration. With this downrush in the mercury comes the one thing that can slow getting four kids out the door and to school in the mornings. Neither ice nor snow or a slow-starting 17-year-old car is any match for what this time of the year brings. I’m talking about winter coats. And not the red- or blue-approved colors of the city schools’ uniform that may be worn all day long, but the big, oversized, fleece-lined armor that Memphis kids really only need for approximately eight weeks out of the year.

We’ve been in our morning routine for about five months so far this year and have breakfast, dressing, lunch-making and leaving the house timed down to the second. The whole drill looks like a special ops force rescuing hostages as we spill from the house and pile into the car to speed off.

But when these kids add something as foreign as a coat into the mix, everything comes to a halt. It’s as though I’ve asked them to build the engine for the car that we’ll be escaping in. With mittens on.

There are zippers, the reversible linings, a hood that snaps off, suggesting it may or may not be necessary, and then the problem of just finding the coat. It may have been left at school, or in mom’s van or … what coat?

I think it may make things easier and speedier in the mornings if I dressed them all in a layer of Under Armour the night before and a simple furry Russian hat on the way out the door. I’m pretty sure muskrat is approved wear in Memphis City Schools.

Drizzling Homework

JP has a book report due tomorrow. Not just a synopsis of a book he's read, no. He is required to read a book about a famous American and then write about, make a poster display on and dress up like that person.

Who assigns a project deadline the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend? Sure, it was probably assigned a month ago, with plenty of time to get it done in the weeks before Thanksgiving. But in true Urf! fashion, it was put off until the last minute.

I'm not sure why I'm complaining, though. I had nothing to do with it. Kristy is the Homework Parent around here, especially when it comes to big projects like this. As a child, I always waited until the 11th hour, and at the thought of a school project being assigned, even now, my throat starts to close up, I break out in a sweat and I begin calculating the number of hours before bedtime of the night before that homework is due.

When everyone left for the library this afternoon, there was talk of the American subject being Daniel Boone or Abraham Lincoln. It turns out JP wanted that American to be Leonardo DaVinci, which isn't possible, so he settled on an American artist. He chose Jackson Pollock, which, really, is probably the perfect artist for a seven-year-old.

He checked out a book, read it and wrote a report that doesn't even mention booze or underage women. He made an authentic-looking Pollock painting and, as a costume, he and C covered a T-shirt in paint, which he will slip over his uniform for his presentation tomorrow.

It's a pretty good package he's put together. I'm sure it will garner an A tomorrow ... and then $28.4 million in 60 years.

Happy Thanksgiving

We at Urf! wish all of you and your families a happy and safe Thanksgiving. After the turkey and dressing and the cranberry and the ravioli and the desserts, you can read just what it is I'm thankful for over at The Commercial Appeal.

Hello

GK says hello to her cousin Harper down in the swamps of Southern Florida.

Daddy's Great

That's right, I feed my kids chocolate for breakfast. So what?

Candy Pain

More than a day on the calendar, more than any bird roasting in the oven and more than any parade, the holiday season is marked around here with the first bag of Christmas M&Ms bought.

And that time was last weekend. I made a trip to Sam's and came across a three-pound bag of the festive treats and couldn't resist. I brought them home and put them into the Christmas tin we've had for years. Merry Christmas to all.

Last night, as dinner was being prepared, GK sat on the counter playing with that tin. The lid is tight enough that even I have trouble getting the damn thing off when it's time for a snack. But GK sat there and shook it up like a chocolate maraca.

And then it opened.

M&Ms rained down on the linoleum like milk chocolate hail, like a pugilist forfeiting his red and green teeth, like a Rankin/Bass retch. About two pounds of candy made a racket that was almost deafening. We all just stood still and watched until the bouncing and the clattering stopped, and then GK said, "One fell." All anyone in the room could do was to look away, trying with everything we had not to laugh at her understatement.

It's difficult to be angry when your youngest is so funny, but I'm sitting here now wishing I had some M&Ms and suddenly it's not so funny. A little sad, actually. I might have to make a special trip to the store to get some more candy, and a new musical treat for GK.

Because I Said So

There are many times when GK is picked up from school looking cuter than when I dropped her off. I'm not the most adept at dressing a two-year-old, partly because I have no idea if pink matches blue or red or purple, but also because she's two and I just don't think it really matters what she looks like. Who is she trying to impress?

I wrote about it for The Commercial Appeal today, so check that out.

Yesterday was one of those days she ended up better looking than she started. This is how her hair looked when I picked her up.

We Made Some Ravioli

Read all about it.

The Politics of Puke

I spent eight hours at about 10 different polling stations yesterday working on small stories for The Commercial Appeal's website. I interviewed democrats, republicans and independents. I interviewed black and white and east, north and south Memphians. I talked to old - very old - poll workers.

Last night I sat up listening to two very good, very gracious speeches. But this morning I'm just sick to my stomach. Literally. I had an episode of illness this morning that was violent. That's the only way I can describe it. When the bad stuff wants out, boy, does it want out!

I'm here today to talk about someone who makes a difference more than any one man in Washington ever could. That someone is my 10-year-old son, C. I know I just wrote about him not long ago and how disgustingly good he can be, and that no one wants to read repeatedly how much better someone's kid is than their own kid. But he really is better than your kid. Sorry.

Kristy goes in to work an hour before the kids and I need to leave the house in the mornings and I spend that hour fixing lunches and breakfasts and making sure everyone is dressed for school. Kristy was good enough to make lunches since I was too nauseous to stand, and then C spent the morning making breakfasts and tending to GK when she woke up and prodding the other kids to get dressed for school.

During all of this is when my violent episode hit. The kids must have heard it and must have been afraid for their Daddy's life. Maybe. Maybe not. But I was.

There was no way I could spend a half hour in the car getting these kids to school, so I was just going to have them stay home. My concern was that I would lose consciousness at some point and my kids would be the only people there to help. Or to not help, as the case may be. And they know where I keep my wallet.

I let Kristy know that I thought it was a good idea if she came home, which she did and took the kids to school. That was life saving because it allowed me to just lie in bed all day feeling like my head was in a vise.

I'm feeling about 30% better now. Thank you Kristy and thank you, C, especially. Now that is a ticket I could vote for!

Vote for Pepsi

We went to the RiverArtsFest downtown yesterday and had a great time. C spent the night before with a friend and then had to go to another friend's house yesterday to work on a school project, so he didn't join us. JP was very upset about this, he missed his brother.

However, he perked up nicely and worked on some sidewalk art in front of the Folk Alliance headquarters.

Here, JP illustrates his love of Pepsi. You can see the little symbol there above the "Pepsi." I'm trying to work this one into a pay check with the ad placement.

In this one, he's written "Vote Joshua." Not a bad idea, I'm actually leaning toward a write-in tomorrow.

None of Your Business

With the election only a couple of days away, it seems there's just no getting away from it. Trust me, I've tried. So, I decided to ask the one person whose opinion I trust, my two-year-old daughter, who she is voting for this time around. It went like this:

Me: So, who are you voting for in the presidential election?
GK: None of your business.

Short and sweet, and spoken with all the passion of someone not yet old enough to vote. And so very true. As a kid, I'd ask my parents that very question and I always got a very similar answer . I'm not sure when it became okay to ask someone who they're voting for, but it ranks right up there in impoliteness, for me, with asking someone how much money they make.

And, I believe, it's the height of arrogance to think that anyone would care who you're voting for. Or that you could possibly change someone's ideology simply because you watched an extra half hour of Fox News or took one more directive from The Oprah.

Having said that, I spent most of last week trying to get people to talk to me about the election for a story that should run in tomorrow's Commercial Appeal. And on Election Tuesday, I'll spend the entire day at as many polling places as possible to ask people who they're voting for and why, so if you see me, say hello and tell me why you feel compelled to stand in line for so long. These little stories will be found updated all day on the CA's website.

So it seems that I don't care who you're voting for unless I'm paid to care, which may be indicative of a particular party or ideology, but who's to say which one?

What To Wear

There is something I need those who take care of GK during the day to know. I need them to know that I dress her every day and that I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm okay with not putting stripes and circles, or whatever, together, but colors baffle me.

There's also the fact, though, that she's two, and I don't think it really matters what she wears as long as she's warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

I usually try to warn Kristy when I'm really uncertain about a wardrobe because she is the one who picks GK up in the afternoon and I don't want her to be too surprised by what she might see there. Today, though, I didn't think to tell Kristy because I thought I did okay. I put a brown shirt with purple hearts (thank you, Chloe) and blue pants on her. I found out this evening that this wasn't a good idea.

It's not so much that I stand there and study the choices before deciding on what would look good on her; it's mostly that I have three other kids and they all have to eat and get dressed and have lunches made for them, so that I'm lucky, really, to get a pair of pants and shirt on her and not two shirts or no pants.

So I'm trying, just not very hard because, like I said, she's two.

I should also focus more on her hair, too, probably, but that's a problem for a different day.

Because I Said So

I couldn't sleep the other night, and was fishing about under the davenport for my retainer that I was quite sure must be under there. Shoulder deep in broken remotes, waffle parts and toenail clippings, I felt something adhere itself to my arm hair. Pulling back, I found an Al Gore for President contribution envelope stuck to me, and on the back was written about 15 inches of funny in an illegible script. So I sent that in to The Commercial Appeal and they printed it next to my picture!

You can read it all here.

A Magic Potion

I fed my two-year-old daughter ice cream for breakfast this morning because she asked for it. But then that two-year-old dressed herself for daycare without my help. If this works out, then I'll go with the ice cream breakfast, take the easier morning and deal with the bad teeth and hyperactivity later.

A (Mostly) Good Boy

My 10-year-old son, C, is acting lately like a 13-year-old girl. He's moody, sensitive and quick to get upset. Very upset.

His mother and I can't say anything negative to him without him pouting that he can't do anything right. This is an odd thing for him to declare because, really, C does everything right. Sometimes I just sit in amazement at what a good kid he is. He willingly leads his brother and sisters in games, he looks out for his baby sister and helps with other people's kids as though they were his own siblings. He wants to help more around the house. He loves to read and is earnest in his school work.

It's almost disgusting how lucky Kristy and I got with our first kid. I feel guilty just talking about it with the rest of you, as though I'm rubbing it in your faces. As though I had anything to do with his good behavior. And I feel a little guilty complaining about his mood swings because, really, he's about 98% perfect.

It's that two-percent of sulking that needs some work, though I know it will get worse, much worse, before it gets better.

The Next Step

Here's the rumpus.

I don't talk much about myself here. Sure, I talk about what I think about and what I like as far as books, music and movies. And I talk about how I raise, or endeavor to raise, my kids. But I don't discuss a lot about what I do.

Or did.

In the last couple of weeks, I've sold my retail business. It's something I'd been working on for over a year and it's finally finished. I bought the little cigar shop almost 10 years ago, taking it over the day after C turned one. It had its ups and downs, I met a lot of good people and made some close friends. My kids saw that it is possible to make your own way in this world.

But it was difficult, it required a lot of my time and thoughts. I worked six days a week for the entire time I owned it, foregoing vacations many years, and that was time away from my kids.

So now I'm going from working for myself to ... working for myself. I'm going to try my hand at freelance writing. This is both thrilling and frightening, and possibly ludicrous, choice for someone who is 38 with four small kids. However, I am lucky to be surrounded by supportive people who assure me that I've made the right move and that they are here to help.

I feel good about this. I look forward to the next stage of my life, of spending more time with my family and doing something that I have always really wanted to do.

[photo by Chip]

Happy Birthday?

GK, like all of my kids, says a lot of things. A LOT of things. I feel as though I should be documenting this toddler's vocabulary as it expands day by day but, damn, she says a lot. She has a cute little voice, too. It sounds like a cross between the chipmunks, Chip and Dale, from the old Walt Disney cartoons and Jim Henson's assistant to Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, Beaker.

And I understand about a third of it all.

She rambles and rambles on the way to school, on the way home from school, while we're getting ready for school, while she's getting ready for bed. I have no clue what she's talking about. However, whatever it is she's talking about always ends up back around at her birthday party. I don't know what birthday party she's talking about, she's never really had a birthday party. Yet the point of every conversation seems to be her birthday party.

It's fun, as we drive down the street, to point out a building and ask GK if that's where her birthday party was. Because it was there, and she'll go on and on about it ... I guess. "Bee bee bee bee bee bee ... birthday party ... bee bee bee bee ... poot ... bee bee bee ... birthday party ..."

One day GK will be a grown woman and she'll ask me what her first words were as a child. I'll probably shrug and look helplessly at her mother who will answer. And then I'll interrupt with "birthday party!" and they'll both assume I've had a stroke.

And one day she'll be a grown woman and won't want to acknowledge her birthdays. That's no fun. So for now, at least, she is welcome to believe she's had as many birthdays as she wishes.

[This is the 500th post on Urf!.]

Broken Code

I don't cook. Since we were first married, Kristy has been the cook in the family. I don't demand it, I don't even ask for it. I don't have to, she just does. And she does it well.

Yesterday, however, we made our way to the Memphis Farmers' Market and I couldn't help myself when it came to the eggplant. It was gorgeous. So we bought a couple of large ones and tonight I slathered them in garlic, olive oil and pepper and broiled them up. Those that I didn't over-broil were pretty good. Kristy made a red sauce and polenta, which was even better, I thought, than the eggplant.

S was the only kid to sit down and eat with us, the others having partaken of pizza and already in the bathtub by the time everything was ready. S tried everything, like a trooper, and then finished her eggplant. And then asked for more. She really seemed to enjoy it.

So, for one night only, I break the Parent Code and claim a favorite child. A best of four. I proclaim S my favorite.

Don't worry, this will all change tomorrow morning when she's too late waking up, too late getting ready for school, loses a shoe and makes us all late walking out the door. This I know. No one will be my favorite come 7:55 a.m.

Tonight, though, S is it.

Let Me Tell You About My Pad ...

JP doesn't like me. Either that, or I'm just not cool enough for him to waste his breath on when it's not absolutely necessary. The latter is something I expected, but not for another seven years or so.

I picked him up from piano today and, as we walked the halls of Downtown Elementary, I asked him about his day, about homework and about piano. His answers were succinct: Good. No. Fine.

Then we went to the computer room to pick C up from computer club and suddenly JP was animated and forthcoming and laughing. Is C cooler than me? I don't think so. I was picking him up from computer club!

This happens all the time. I can't get JP to open up, but when he's around his siblings or friends, he's the life of the party. Can't shut him up, and I've tried.

So what do I do? I eavesdrop. On the drive home he and C were talking about these comic book-journal-sketch pad things they'd recently gotten at a book fair. In it, you could design your dream home and they talked openly to each other about their plans. JP's plan for the master bedroom in his house involves a flat screen television, hot tub and bed that folds up into a couch.

I'm not sure I designed my own dream bedroom at seven-years-old, but I'm pretty sure that if I had, it wouldn't have looked like that. A TV I could see, but I'm not so sure size was an issue. I don't know that I'd dream of a hot tub. A pool, maybe. And a sofa bed? What's the point of that?

Maybe JP doesn't talk to me about these things because I ridicule him. If not to his face, then to the internet. Could he be reading Urf! at school? Did he even wish for a computer in his dream master bedroom? He probably won't answer if I ask him. He doesn't talk to me. But, he chats up his peers, so I would suggest, with his large screen television and hot tub, that you parents out there hide your daughters ... sometime in 2019.

Because I Said So

A big Thank You to Drake & Zeke of 98.1 The Max for mentioning me and my column on their morning program today.

Eating Well

When I was just entering adolescence, there were nights my mother would look at me across the dinner table and say, "I hope you never order spaghetti when you go out on dates someday." What she was witnessing must have been an awful sight. I'm sure all I thought at the time was, I hope I have a date someday.

I now know exactly what it was she was seeing. When C eats, it looks like an animal grazing, his face a mere inches over whatever it is that's for dinner. Only this animal can use its hands. Or, rather, this animal has hands, but they're somewhat vestigial. More like flippers, really. With his elbows on the table, he's able to bring the pizza or chicken or forkful of pasta up to his face and very, very close to his mouth. What results is a face covered with gravy or sauce or an oil of some kind, like a praying mantis trying to eat a fish. It truly is an awful sight.

I kid him in this way because I know this will pass, and because I helped make him and kidding him is my right. Over time he'll learn manners through our gentle reminders and fake vomiting sounds. We may make him start eating in front of a mirror, or using a bib. I may take dinner in the other room until he's 30 or so.

It passed for me, this mastication mess. I learned how to eat properly, eventually using a napkin and getting that fork in there the first time. And now I almost never order spaghetti on my dates.

Cat 2

I’m not sure how it happens, I’m usually too busy to study it in the mornings, but sometime between the kids waking up and us all leaving for school, the house becomes landfall for what appears to be a category 2 hurricane.

As we walk out the door, I survey the damage like a president making an official visit. Blankets, cups, toys, books, articles of clothing and a paper plate or two are strewn about. Water has collected, there’s a smell, and our getaway begins to look like an evacuation. The house is uninhabitable for the day. I’m not even sure how we make it through the morning.

In the afternoon, Kristy will appear like FEMA to clean and sanitize. Or at least push the debris to the side so the pathways are passable. They’ll have to be so that supplies can be brought in and replenished. We’ll need more provisions to get us through the night. And it would be best if all of those rations came individually wrapped so that those wrappers can be blown about tomorrow when, inevitably, another storm will wreck havoc.

Change

I've been hearing a lot about change lately. Every time I turn on the television it's "change ... change ... change ... change, change, change ... change ..." And change is good, my kids are always asking for change.

There's a lot changing with me right now and you'll find out more about it when I'm ready to speak of it. Until then, enjoy my latest column in today's The Commercial Appeal.

Reading is Fundamental

Sometime back, the powers that be over at The Commercial Appeal did away with the books page in the Sunday edition. Oh, sure, there's still the back page of Viewpoint which is handy for a short listing of literary events in and around the city, and a few book reviews written by faceless people far from here, but there's no room to spread out, to delve into story and character and theme. No space to shake the dust off a classic's jacket.

However, all is not lost for the literary-minded. A ragtag group of Montags have overtaken a corner of the CA's website and named it "The Shelf Life." It's a place where the spines are aligned and no dog-earing is allowed. Try not to spill your espresso on the keyboard.

Occasionally I have time between all the lunch-making, laundry, lawn mowing, chauffering and working to read a book. I recently read Paul Auster's latest novel, Man in the Dark, and I wrote about it for "The Shelf Life."

Funny Boy

Last night at dinner I was telling everyone about a story I'd heard on NPR on the way home about a Harry Potter lexicon that a fan was seeking to publish, but which had been blocked by a New York judge, saying it was too close to the original work.

Kristy began explaining the lexicon and Potter lore to us. There is a lot of information about Harry Potter to grasp, apparently. More than I needed to know, anyway. More than anyone living outside of their parents' paneled basement needs to know, really. But Kristy has read all of the books at least twice and is a font of Harry Potter knowledge.

In my own sarcastic, sardonic manner, I referred to the lexicon as a "nerd-clopedia." And, without missing a beat, C said, "Did you get yours yet?"

The comment caught me off guard and, as my chest swelled with pride, all I could do was laugh. Even though it was aimed at me, it was very funny, smart and timely. Smartass comments are practically a rite of passage in this family and he nailed it.

C took a brief step out of childhood last night, just like that time that Harry Potter made that potion ... or used his wand or whatever to put that spell ... on a Hobbit or Sleestak ... or something like that.

JP & Me

Back when C was the only kid we had at Downtown Elementary, I would pick him up from school most afternoons and he would come back to work with me. At least once a week we'd stop on the way home at a Midtown coffee shop and have an espresso and a hot chocolate, and we'd usually play cards and talk. It was a nice way to get a little one on one time for each of us.

JP started piano lessons again yesterday. I'll be picking him up on Thursday afternoons and I thought yesterday it would be nice to spend some time with the boy.

We stopped by a different coffee shop and I had a double espresso while he enjoyed a chocolate milk. And we both sat staring at each other. It's not that we don't like each other, of course, just that neither of us are very good conversationalists, I guess. I'm better with people closer to my age and he's better with the aid of a television or with his brother nearby. So we just sat, somewhat awkwardly, looking like I was about to have the talk with him. Or he with me.

I asked him about his day and the field trip he'd taken. And then we sat some more. I think I said something like, "This coffee is hot" and he nodded.

Finally I asked him if he wanted to play a game on my phone and he leaped at the chance. We were both relieved, I think.

I'm sure he appreciates the time alone, or will grow to should we keep it up. Maybe over time we'll come up with our own inside jokes and an easy conversational style together.

Or maybe I'll just get him his own phone.

Because I Said So

Somewhere beyond the sea
Somewhere waiting for me
My lover stands on golden saaaaaands
And watches the ships that go sailing ...

There is little The Quartet loves more than my mellifluous singing voice. "Just like Bobby Darin, Daddy," they say all the time.

The only other thing they like as much as me singing to them is me spending long stretches of time away from them, and that's what I wrote about in my column for today's The Commercial Appeal.

Duck!

We took The Quartet to the Memphis Redbirds baseball game yesterday. It was fun, but as is JP's nature, he's always thinking about that next thing. What are we going to do after this? He was unhappy, pouty and said he didn't want to be there.

Rather than saying out loud that he'd rather be at home playing computer games, however, he seized on the episode last April when his sister was hit by a foul ball at AutoZone Park, and said he was scared he was going to get hit by a ball. I told him that was highly unlikely. I told him that if a baseball hit him that day then I would buy him his very own computer.

And then I spent the rest of the afternoon prepared to throw my body in front of that kid, because I could take a contusion much easier than I could the bill for an Apple.