A Day For Daddy And Daughter

Kristy takes on the burden of Christmas shopping in our house, I'll own up to that. I just don't have the patience or imagination anymore for full-scale shopping. However, every holiday season I need just a taste of the craziness, a glimpse of the crush of shoppers to see if it's the madness or the cheer that prevails. Today seemed the perfect day for just that, so I gathered up S and we ran a few errands before heading to the bookstore for coffee and hot chocolate, browsing and people watching.

S, at home, is loud and rambunctious and can be trouble. Today, though, I couldn't draw her out for anything. We got our drinks and sat in the cafe, the perfect daddy/daughter date, and I asked her about Christmas and what she thought Santa would bring her, whether her brothers should be on the naughty or nice list, and whether she is excited about our upcoming trip to the beach, but I couldn't get much of an answer on anything. A lot of shrugging and mono-syllabic answers but, so far, none of the eye rolling or whatevers that I know adolescence will bring, if I can even get her to sit with me in public in eight years.

From time to time I like to do something with each kid one on one, hang out, talk with them to find out what they're thinking, about their hopes and dreams and plans, find out which parent they like better. With C it's no problem, he'll talk until you implore him not to anymore and then he'll just question you about anything and everything. S and JP really don't have much to say, and if I take them out they'll simply request this or that be bought for them and then ignore me while they ignore whatever treat I just bought them. GK, if you sit with her for more than two minutes, will just bury her nose in a New York Times crossword, occasionally sipping from her Americano.

The shopping frenzy S and I witnessed this afternoon wasn't bad at all. Of course, I wasn't panicking for gifts, simply browsing leisurely. People were friendly, they were mostly smiling and saying hello to S, and there was Christmas music playing everywhere. It was just what I needed. I needed to mainline some holiday cheer and I got just that, even if I didn't have anyone to talk with about it.

Rise And Shine

The alarm clock goes off every morning at 5:30, I wake up automatically every morning at 5:28. The most trying time of my mornings is waking S up and getting her dressed for the school day. She is most assuredly not a morning person and is usually still half asleep while I dress her and implore her to get her lunch and pack up her backpack. This morning, however, being the first day of Christmas break, a day when there is no hurry, there is no backpack, she woke up on her own a full 45 minutes earlier than usual. There are no lengths these kids won't go to to get under my skin.

Like A Bad Penny

I'm back!

I'm back from The Week That Was Broken with some good news and, naturally, some bad. The hard drive on the Apple iBook G4 has been replaced and all data recovered thanks to Uncle Toby and some little elves in California. Much, much thanks to T, in fact. We procured a dryer and I immediately took it apart to put a new belt on it and it works. It works! Really! So all of our clothes are clean and dry.

The bad news is that my baby girl is now broken. "Broken" meaning coughing a lot and running a fever. I took her to the doctor a couple of days ago and learned she has an upper respiratory infection and she's now on the pink stuff. Amoxicillin should come in big jugs like milk so we could keep it in the fridge and administer it as needed to The Quartet. At least, until the fridge breaks.

And now, because I know you all missed the funny, I leave you with this little nugget from C, handwritten on the back of a discarded Christmas card envelope, sure to find him on the naughty list and with an extra hour of studying spelling:

JPA stinks, smells, and looks like a terd [sic].

The Grinch Who Broke Christmas

You know, I can't remember the last time I was in a laundromat. Oh, wait, yes I can. It was only three hours ago. It's where I go to read. It's where I go to read when our dryer at home is broken. Night before last I spent taking the thing apart and putting it back together again to get to the squeal emanating from within and lube it up. I did that three times that night. Last night I only did it once, but now the motor is just seizing up after about seven minutes of run time. So it's useless. I suppose I should also mention the light fixture in our one bathroom that went out last night. Why should the dryer have all the fun? I did manage to take it down this morning and rewire it into the wall and, as of 8:00 this morning, it was still working. The best news, really, is that the heat in our home that wasn't working this morning, began working once I reset it at the circuit breaker. That's good, because it's going to get very, very cold this weekend. On second thought, you should probably stay tuned for details on that heater because, again, it's going to get very, very cold this weekend. I suppose I should back up, really, to Tuesday when my laptop's hard drive finally gave out. That's why I've been away, I have no computer. Uncle Toby is helping, though, to recover all the business documents I had stored in that box, as well as everything I've ever written. Ever.

This bad luck always comes at me in threes, but I'm confused now. Was the bathroom light the third thing? Or was the gas leak/new meter/no heat for a night last week the first thing? Does the heat not working this morning even count or is it merely a harbinger for an all-new rotation of bad luck? I'll have to sit down with an Excel spreadsheet and figure it all out. Oh, wait, I can't do that, can I?

Regardless of where we stand in the Bad Luck Cycle, I hope The Quartet enjoys their Christmas gift, their shiny new clothes dryer. Maybe they'll have some fun with the box it comes in, pretending it's a space ship or a submarine or the Grinch's cave.

[Thanks to Tracy for letting me borrow her computer to say hello to y'all.]

It's Not Personal

Two weeks ago, GK began going to a new school. It's a Montessori school in Midtown that many of our friends' kids attend. JP and S attended this same school before signing up for the public school they're enrolled in now. I took the opportunity of that first week of school for GK, this giant step forward, to write a post here. For various reasons, I'm going to do something I don't do very often; I'm going to apologize. (Just ask Big Mama, this hardly ever happens.) I'm sorry if what I wrote belittled what you teachers and caretakers do every day. Be sure that if Kristy and I weren't comfortable, weren't completely happy with where our children stayed for seven hours a day, five days a week when out of our sight, then we would not leave them there. We wouldn't even consider it. GK has done great these past two weeks in Montessori and we have every confidence that she will continue to do so under the care of the women I leave her with in the morning.

Ah, but it's not that easy, is it? Because I'm also going to explain myself. I'm going to explain, as I do every so often, that the main purpose of Urf! is to amuse myself. And one other thing, I'm a smartass. It's genetic. You have to take everything you read at this URL with such a large grain of salt that you may want to have a tall glass of water on hand. Or a deep, deep margarita. I see the changes my children go through as funny and I try to make others see it that way as well. But I'm also extremely protective of The Quartet, and were I really unhappy with GK's school situation then you would know it, make no mistake about that. If I weren't also watching The Godfather as I write this, I'd go back and look through the archives to link to posts I've written here wherein I've had serious problems with the City School System and there isn't much humor at all to be found there. Sure, there was some humor, because I just can't help being funny, hilarious at times even. And if you look back, I guarantee you'll find many, many more posts where I good-naturedly poke fun at the public school, my kids' friends, their teachers and assignments as well as some of the rules they're made to follow. An overly-structured school environment for six-year-olds is funny to me. But so is a non-structured environment. Why? Because kids are silly, and putting them into different little ecosystems and watching how they behave is funny to me, and this is where I write about it.

I really am sorry if what I wrote previously was construed in any way as being malicious; it most certainly was not meant to be and I was surprised to find that it was taken this way. Almost as surprised as I was to find out that instead of six readers, it appears I have seven. Who knew? But I hope the fine teachers at this particular school will continue reading and that they will laugh along with me. And I hope that if they don't, they won't take it out on GK, because she's going to need those cloth diapers attended to regularly.

I Was Like ... @#$%&#

You may need to read this previous post about kids repeating themselves for this to make sense and to be hilarious to you. Or you may just need to have your own 6-year-old living in your house.

I walked into the living room just in time this morning to hear JP saying to C, "I was like, What the hell?"

JP, if you're going to say it, then say it. And if you get away with it then good for you. But don't repeat yourself at the risk of getting caught.

Light My Fire

We arrived home from work and school earlier to find a message on the front door from the local utility company, MLGW, that a leaking gas meter had to be replaced. It also informed me that I needed to call to have someone come out and turn the gas back on. Okay, fine, you repaired a gas leak I didn't even know existed and possibly saved the lives of my entire family. Wonderful. But that was over four hours ago and the brain trust at MLGW still hasn't sent anyone out to turn the gas and, subsequently, the heat back on. And it's currently 36 degrees outside and going down.

Me being me, though, being the upbeat, look on the bright side, glass is always half full, kind of guy that I am, I decided we would make a game out of it. We would live like the pioneers of old for a night! Or until MLGW shows up! Or until we go to a hotel! So here we sit, indoors, with only the light of the lamps and the overhead fixtures to guide our way, and only the most basic of cable television and, of course, high-speed internet. The stove and oven are gas, so the only food we can prepare has to be done so in the microwave or in the electric toaster oven, or eaten cold right out of the refrigerator. The water heater is gas, so there's no bathing and the kids do stink.

But all I really want, much like the pioneers, is a cup of hot tea. And not microwave hot, but boiling hot. Stove top hot. It's frustrating when, in a house normally so full of gas, none of it is usable.

MLGW just now stopped by our lean-to, by the way. The leak, it turns out, was not fixed, though the meter was replaced. The MLGW representative is sending someone out tonight to fix it. Again. I can only assume that by "tonight," he means "before sunup." So we're left here, under a mountain of blankets, half-starved and bored with whatever tattoo or midget show is on our very basic cable television, to wonder why the geniuses MLGW sent to replace the meter didn't then check to make sure the leak was taken care of. That, and to wonder who the cause of all the worthless gas is and how it will affect the burning of this Christmas tree for heat and tea.

You Can Say That Again

Out of all of The Quartet's irritating little habits, their most irritating is relatively new. They seem to have the need lately to repeat themselves. After saying something they find particularly funny, they immediately say, "I was like ... " and then repeat whatever it is they just said. And odds are it wasn't that damn funny to begin with. It's like a shrill echo heard through the muffled chewing of Pop-Tart. I'm sure these kids will find numerous ways over the years to grate on an adult's nerves, as children it's their job and they've gone above and beyond so far, but right at this moment it's hearing them all say the same thing again and again as though there isn't already enough talking in this house. I told them they're like a broken phonograph, which still makes no sense to them.

I was like ... Out of all of The Quartet's irritating little habits, their most irritating is relatively new. They seem to have the need lately to repeat themselves. After saying something they find particularly funny, they immediately say, "I was like ... " and then repeat whatever it is they just said. And odds are it wasn't that damn funny to begin with. It's like a shrill echo heard through the muffled chewing of Pop-Tart. I'm sure these kids will find numerous ways over the years to grate on an adult's nerves, as children it's their job and they've gone above and beyond so far, but right at this moment it's hearing them all say the same thing again and again as though there isn't already enough talking in this house. I told them they're like a broken phonograph, which still makes no sense to them.

Well Done, Tesla

Kristy and I are one month shy from having been parents for 10 years, and just this weekend one of our children did something which hasn't been done in all that time. One of these tiny little geniuses stuck a metal Christmas tree ornament hook into an electrical outlet with a flash of flame and a resounding pop. The Quartet's ages are 18 months, 5 years, 6 years and 10 years. Who do you think did this? I actually wish I could say it was GK, the youngest and least mentally developed. You're probably thinking JP, if you've ever met JP. No, it was C. My oldest child never learned not to stick metal into an outlet, thus singeing a few fingertips and a bit of pride.

My fault, you say? I didn't teach him not to touch metal to electricity, you say? Probably not. But this weekend, in one fell swoop, all four of my kids learned this invaluable lesson. One more item ticked off my To Do list.

Go Elf Yourself

Direct from the Naughty List!

A Lack Of Focus

I need to focus. I need to focus before all of this slips out from under me.

On the way to school this morning, C told me how his schedule at school has changed and how much more confusing it is now switching from this class to that at this time or that on this day or that. This should be a post about that schedule and what my fourth-grader has to deal with every day. But the truth is I didn't really pay attention. Okay, the real truth is that a song I like came on the radio and I tuned him out. The sad part is I can't even remember what that song was now. Oh, and then somewhere near the end of his explanation I saw a Volkswagon Beetle so I punched him on the arm.

These kids are growing fast and things are changing at lightning speed, I really should start paying attention to them. Right now, though, I'm just thankful that C is able to concentrate enough to drive us all downtown.

الجمهورِيّة اليَمَنيّة

On the walk today from school to my store, C told me a story about recess. He said he and his friends were playing Four Square on the playground but kids kept running through their squares, so they took their ball out to the field to play but "some kids, I think they're from Yemen, took our ball away from us." And then those same kids, who already had a football, started throwing their football at C and his friends. Yemenese! I never saw this coming. Raising kids in Memphis, TN, trouble with the Yemenians isn't the racial discourse you imagine being a problem.

I wasn't quite sure how to handle this situation so I began by making sure I understood him correctly. "These were Yemenites, I asked?" He assured me they were. "That surprises me," I continued, "because Yemen, officially the Republic of Yemen, is a Middle Eastern country located on the Arabian Peninsula in Southwest Asia. And with a population of about 20 million people, Yemen is bordered by Saudi Arabia to the North, the Red Sea to the West, the Arabian Sea and Gulf of Aden to the South, and Oman to the east. Furthermore, Yemen's territory includes over 200 islands, the largest of which is Socotra." Okay, I didn't say any of that because I only just now went to Wikipedia to study up on Yemen. Okay, I didn't actually study, but I did skim, and one thing that didn't stand out was anything on the Yemenials' great love, or hatred, of Four Square, so I feel this was a random act of playground frivolity between two cultures that no one could have guessed would come together in downtown Memphis, much like Bono and Sam Phillips, who I've heard loves Four Square.

C went on to tell me that such-and-such teacher talked to so-and-so in the fifth grade and what's-his-name in the fourth to get the facts objectively, and that there were two options, though C quickly saw that there were three: 1) No more playing outside, 2) Play outside, but everyone has to get along, and the elusive, inferred 3) Play outside but with no equipment. In what grade does the whole Mock U.N. stuff begin? Because this has the stink of the United Nations written all over it, and if I find out Angelina Jolie was at that school and no one told me then there's going to be hell to pay!

Tomorrow is a new day. It's a Thursday in Memphis, I have no idea what day it will be in Yemen, but I'm sure that these kids will all work it out on their own as kids on playgrounds all over the world do. It isn't until adulthood that they actually take up arms over something so silly. The young Yemenheads probably just didn't quite understand the concept of Four Square, though I'm sure they'll catch on quickly. Either that or they're just very excited and overzealous about Evacuation Day, which Wikipedia tells me is an actual holiday in Yemen on November 30.

[I copy and pasted that title up there over from Wikipedia. I think it means "Yemen." I hope it does. If, instead, it means something derogatory then forget what I said, we're not really located in downtown Memphis.]

First Day. Again.

Yesterday my baby girl went to her first day at school. Sure, it's a Montessori school, but it's the closest she's come yet to any type of formal education or, as we call it, daycare. The fee to get into this institution is steep, steeper than what we were paying her sitter on The Island, but it isn't just the money that's on my mind, it's the gear she has to pack in to her new wilderness. It's the confusing amount of ... stuff she needs to attend this school. She had to take crib sheets, blankets, a jacket that stays there, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, four changes of clothes and three pairs of shoes, among so much else. That doesn't even include the cloth diapers we don't have yet. Cloth diapers, I don't even know where to begin. Apparently, though, sometime in the 1950s with a giant safety pin and clothesline would be a good beginning point.

She did well yesterday, walking around and playing while I was still there before getting upset as I went to leave. The teachers told Big Mama when she picked her up that she did great the rest of the day, though, which I knew she would. This morning she was excited and happy up until we walked into her room and then she lost it, again, as I knew she would. The first thing to be done was to change from her sneakers, or "outside shoes," to her softer "indoor shoes." She has three pairs of shoes at the school, which is one more pair than I own. I just hope they all match the four outfits she has. I'm not sure if she's going to daycare or if she's involved in a Cher concert. The teacher spoke to a crying GK in soothing Montessori-ese while I sat there holding her and thinking "Take this child from me and calm her so I can leave!" A mom who was in there assured me that "it will get easier" to which I thought-replied "This is my fourth child, lady, and you know what? It doesn't get easier." I've dropped these kids off at every daycare, sitter and school they've ever attended every morning of their lives and they cry almost all the time and it's never easier. I know they're fine as soon as I walk out of the door, but that doesn't make it easier. I'm leaving my offspring with strangers and they're not happy about it. And I'm not either. JP, just last week, in his sixth year of life and third month of first grade started crying in the mornings out of nowhere. What the hell is so easy about that?

I know GK will get used to the new morning routine. I know that she'll make some little friends and get to know her caretakers and that the Montessori Kool-Aid will go down nice and smoothly, but that doesn't really get me through the day when the first thing in the morning I'm leaving a tear-streaked, seemingly inconsolable child behind. Again.

McTheory vs. McReality

Kristy and I decided late Sunday night to make the drive to Georgia on Wednesday to visit my grandparents for Thanksgiving. It was as spontaneous as a family of six can be. I'm glad we did. Despite the three hours of constant downpour that began the trek, arriving to a house full of family and good food was well worth it.

Long drives (this one was about nine hours) give one pause for introspection. It's a good time, a long time, to think about life and what it is we strive for, what is important and what we'd like to eventually accomplish. This trip, in particular, showed me that my hopes and dreams, or the visions of my life as I perceive it now and in the future, may not, in fact, be as they truly are.

For instance, my dream is for my family to one day live on a 40+' sailboat exploring the Caribbean seas and South American coastline, yet in reality I have two kids who become ill riding in a Mazda minivan. The dream also stipulates that these four kids will be my crew on that sailboat, however, S, my navigator, asked as we drove through Alabama, on the way to Georgia from Tennessee, if we were in California yet. The Quartet wanted McDonald's for lunch and, despite their complete lack of skills with the sextant, managed to locate one with an immense indoor playland. I was starving, but it seems that hunger is relative, because when we walked in and I saw the advertisement for something called a McSkillet Burrito, I was suddenly much less hungry.

We'll be returning home on Saturday and I can't imagine what dreams and theories that I harbor might be shattered. Or supported, as I've only just now decided to allow S to show me the way home, and to feed her nothing but McSkillet after McSkillet on that journey because I have a theory that they just may settle her seafaring stomach.

Hey, That's Not Funny

Ask any parent anywhere what their favorite sound is and they'll tell you: the sound of my child(ren)'s laughter. Well, first they'll tell you the sound of silence is their favorite, but then, pressed for an actual sound, they'll say the laughter of kids. And isn't that the truth? Is there nothing better than knowing your children are happy by the sounds of squealing and giggling and all-out guffawing?

Yes and no. For all you new parents out there, you should understand that there is good laughter and bad laughter. In case your kid is so new that you need help discerning the two, here are some suggestions.

Good laughter is laughing at:

• Funny faces made by parents
• Knock-knock jokes
• The Marx Brothers
• Tickling
• Urf!
• Farts

Bad laughter is laughing at:

• A sibling getting hurt
• Hurting a sibling
• Mommy's tantrums
• The Holocaust
• Daddy's bank statement
• Two and a Half Men

So encourage your offspring to laugh, because it truly is the best medicine (sick kids, not funny), but be aware of what they're laughing at. And remember what Alan Alda said, "If it bends it's funny, if it breaks, it's not funny."

2007 Vintage

Kristy returned from the grocery the other day with, among other things, some new “hot chocolate” flavored Pop-Tarts, and JP treated them as though she’d delivered a cask of this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau. He uncorked the box with a certain amount of tenderness, broached the outer foil layer and removed his treasure. He held the pastry up to the light, peering at its brownness, he sniffed at it. He, eventually, licked a corner. And then he bit into that Tart and let the hot chocolatey goodness melt in his mouth. He pronounced it, “Good.”

And then he left half of it on the couch for me to sit on, ruining my sweatpants.

Just Saying

This is an actual conversation I had with GK last night:

"Yeah," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Yeah," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."

I won't bore you with the rest because it went on like that for another 10 minutes or so.

2-4-5

Every year it begins earlier and earlier. Our society seems content to leave it up to Wal-Mart and Macy's to tell us when the holiday season starts. This year, I think it was somewhere around the end of July. Well, I've decided it's up to me from now on, I'll decide when the holidays begin.

The end-of-the-year holidays to me mean spending time with friends and family and remembering what may have been forgotten throughout the rest of the year, the really important things in life. I have decreed that the holiday season henceforth will begin on the day we make the Zanone Family Ravioli, and that was this weekend. So, actually, the holiday season this year was set in motion on the day when my sister said, "Let's make the ravioli on Saturday, Nov. 10." And we did. And we had our friends over just as we did last year to help and to visit and talk and laugh. And just like last year, they did a great job putting together the pieces that make a meal worthy of such friendship. I thank them and my family thanks them.

My family spends a lot of time with our friends on a weekly, often daily, basis, but there is something about this time of year when the closeness feels concentrated. I don't know if it's the weather or the food, but having a house full of people feels even better than it does the rest of the year.

The temptation, of course, is for me to declare the holidays earlier in the year the way Mattel does and have everyone over in the heat of August to work and sweat into the pasta, but it just wouldn't be the same. I need the crispness in the air, I need the richness of the Chianti and I need these people around me as one year tapers and the unknown looms ahead.

[Thank you, Chip, for the photo. Thank you, Elizabeth, for the wonderful gravy. Thank you, everyone, for the wine!]

International Space Silliness

I've come to the realization that my kids could never have been in charge of initiating and operating the International Space Station. Here are a few reasons:

1) Well, first of all, I laid their uniforms out for school this morning and then noticed as we were walking out the door that S and JP had accidentally put on each other's pants. This may be more reason why the two of them should not be allowed to leave the house more than fly into space.

2) At some point the International Space Station would need to be resupplied and if The Quartet scheduled the supply shuttle to blast off at, say, 8 a.m. one morning, then they would wait until 7:58 a.m. to even begin looking for the things that needed to fill up that ship.

3) I have the feeling they would spend the budget of billions on one gyroscope for stability and direction and blow the rest on televisions, DVDs and cheese pizza for their stay aboard.

4) Immediately upon arrival at the Space Station, the engineers at mission control back on Earth would have to endure the question "Where are we going next?" for the duration of the stay.

5) These kids are clumsy enough with gravity, zero gravity would be a whole new problem for them.

6) The International Space Station is located way too far from their mama.

King Rat

I found myself at the Sam's Wholesale Club this evening picking up supplies. While there I also picked up a copy of the new Ratatouille DVD for The Quartet. I am The Most Popular Person In The House now. Oh, sure, Kristy made their dinner for them, bathed them, helped them with their homework. And, yes, she gave birth to them all. But I bought them something. Not just something, though, but something to watch on TV. I am king. I win.

While I have you all here, let me just say this, Pixar blows Dreamworks SKG out of the water. It's The Munsters vs. The Addams Family, the Cubs vs. the Sox, Sean Connery vs. Roger Moore, Minneapolis vs. St. Paul (I ran out of examples). Shrek was amusing, sure, but it's no Toy Story, Shrek II can't hold a candle to Toy Story's sequel, and Shark Tale isn't even in the same league as Finding Nemo. Okay, Cars is crap, I'll give you that (sorry, Connor), but that's the only stinker in the bunch. When it comes to story and animation, I'll pick the Pixar canon 10 out of 10 times.

The kids don't recognize these differences, of course, they're just fans of animation. They'll understand it later tonight when I explain it to them, though. Remember, I'm currently TMPPINTH, and they will believe anything I tell them because they have no choice. So tonight they learn that Apple is better than Dell, gin is better than vodka and that this family will take Buzz Lightyear over Donkey any day of the week.