Paul and Me

We were poolside the other afternoon when I laid down the July 20 issue of The New Yorker I'd grabbed as we left the house. The magazine fell open to page 25 and the illustration there of actor Paul Giamatti.

S crawled from the pool, sauntered over and blinked her goggled eyes at it:

S: That looks just like you.
Me: No it doesn't.
S: Dude, that looks just like you. JP, come here, who does this look like?
JP: (JP walks over, giggles, honks, flaps his arms twice and then skips off on the toes of one foot)
S: Just like you.

Not So Good Mornings

GK is home with me today. She had a fever overnight and we saw no reason to force her to go to school if she wasn't feeling well.

And forcing her is just what it would be considering the week we've had so far. My little 3-year-old, who is such a terror around the house to her siblings, to me and her mom, and poor Mr. Baby, has been beside herself about her daycare and the new morning routine.

On Monday - day one - she talked excitedly about her new school and grabbed up her lunchbox with eagerness. This lasted until we got into her classroom where she lost it and had to be pried from my arms with promises of dolls and blocks and new playmates.

Day two was even worse with me dropping her off at the playground where her class was already so that I could hear her screaming for me all the way to the parking lot, down the driveway and out onto the street.

Day three was awful; she started crying before we even left the house and didn't stop until ... well, I'm not sure when. When she got home that afternoon, she wouldn't even look at or speak to me, such was her disdain for my actions of the past few mornings.

So her fever gains her a reprieve from her new school. It's a day to regroup and reconsider, when I'll spend the day reminding her of the great things about her school, her teachers and all of her new little friends. I'm sure it will register with her and make a difference, she's as rational as any 3-year-old.

I know what you're all thinking, that it will get better, that drop-off will be easier when she's acclimated and she will actually begin looking forward to going. That's a nice thought, but I'm afraid that's just not the case. I've been doing this a long time, I've taken all four of my kids everywhere they've needed to go in the mornings for as long as they've been going there, and I can sense how it's going to go for the rest of the year on the first day. Sure, she'll get used to it and come to accept it, but she'll never be one of those kids who grabs her lunchbox and takes off from the car toward the doors. I'll carry her in every day and every day there will be that last little grab for me, the faintest of tugs at my shirt and my heart, as I hand her off to her teacher.

The daycare she's going to seems really good and we've been happy with the way they've handled these morning traumas and how they have made sure to let us know at the end of each day how she cheered up and had a good day.

I know she gets happy, I know that the morning is not indicative of the entire day, but it's been my lot in parenthood. Having my day ruined from the guilt of leaving a screaming child behind is what I've done for years, yet it never, ever gets any easier.

Fear and Loving in Memphis

We had a Memphis weekend. This last weekend before Kristy goes back to work from her summer break and GK begins a brand new daycare with all its Pandora’s toy box of fun, fear and insecurity, we hit some local hot spots.

Today we went to the 32nd birthday party for Pinocchio’s: The Children's Bookplace. This is the tiny cottage on Brookhaven Circle in East Memphis that is built of books. I remember my mother taking us there as children and wanted to share the magic with my own kids. It’s a book store just for children with all the imagination, mystery and Seuss you’d want.

After Pinocchio’s, we made an impromptu visit to the Pink Palace where the kids loved running wild with the dinosaur robots, the tiny circus and various skeletons. The Pink Palace exhibits are like an ancient museum exhibit in their own right as I recognized many bones and interactive contraptions that I’d seen the first time as a child on field trips with my school.

Yesterday we schlepped to the Memphis Botanic Garden for the opening of My Big Backyard, an area of the gardens just for children. All I can say about this is that it is amazing. We don’t currently have a membership to the Botanic Gardens, but this exhibit by itself made me want to get one for the family. There are different areas with various themes, fountains, small houses, a big tree house and stations for learning about what grows here and how. This is an asset to Memphis and especially to the children (and parents) of our city.

And speaking of our city, I have to talk about Friday night. SAM had friends in town from out California way and we all went downtown for dinner and drinks with them. There was no real plan, no itinerary, so we ended up taking them to Beale Street.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to Beale on a weekend night, I’m local here so there’s no reason to go. I guess I knew they check identification now, but I wasn’t prepared to have to walk through a security gauntlet as well with someone passing a metal-detecting wand over me and making me empty my pockets. How sad for this city. How completely humiliating and embarrassing for a Memphian taking guests from out of town.

Beale Street is one of the largest tourist attractions in the state, if not the largest, yet to get onto this street one has to be checked for weapons. I stood, arms spread wide while some mutant spoke inaudibly to me, practically whispering when he asked what was in my pockets. I had to keep asking what he was saying as he mumbled, not bothering to even make eye contact with me.

Once on the street, which is so far below someplace like the French Quarter in both excitement and history, there was a police presence as though we were in a militarized zone. Forget a red light district where you’re allowed to carry an overpriced beer outdoors for two blocks, this is the blue light district where there is one cop for every two patrons. Why? Because it’s Memphis and it’s a damn jungle.

It was the last time I'll take visitors from out of town to Beale Street. It’s certainly the last time I go to Rum Boogie Café where we were charged a $5 cover to go in and eat (thanks, Matt!) and then sat next to half a dozen empty tables.

I sat through dinner watching the security checkpoint through the windows at Beale and Third Streets where families, obviously just having left the Redbirds game with their jerseys and ball gloves, were sent single file through the gauntlet of ID and weapon checks. I don’t know why anyone would take their kids to Beale Street on a Friday night and it was sad to watch the little kids who were confused as they watched their dads (only the men were getting checked here) get stopped and checked for weapons.

I believe the next time guests come in, I’ll take them to a quaint bookstore, the Botanic Gardens or even the Pink Palace where they can see a tiny circus, original Piggly Wiggly or animated dinosaur.

Ashes

I spent nearly every day from January 1999 until September 2008 in a little building downtown on Madison Ave. Day in and day out I sold cigars, pipes and pipe tobacco to people for a nickel, trying to make a living. That little building became like a home to me and the people who wandered in and sat, smoked, relaxed and commiserated like a family.

I sold the business, Memphis Tobacco Bowl, then in its 59th year, last fall because it was time to move on. Other dreams and aspirations were calling and my family needed me around the house more.

I haven't looked back, I love what I'm doing now. I do miss those people, that family, who came in weekly, some daily, to talk about their day or their own families. They knew my kids, they asked about my life outside of work and we bonded there around a little round table over cigars and coffee.

I was a terrible businessman, I'll admit that. I was simply a man who owned a business. I'm proud, though, of what I made there in that little building on Madison. I felt that I created an oasis for people from their offices, their bosses, their employees and the stresses of a weekday. I saw friendships made and grown, deals brokered and businesses bought and sold.

I was in the thick of it when downtown Memphis was thick with possibilities - AutoZone Park, the Grizzlies and their Forum and Peabody Place. It was occasionally exciting, sometimes lucrative and often heartbreaking, yet it defined me, I thought, for nearly a decade.

But, again, it was time to move on and I did.

The new owner of that little business is closing up shop this week. When it's time to move on, it's time to move on. I can't say I blame him, part of the game is knowing when to fold 'em. I probably should have long before. I'm glad, in a way, I didn't have to.

I had my last cigar at 152 Madison in its incarnation as a cigar shop this afternoon among the tile, plasterwork and age. It tasted just as good as any I'd had before, if not somewhat bittersweet.

Diving Bored

Despite my fear of the germs (not my germs, mind you, but yours) and whatever else might be living in the tepid water of a man-made hole in the ground, our family joined the Jewish Community Center last week so that the kids might swim.

And swim they did.

We went on Friday and they ran (no running!) and jumped and slid and swam. They had a big time and, I might add, I had a good time watching them. The facilities at the JCC are amazing, with something for every age group outdoors and indoors. In addition to the pool area, there is a great work out facility and game room for kids.

My first thought when I walked out into the sunlight and saw the pool was disbelief. We never had anything like this when I was a kid with the slides and the fountains and different swimming areas for all different ages and skill levels. As a parent, I really appreciate all the shade so that it's easy to escape the sun if anyone is getting a little too pink. I also feel comfortable letting the kids run (no running!) wild with so many lifeguards on duty.

I'm sure my kids' first reaction when they saw all there is to do was one of amazement as well. I'm sure that last week they were amazed, too, that their procrastinating parents finally did what they said they'd do ages ago and joined the JCC. But that had all worn off by day two when JP announced he was bored.

Bored.

There are slides and fountains and a lazy river and kids everywhere and more slides and he says he's bored. I told him I didn't ever want to hear that come out of his mouth while standing in the middle of a place like this.

Bored? What more could he want? It's all here! He wants the same thing most kids want and that is whatever is next. It doesn't matter what that next thing is, they've experienced this thing and now they want that thing.

I've decided that next thing, should they ask, is always going to be cleaning something. Their room, the kitchen, bathrooms, it doesn't matter, that's the new next thing. Be careful what you wish for, kids.

Summertime

As we rest firmly in the clenched jaw of the dog these days of summer were modeled for, I sit on the patio waiting for Kristy and SAM to return home with sushi. It would be better served in breezy, beachy, tropical climes instead of coming from the dank, loud kitchen of a Summer Ave. restaurant where some young person, half-stoned and watching the Friday night clock wasn’t in charge of touching my food, but I take what I can get.

Everything is better on the beach, where we were not so long ago, but I’ve been slightly more pro-Memphis lately, having visited some local bookstores, the zoo and Flashback just this afternoon where I bought a new summer hat.

S, my 6-year-old has always been my harshest fashion critic and today was no better as she saw me and declared, “I never thought it would come to a flowered hat.”

To be fair, the whole hat isn’t a flower motif, just the band.

I had a nice chat with co-owner of Flashback, Gene Rossetti. We talked about reading and writing, retail and travel, kids and Italians. Gene is a treasure in this town. He’s friendly and helpful and genuinely curious about his customers, their needs and their interests.

Later, I took a few of the kids to the White Station branch library where GK and I read a book that featured a mama elephant and her baby. She knew of the tragedy at the Memphis Zoo this week and told her own version of the story in the book, one where the baby elephant falls and is hurt and dies, but then the mommy helps it and it’s okay. It was a good story with a much better ending than the real one.

I was recognized as the writer of a column in The Commercial Appeal at the library, something that happens rarely if never. I do appreciate everyone who takes the time to read on Thursdays. This week I wrote about golfing with the kids, or having kids instead of golfing. I told the tale of some injuries in the front yard while trying to get them interested in the game. It was worse than I said, the benefit of time making everything funnier. In reality, JP brought his club into a backswing and caught a running GK on the forehead, her feet came completely off the ground and she landed flat on her back. That was the end of the lessons. JP felt horrible and GK was upset, but there wasn’t too much swelling and all was forgiven.

Sometimes these kids are so active and funny … or maddening … that it’s difficult to keep up with all the antics to make note here or in a column. And other times it’s just deathly still. A lot of the time, recently, I’m just tired and all thought-out when it comes to writing. This is something I’ve tried to get over as I start to see more of a pattern and a schedule to my work. I hope this keeps up as I had a meeting this week with a little known, though worldwide, foundation based out of Memphis, the International Children’s Heart Foundation. The heart and head of this charity, Dr. Bill Novick, had me over to his lovely South Bluffs home for cigars on the patio and to discuss a writing project that, if it’s greenlighted, could provide me with at least a year of steady work. It would be difficult, all-consuming, gratifying work. I’ll know more in a month or so.

Memphis keeps throwing nuggets like that project at me. It continues, within the bad, the awful stories we hear, to offer a token of peace every now and then.

We are all looking forward to tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp, which promises to be the largest to date, at the Levit Shell at Overton Park. The venue is big and beautiful and the atmosphere will, as always, be family friendly. I had the pleasure this week of speaking with Levitt Shell renovator Lee Askew III of Askew Nixon Ferguson Architects; Anne Pitts, executive director of the Shell; and board president Barry Lichterman for a story in today’s Commercial Appeal. The three agreed unanimously that the Shell is an asset for our community. For Memphis, which has no end of problems with crime, racism, hate and an all-around apathetic nature, the Levitt Shell has become a meeting place, a living room for people from all walks, all corners of the city to come together and enjoy free music in a beautiful and historical setting.

I hope to see you all at tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp show.

It’s been busy around here and, yet, not so much. This summer has been a time to get a lot of work done, but also to spend time with family at a less hectic pace. Now, to figure out how to keep that pace slow and steady through the school year …

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

It seemed simple in theory. Sitting behind this desk, Googling up directions costs nothing, requires no real effort and, if done at the right time of night, is pretty quiet.

It takes almost no time to say, "We're going to Naples, Florida." No packing required, no seat belts needed.

Driving 2,100 miles, however, is a whole different world. It's a world at 75 mph with frequent stops for the unhealthiest foods and foulest bathrooms. A world populated by tractor trailers, state troopers and creepy rest area attendants.

And it's a loud world.

But it's a world we explored for 10 days and it was (mostly) good.

We stopped first in Greensboro, GA, to visit with my grandparents, eat a delicious steak dinner and sleep in comfort for free. I always enjoy my grandparents' house and their company. We visited a nice park so the kids could run off some pent up energy and then laid around all night sipping wine, playing games and reading.

And listening to stories. I could listen to my grandparents tell stories about growing up all day long.

The very next day we packed up the kids and headed toward the tip of the dangle. It was a long, long drive. This is the first time we've driven to Naples and it was every bit of 10 hours. It felt like we would never make it to Tampa and, once we did, that we'd never make it the final two hours to my mom's house.

We did make it, though, and there was a houseful waiting on us when we arrived. My mom, stepdad, brother, sister and her family were all there to greet the weary travelers.

For the next six days we visited the beaches of Naples, swam in the pool, played endless games of Wii bowling and spent hours talking. It was the perfect way to spend a week. Our first excursion to the Gulf was to visit Vanderbilt Beach, which was much nicer than I remembered. The next time, though, we ventured downtown and found the city pier which extends out from a white sand beach butting up against homes in a quaint tropical neighborhood. We were smitten and visited it again the next day despite the half-hour drive from my mom's house.

We ate seafood and ice cream at Tin City and explored the paradise of Naples a bit.

It was great for my kids to get to visit their grandmother in her own home for the first time. They certainly made themselves at home, taking over her living room, video games and television, and declaring them for their own.

The following Saturday we learned that you can drive all. day. long. in Florida and at the end of that day you'll still be in Florida. It took us another 10 hours to make it to Panama City Beach where SAM had taken an impromptu vacation and met us for the weekend. We stayed in the townhouse of the fabulous Robin's parents (thanks again!), had dinner at Billy's Oyster Bar, swam in the pool, had the perfect Father's Day on the beach with lunch at Schooners.

After a couple of days of that, we loaded up once again for the drive back to Memphis. There was a time in my youth, before kids - long before - when I could make that drive in eight hours. This day it would take 10. A miserable 10 hours.

We made it home. We had a great time, all of us. The kids, hopefully, have memories of beautiful beaches, long days at the pool, visits with grandparents and great-grandparents and quality time with their mom and dad, and not just of the interminable drives.

I look forward to our next trip, whenever and wherever that might be.

Storybook Couple

I have a story in today's Commercial Appeal on Corey and Cheryl Mesler, the owners of Burke's Book Store. This is one of those stories you look forward to telling - how two people met, where they fell in love, the small business they run and raise their family around.

The Meslers were a joy to talk with, an interview that took over two hours because we kept getting sidetracked by books, movies, jazz and other such interests. It was a pleasure to meet them and to tell their story.

You should go in yourself and say hello. And buy a book, making a living at retail is an uphill struggle, trust me. Show the Meslers how much you enjoy their shop by spending a little cash. It doesn't take much.

I was embarrassed to see that I misspelled Harriette Beeson's name. She was the previous owner of Burke's. I have a very vivid memory of doublechecking the spelling of her name as I was writing. I know I did. I ... think I did.

Other than that, I'm very happy with the way the story turned out. And the way the Meslers' story is turning out should make us all happy at this time when marriages and small businesses fall apart on a daily basis.

June 4, 1994

I put on the best suit I've ever owned, brushed my teeth and put some sweet-smelling pomade in my hair 15 years ago today to marry this girl.

And even though I had on a new pair of wingtips and a flower in my buttonhole, she still stole the show that day, as she's done every day for 15 years.


Happy anniversary, Kristy. I love you.

He Knows the Tooth

C lost a tooth tonight. Another tooth. I think that's number 37 or 38 thus far and I'm not sure how that kid even chews any more.

He just came into the office and said, "Make sure the tooth fairy remembers I lost a tooth."

I asked him how I was supposed to get in touch with the tooth fairy and he said, "I know the tooth fairy doesn't exist."

I told him that once the magic of believing goes, then so does the money, and he said, in regards to his naive siblings, "But they still believe and if they ask to see my dollar in the morning then I have to show it to them."

So while the magic of the tooth fairy and of childhood beliefs have gone the way of his eye teeth, it appears that extortion is still vibrant and healthy.

Can I borrow a dollar?

Memphis Parent

I have a story in the June issue of Memphis Parent magazine, on newsstands now.

The June issue focuses on fathers, Father's Day and men's issues. I wrote an informative piece on vasectomies, calling on some friends for personal stories as well as Dr. Eber of the Conrad-Pearson Clinic for an expert's opinion. It's different than the column I wrote about the subject back in February.

I hope it's helpful for anyone considering this method of birth control.

Pick up your copy today!

Two Columns

I stepped out of my comfort zone last week and wrote a column that is not typical for me.

On Monday last week I sent in a piece that had been carefully crafted, impatiently re-crafted, and then tweaked ad nauseum until I, at last, couldn't wait any longer and let go of it.

Wednesday morning I woke up and read the story in the newspaper about county commissioners and local ministers coming together to denounce a certain segment of society's way of life and I sat down and wrote a new column in about 10 minutes.

The writing was quick and passionate and it just felt right. I sent it in to my editor, Peggy B, and asked if I could get that one in the paper instead of the previous column. She liked it but said it would have to be approved by someone higher up because it was controversial. I'm not sure if she had to go to bat for it or not, but it got in and I thank her for jumping through the hoops for me.

I still like the column, still believe in what I said. I got quite a few e-mails and the vast majority of them were agreeing with my sentiments and thanking me for writing it. And I got the e-mails from people questioning me, lecturing me, praying for me and letting me know that they will no longer read my column. And that's all fine, too, I thank them for taking the time to read and write to me.

The next column, I hope, will be funny, there's still plenty to laugh at out there.

I'm not going to run the column from last week that was replaced because it was timely as well and that time has passed. Here it is below as I wrote it:

Downtown Memphis is a living, breathing museum where local pages of history have been turned for the world at large to learn. It’s a place where Memphians and tourists travel to see a ball game, a concert, to eat and drink and celebrate. And for six years my kids traveled there to go to school. Since the day it opened, we’ve had our children at Downtown Elementary, beginning with Calvin in kindergarten.

They learned some of that local history with field trips to the Rock-n-Soul Museum, Mud Island, Beale Street, the Orpheum and the Fire Museum. Walking to these destinations from school gave them the opportunity to become a part of the pulse of downtown, and the city, and absorb the good and bad, the neglected and reborn. The landscape became a nursery for the first seeds of civic pride to be planted.

On Madison Ave., in the shadow of the Sterick Building and a mere pop fly from AutoZone Park, our kids have learned multiplication, history, science, piano and, probably, a little bit of panhandling. But this past school year was their last year at Downtown Elementary.

Due to our move to a new neighborhood, one with well-respected schools of its own, we have elected to move the kids and say goodbye to the teachers and staff that we’ve come to think of as family.

Who other than family would you entrust your children to every day for so many years? The staff there have been as approachable and available as any sibling or cousin. So it was with a bittersweet start to the summer that my wife, Kristy, and I went to Downtown Elementary on the final day of school last Friday to say goodbye.

We didn’t get much past the front office and the principal, Mrs. Wunderlich, before the emotions poured out. This emotion continued as we made our way to Mrs. Porter, the kindergarten teacher who has taught each child we’ve sent to that school. She started them on the journey of education in such a way that they have all become good students, eager to learn.

We’ve been asked by other parents over the years what we think of Downtown Elementary and whether we’d recommend it. Even with three kids there, they’d ask if we like it. And we did, we loved it and the kids loved it and that makes it very difficult to leave. Our kids will be at Richland Elementary and White Station Middle next year where we expect them to excel due to the seeds planted Downtown in previous years.

Memphis City Schools gets a bad rap. Some of it is deserved, much of it is not, especially at the most basic, most important, level: the teacher/student relationship. The schools in this city are full of caring, competent and imaginative teachers who unfairly get lumped in with the pencil pushers and cell phone abusers at the administrative level.

With the economy tightening, more and more parents of children in private schools are looking for other options to paying tuition when the best option may be right there in their neighborhood. We made a decision to put our children in the city school system, we chose Downtown Elementary, and we couldn’t have been happier.

Memphis Most?

Perhaps today isn't the day to bring this up. Then again, maybe it's the perfect day to bring this up.

Currently, over at The Commercial Appeal's website, voting is open for the Memphis Most, that paper's take on the best of the best of our fair city. There happens to be a category for your favorite columnist.

Now, I'm not suggesting you vote for me. I'm just hoping you get out and vote because it's your duty. And because if you don't vote you forfeit your right to later complain about who was chosen the "most" columnist in town.

My kids have voted often this year, which means Geoff Calkins is a shoe-in. I'm simply hoping for second ... okay, maybe a distant third.

You can peruse past columns by visiting here or here. You can read today's "Because I Said So" column here.

Raindrops

What do you do when you're stuck at home with six kids on a rainy day? You stick them out in the rain; miscreants shrink in the water.

See? I went from six miscreants down to only three.


Here are some other photos:

Memphis Zoo Visit

We packed this zoo up this afternoon and headed to The Memphis Zoo.

We saw lions and gorillas, a skink at the gorilla habitat, pandas, budgies and polar bears. We saw pythons, hippos, ducks and gibbons.

I saw a guy with a picture of his kids on his t-shirt. I may have to get me one of those.

We saw giraffes, ostrich eggs, alligators and a duck.

But what was the most exciting item at the zoo for my kids? What commanded all of their attention? Was it the meerkat? The Bengal tiger? The orangutan? No, it was the Radio Flyer wagon we'd brought along to haul GK and Mr. Baby around in. That molded plastic conveyance that sits in our driveway every. single. day.

From time to time at home they'll want to ride in it, be pulled down the drive to the sidewalk and back before becoming bored with its lack of speed, comfort and television. We'll use it to take the kids up the street to the park, and for that it's pretty useful.

But today at the zoo you would have thought it was Evel Knievel's rocket car or the Batmobile. They all fought over it, pleaded to ride in it and sat in it when we stopped to watch a zebra or the sea lions.

We have a family membership to the zoo, but if we hadn't, it would have cost us about $95 to visit today. That's $95 to be pulled around in in a wagon that we own and that sits gathering rainwater most of the time.

Next time I'll know better. Next time I'll pile them all in that wagon and pull them around the yard to see the squirrels, Cardinals, toads and mosquitos for free.

Downtown

I've played the part of parent well the past couple of days. In public, anyway.

Tuesday night we went to hear JP play in his piano recital at school. He sounded great, just like Thelonius Monk, only less crazy. Slightly less crazy. He sort of slowed down in the middle of his piece, stopped actually. I think he may have gotten lost while reading the notes. To me, it added to the drama of the tune, just a little lull so the gathered crowd in the lunchroom could soak in what he was playing.

He's been taking lessons for two years now and I think he's pretty good. We should probably get our piano repaired and tuned so that when he practices he'll know just what he's supposed to sound like.



On Wednesday, I joined the kids, and all of Downtown Elementary, at the Memphis Redbirds game. It was a beautiful day for a game, no rain at all and full sunshine.

I don't know how their teachers and staff do it. There were kids running everywhere, yet they kept them all in order and, somehow, got them all back to school in tact. Not one missing. At least, not one of mine.

At one point I took two of my kids to a concession stand and almost lost one of them.

The game, and talking with the teachers and the principal, Mrs. Wunderlich, made me sorry that this is our last year at Downtown. We've had a long run of six years at the school and they've been great, from the people to the curriculum to these wonderful field trips the kids go on that they get to walk to - AutoZone Park, the Orpheum, the Rock-n-Soul Museum, Mud Island and many others.

C began school there in kindergarten the first year it was open and his teacher, Mrs. Porter, set in motion his love of education for, hopeuflly, the next couple of decades. I expected nothing but screaming and crying that first morning I dropped him off, but it was just the opposite and for that I'm grateful. She had JP and S in turn as well and they've all become bright and dedicated kids.

We'll have two at Richland Elementary next year and one at White Station Middle, and we're very excited about both schools, we've heard nothing but good about them. But we will miss Downtown. We've had a great time and knew our children were in the best of hands each and every day.

Because I Said So

This is the face of evil in my house as described in today's Because I Said So column in The Commercial Appeal.


Just to disprove me and make me look like an ass, though, GK sat behind me on the carpool run this morning and softly sang "Hush Little Baby" complete with the line " ... if that diamond ring don't talk to you ... "

Field Trip

In my six years of gnomeschooling, or however long it's been that I've been keeping almost-3-years-old GK and almost-2-years-old Mr. Baby at home on Monday and Tuesdays, I've never left the house with them. Sure, we've gone outside when the frenetic Memphis weather permits to look at birds and argue over swings and flowers and such, but I've never taken them into public.

Scared? Some may call it that, though I regularly, willingly, take four to five kids out and about, so it can't be fear.

It's probably something closer to disinterest, or downright apathy. These two toddlers are happy-ish at home, why mess that up just so they can experience new things and see some of their city? They don't know how big this city is, I'll take them across the yard and tell them that bush is called "Overton Park;" I'll let them wander around the outdoor storage and say, "Welcome to a mall."

But today I took them to Davis-Kidd Booksellers and it mostly went as expected. Upon entering the children's section with its books and toys and, for the moment, serenity, GK declared she had to go potty. So I trudged them both off to the men's restroom where she used a public toilet and I threw up just a little bit at the thought.

Once we were back at the children's section, Mr. Baby declared that all he surveyed was his. He opened his chubby arms wide, held his head up and said, "Mines!" And the arguing over toys that didn't belong to any of us ensued.

Shortly, another parent came over with her child and this stopped GK and Mr. Baby in their tracks. For the rest of the time they just stood and stared at these people as though they'd never come across another human, as though a couple of Morlocks had just surfaced and GK and Baby, having forgotten their cameras, needed to memorize their features so they could describe them in detail to the authorities later.

Sometime during all of this staring the clock struck 9:12, so Mr. Baby pooped.

Eventually the two in my charge returned to playing and bickering and stinking. Not too much later, having finished reading my magazine, I declared the field trip over and headed for the door with the two little ducks following.

They behaved well, overall, which means ... absolutely nothing when it comes to the possibility of future outings because, with the exception of Mr. Baby's bowels, these two are as unpredictable as the weather in Memphis.

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.