Wanted

I have a confession to make: I have no idea what my kids' first words were. But I'm going to assume that each of them, when the time was right and they felt they had full control of their tongue and uvula, began with the words "I want." This is a safe assumption since they're so good at saying it now. It rolls off the tongue so easily and without much provocation whatsoever. And it's all the time, I'm not just talking about yesterday at the birthday party when they wanted a popsicle and they wanted something to drink and they wanted a popsicle and they wanted to go over there or over here or they wanted a popsicle. I mean they want like they're professional Wanters. You know what I want? I want them to stop wanting. I'm their father, their provider, and as such I want them to want for nothing. I expect them to just stop one day, look around, and say, "You know something, Father? We have everything we need. We're good. You go take some time for yourself now. You go sailing." But that day won't come. If I won the lottery tomorrow (please let me win the lottery tomorrow!!) and it was worth $50 million, the kids would say, "I want $11 million." (The discrepency in amounts there is because if I won $50M, I would only tell them about 10 of it, but you get the idea.) The kids aren't spoiled, though some people, the People Without Kids, would say they are. We actually don't have enough to spoil them, which is probably why they want. They want to watch a movie, they want to go outside, they want to go back inside, they want to play with the lighter. Where will the wanting end? I'll tell you where it better end, it better end with them wanting to buy a sailboat for their father. But then they'll probably want to go sailing with me, and then they'll want me to let them back in the boat when they get tired of swimming alongside...

The wanting, it never ends.

I'm Thirsty

JP just informed me, out of nowhere as is his style, that if you go three weeks without water then you'll die. This seems like a morbid thought for a four-year-old, and I realize three weeks is a bit long, but my main reason for bringing this up is in case he's out there spouting these nuggets of wisdom to any of you. I just want everyone to be aware that he and his siblings are getting plenty of liquids here at home.

The Ice Age

One of C’s hobbies is to put various objects in a tub of water and place that tub in the freezer to see the object inside a block of ice. Currently in our freezer, among the fishsticks, Tanqueray and ice cream, is a little doomed man on a plastic motorcycle. I'm not sure what he wishes to learn from this, if anything. I suppose I'm hoping he's learning something from it - the various properties of water and ice or the time it takes to turn one into the other - and not simply taking up room that could best be used for yet another pint of ice cream. I'm also hoping he sticks with small toys and that I don't open the door one day to find the face of a neighborhood cat staring back at me. In the past I've found frozen dinosaurs, Scooby-Doo, rocks, a superball and a Lego. It's not always in the freezer, however, where I first come upon these things. Often times they're half thawed on the counter, condensation pooling around the tub and dripping to the floor where I step in the puddle with sock feet. And more than once I've come across him sucking on the block of ice, freed from its mold, which seems gross to me but I guess it's the only way to get to the chewy action figure center.

Ice chewing is an event around our house lately as Kristy is pregnant with number four and, for some reason, craves ice. She may as well crave dragging her nails down a chalkboard or sliding a fork across a dinner plate as far as I’m concerned. The chewing, it never ceases. And then one or all of the three kids gets in on the act and it makes me feel like my head will explode. But my wife is carrying our child and soon that child will come out, and it’s that “coming out” that keeps us, as fathers, as by-standers, from complaining too loudly about what pains us. There are men out there, single men, men with no responsibilities save a pet and a cable bill, who still think that women are the weaker sex. These men have never witnessed childbirth. I have witnessed childbirth. I witnessed it three times from a stool situated at the head of the bed because that was as far away from the pain as I was allowed to be. I offered her ice chips then and it frightens me now to think of her response. I’m not even sure those were real curse words.

Ice. It keeps our perishables from perishing. We play on it at the same time we fear it. It keeps 8-year-old boys entertained and they say it eases the pain, and if chewing on ice helps Kristy get through this pregnancy then so be it. And if the din of chewing isn’t enough to drive me insane, then there is always the vision of the tiny plastic man, on his useless little motorcycle, whose pleas go unheard beneath all the crunching in the house.

Bittersweet

Something happened this evening that has never happened before. At least not that I can remember. At least not since I started writing Urf! I was sitting on the deck, sipping a cocktail and talking with Kristy while the kids played nearby on the swingset (I know, you’re thinking of Norman Rockwell). And then something happened, a brother hit S with a ball or shoved her or she fell off a swing or something. I’m not real sure as I was trying to get that last ice cube that always hangs on to the bottom of the glass to come out (that Rockwell image still there?) and she started crying and came to us on the deck. But she didn’t ask for her mother as usual. She wanted me. She called out for her Daddy. The mother and child bond is the strongest and I attribute that to breastfeeding, but the whole father breastfeeding experiment went horribly wrong a long time ago. So S climbed up on my lap and all I wanted to do was hold her there, stroke her hair and turn to Kristy to say, “HA HA! She wants me! I win this time!” But I didn’t say that, I just comforted.

It’s always upsetting when your child gets hurt, or scared or whatever it was that happened, but it felt so nice to be needed by my daughter. And though I never want to see her upset, I am considering pushing her off the couch next week when she’s not expecting it, just to see if I can win again.

MRI = NAP

I had the MRI at 9 a.m. this morning and let me just say, it was a pleasure. For those of you who have never had one, are understandably scared to death of getting one, you needn’t be. Okay, I take that back, you should still be afraid, always be afraid of someone stuffing you into a round casket while you're still breathing. But if you go about it right, then it is no problem whatsoever. The way I chose to go about it was Xanax. I procured a Xanax morsel and, as I understand it, this is always more effective when taken with about four fingers of scotch (disclaimer: I am not a doctor, consult with yours before attempting this because he probably knows of some really good 18-year-old scotch he could recommend). Now, I usually have only two fingers with breakfast but as I was about to be stuffed into a small, metal tube I thought an extra two fingers seemed reasonable. After this I dropped the kids off at their schools – or near a school anyway – and made it in plenty of time for my appointment.

The MRI procedure was a breeze, from changing into the daring hospital gown (“Keep your underwear and shoes on,” the technician directed, as though he were about to challenge me to some sort of semi-nude, diagnostic foot race), to the ear plugs for the noise, to actually being delivered into the tube. The tube. It was like a peaceful little cocoon all to myself that lasted about 20 minutes, just enough time for a mini-snooze. When I was brought out I asked if I could go back in for 10 minutes or so. The technician said no, I suspect it was his naptime.

No word yet on what the MRI revealed, it needs to be looked over by people with a bunch of degrees. All I know is that I’m starting to save up and search Ebay for my very own MRI machine to put in my dining room in place of the dining table we have there now. Coming home from work would be much more appealing knowing I had some ear plugs, four fingers of scotch, and a quiet tube all to myself for a half hour or so. I feel that with enough rest I would be able to beat that technician next time in the 40-yard dash.

Beware the S!

Part of the challenge lately of raising a daughter is trying to guess, and then head off, what S might be upset about next. It’s almost like a sport now, in the way that armchair quarterbacking is a sport. I stare into her eyes to find that look that says, “I’m about to lose it!” I judge the environment – what’s on TV, what toy she’s holding, what toys her brothers are holding, barometric pressure. There is a complicated equation involving her total time slept, amount of food eaten the previous evening and, again, barometric pressure. I have charts and diagrams and reports of previous whinings (although past performance does not necessarily indicate future tears). And yet it’s still all a crapshoot. The crapshoot that is S, that is parenting.

Things that have upset the daughter to the point of tears in the past few days, in no particular order:

1) She had two cubes of ice in a cup and these cubes were her turtles – one boy, one girl. She named the turtles but forgot the boy turtle's/ice cube's name.
2) The seam of her sock didn’t hit the front of her toes just right.
3) She insisted on dressing herself for school even though I assured her that what she had on didn’t match. She was looking for an argument she didn’t get since I was okay with her going to school like that. She lost it as we left the house because she wanted the other clothes on. I called her bluff on that one. (The footnote for this item is that I found out later from Kristy that the outfit she wanted actually did match. Who knew?)
4) She put a sweater on in the morning and buttoned it all the way up, then decided as we walked out the door that she didn’t want to wear that sweater.
5) Shoes.

Shoveling Excrement

Yesterday evening The Trio was playing in the backyard on the swingset, precariously close to a huge pile of dog crap. I suggested to C that he get a shovel from the garage and move the pile across the yard from where they were playing. He did and then this morning I noticed the shovel laying in the middle of the yard. I reminded him of the shovel and told him to put it back in the garage. He responded, "Who would want to steal a shovel with dog poop on it?"

Again, difficult to argue with the logic.

Idea Men

There is nothing new regarding my sciatica and possible back surgery as we’re waiting on the MRI scheduled for the day after tomorrow to tell us more about what’s going on back there. However, the subject of back pain has spawned the longest E-mail I think I’ve ever received. And it’s from my grandfather, Pop, of all people. It is a healthy 1,082 words long, I checked. The gist of it is that he’s been going through some back pain of his own and, while he visited an orthopedic surgeon and physical therapist, and was prescribed everything from Motrin to steroids, it was a chiropractor that brought him the most relief. Good news, indeed.

But it was near the end of this massive E-mail, about 912 words into it, that he really impressed me as he always has. He’s designed a back brace for people with his – and my – type of back pain. And of course he has. Even through his pain he sees the possibility of a new device, and I get to see why I’m like I am. All through my formative years I heard him, my uncles, even my father, coming up with ideas for new items, home additions or new businesses. Very little ever happened with these. In fact, other than Harvester, none of them happened. It was as if the founders of Microsoft all got together in Bill Gates’s garage, or wherever they came up with their plan for world domination, and put together the blueprint for their future company, but then somebody pulled a cooler full of beer from under a workbench and a poker game broke out and everybody forgot about computers.

I believe I inherited this gene, or whatever it is. I’m an idea man, something else I have in common with my 76-year-old grandfather other than chronic back pain. I’ve carried through on an idea or two and usually feel that I’m making a mess of it, but generally feel good about the fact that I’ve taken the road. I wonder which, if not all, of my kids will inherit the trait. I think it’s too strong to just go away. I’ve seen traces of it here and there – C likes to draw and has drawn up plans for contraptions a la Wile E. Coyote, and there have been numerous robots and whatnot fashioned from Play-Doh, some of the remnants are still with us, stuck to couch cushions and under tabletops. Pipe cleaners and paper clips, as well, have been bent and twisted to reflect what they see as better mousetraps.

I hope that The Trio embraces their creativity, but also their capacity for logic, should any of them be granted with such a thing. I’ve led with my heart in the endeavors I’ve undertaken, but there is the mind to consider as well. Perhaps logic and reason is why the brainstorming I overheard as a kid never left the idea stage. All I know is that my next big idea is to raise children to the fullest of their ability and watch as they embrace their creativity and their ideas and, after their plans flourish and the riches roll in, then I’ll settle them down in my garage to drink beer, teach them poker and take that money away from them.

(By the way, my reply E-mail to Pop came in at a scrawny 244 words. I can't even keep up with him in word usage.)

Fifteen Minutes?

I have a friend who has her very own children, daughters, and who reads Urf! and enjoys it (she says). She has a friend whom she told about Urf! and he read it. He has a friend who works for NPR and, presumably, has never even heard of Urf!. The friend of my friend suggested to my friend that I record some of these witty little posts about children and their silliness and their eating habits and boogers (sorry for the redundancy there) for NPR, to be played in the days leading up to Father's Day. My friend told me and I thought it a fantastic idea. So the friend of my friend sent me an E-mail suggesting all of this and gave me the address of HIS friend, the one with NPR. And I just sent her an E-mail, so now we wait.

And while we wait I was thinking how cool it would be to be on NPR and what a hero I would be with The Trio. You can imagine what big fans they are of All Things Considered and Fresh Air, especially when Terry Gross is talking to a foreign Prime Minister or cellist. But what if they heard Daddy's voice coming from that little box with the knobs (well, there aren't knobs, but buttons and green digital numbers)? What if it was my voice coming over the airwaves at night to lull them to sleep - especially if it lulled them to sleep at six in the evening, giving Kristy and me a single dinner in peace, and then maybe we could watch Lost and really concentrate on those numbers in that hatch until we could possibly figure out the mystery behind them. Then we could go to bed early and maybe read our books undisturbed until it was time to turn out the light. And then with my luck we'd have yet ANOTHER kid being born nine months later. Thanks a lot NPR! Thank you Noah Adams, Corey Flintoff, and Car Talk guys for this extra mouth to feed. Does NPR have the budget for more childcare and chocolate things to eat? I hope so, because this one is yours and when he or she poops his or her pants you can rest assured we'll be thinking of you!

Yet I can't get that image of The Trio hearing Daddy on the radio and of the smiles creeping onto their faces as they sit up, whispering to each other excitedly, then lean in and reach for the remote as they're looking for the power button on this radio contraption, because my NPR segment also happens to come on at the same time as The Simpsons.

Housecleaning

I know I've done several short posts in a row here lately even though it's the longer ones that I enjoy writing. My brevity is due to my inability to string complete thoughts together lately, and is certainly not for lack of material. There are always funny things happening with the kids, take this morning for instance when S burst into tears because the seam of her sock didn't hit her toes just right. Or the night before last when C kicked S and knocked her to the floor. Yesterday morning I searched all over for JP's shoes and finally found them on the back deck and by then it had been raining for eight hours straight - I'm sure his feet are still wet. You know, funny things kids do that make us all so proud to be parents.

Anyway, I've been reading some blogs lately and, not to disparage anyone's work because I've found some that are very good and much funnier than mine (though I won't tell you where to find those), but I did want to make a list here - more for me than for you so I remember in the future - of words and phrases that I vow not to use in the writings of Urf!

Words and phrases:

journal (as a verb)
talking points
blogosphere
emoticon

Letters strung together instead of using words:

KWIM
LOL
BTW
IMHO
OMG

Emoticons(that's the last time):
All

I'm sure these lists will grow in the future. Thanks for accomodating me, but I just need something in place should I ever need to refer back to it, KWIM?(Damn!)

Friday, April 21, 2006

Friday night, plain as black and white.


C, S and the first appearance of the author.


JP & S

Correction

I need to correct an earlier post regarding my possible back surgery. The surgery I may or may not be having is a laminectomy and not a lapinectomy as first reported. My lapin is safe for now.

I am also afraid there was some confusion as to whether or not The Trio's filthy little hands were ever, at any time, in the dog's orifices. They were not. They strictly stick to their own orifices (what kind of a household do you think we're running?).

I regret any discombobulation this may have caused.

From The Backseat

This morning...

JP (apropos of nothing): I know we're not in a cartoon.
C: So? Nobody said we're in a cartoon.
JP: I know. I said we're not in a cartoon.

You can't argue with logic like that.

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

I hereby give notice that all moneys, both paper and coin, but especially paper, found in the dryer forevermore belongs to me to be spent as I see fit, but most probably on Pop Tarts and milk. Thank you for your attention.

Milestone

C lost another tooth today. That makes five. How odd it is that we measure milestones by things falling off our children's bodies.

Just Like Disneyland

You can spend all the money you'd like on backyard playground equipment. Get the big one with the bumpy slide and rock climbing wall, three swings, monkey bars and a trapeze. You can buy bicycles and scooters or spend a whole paycheck on balls and bats and Frisbees. However, nothing compares for my boys, when the summerlike weather finally breaks, for the enthusiasm of being able to urinate freely in your own backyard.

Surgery?

I found out yesterday that I may need back surgery. A lapinectomy, it's called. It's possible my lapin will be removed very soon. About six weeks ago I was waylaid by sciatica, which is a sharp, unbearable pain in the lower back that shoots down a leg. In this case it was my right leg and as a result my right calf and foot have been numb. The neurologist scheduled an MRI, which I'll have next week, and then we'll discuss surgery with a neurosurgeon. So it's not a done deal, the surgery. They have to see what the MRI says. However, in my usual fasion, I'm already banking on the worst-case scenario. Why wait?

The surgery worries me, not so much because it involves someone slicing into my back skin and then scraping around my spine. Permanent paralysis doesn't really worry me...yet. It's the recovery time that bothers me, the neurologist says it could be 7-10 days. I'm self-employed and this time away from work could have a negative effect on business, but even this isn't my greatest concern. No, what I'm worried about is that while I'm laid up in bed convalescing, that the kids will be touching my stuff. The Trio, in the style of most children, are filthy little creatures. I've seen their hands in dirt, on the dog and in various bodily orifices and I don't want them on certain items I hold dear. I also happen to be, mmm, how should we say it...'particular' (neurotic?) about things like my toothbrush. In fact, I have a special place in the bathroom for my toothbrush, out of reach of tiny little hands. I've seen how they treat their own toothbrushes and it makes me throw up a little. It's better all the way around if I know they can't get hold of what's going in my mouth. DVDs, too. I have certain DVDs that I want to remain watchable which means The Trio may not touch them. I've seen how they handle their own. They're carefull about taking them out of the player with only their little fingers in the center hole, but then they set them down, shiny side down, and either use them for a coaster after that or tap dance on them, it's hard to tell in the condition they're in.

So my worry is that if I'm bedridden with a healing back, then they will be allowed to run free and they will find my toothbrush and they will fling my DVDs with the care and abandon of a Frisbee, or before Kristy is able to bring me my meals to me in bed (this is the way I envision my convalescence) then they will be free to cough or sneeze or just get near my food before I can protect it.

This may seem selfish to some, keeping things away from my own children. But they are my things. It is my toothbrush and it's going into my mouth. Perhaps I'll make them a deal - they stay away from my toothbrush and my DVDs and my food and I'll let them play with my lapin, should I have it removed.

Heartbeats

My grandmother is okay. She’s better than okay, in fact. She had a pacemaker put in over the weekend so she’s bionic now. Apparently the new pacemakers are safe around microwaves, which is good, the doctor just told her not to arc weld or hunt, so I don’t know what she’ll do with her Saturdays now.

I just got off the phone with my grandparents, Bionic Mimi and Pop, and found out that they’re both readers of this blog, which is why you’re reading this now. Not so that I can score any points, I don’t need to do that, I’m their first-born grandchild so I’m already Number One. You’re reading this now because the post I had for this space was a funny little piece on conceiving children. Then I found out my grandparents are in the audience, so that’s the end of that. In fact, I’m a little embarrassed that I typed ‘fart’ a few posts ago, but I live in a 1200 sq. ft. house with four other people so that’s just part of the fun. I’m glad they’re reading, though, because this blog is about parenting and they, along with a few others, are role models for just that. They raised seven children, which lets Kristy and I know we can easily handle our own four and that, if we can’t, we can feel comfortable sending a couple to them because they did so well with their seven.

Mimi, pregnant at least every two years for a while, was a genius at herding her children, keeping them reasonably safe when they were within eyesight, making sure they were polite, well-mannered young citizens of their community and yet knowing just when to deny they were hers. She should be sainted for her work by the Pope, though she already has been by her grandchildren. Pop was, as all fathers are for the most part, a spectator at the circus of his own house. Since nothing can breach the bonds between a mother and child, all a father can hope to do is sit back and throw out the occasional “Good job!” or “Get out of the way, I can’t see the TV!” He was Bill Cosby Himself before Bill Cosby was himself. He did what he had to to feed and clothe his family on a high school education and in doing so he made things, you can see some of them here and here.

Some of these observations may be filtered through a generation, through the eyes and memory of a grandchild (the first one!) but that’s what this is all about, my perception. The perception I have is of a house full of fun and love and good things to eat. There are kids everywhere, all related, all wondering what it would be like to have their own room. All I can hope for is that I do half as good a job at raising my kids as my grandparents did, and that my kids grow up to be as good as the adults their kids grew up to be. That, and that the doctors get that arc welding thing sorted out before I get my pacemaker.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

A wonderful evening spent at Autozone Park in downtown Memphis. Aunt Elizabeth makes her first photo appearance.










Photos by E.W. Alley

Memphis Redbirds 10, Omaha Royals 2

We just returned home from a Saturday night out at the Memphis Redbirds baseball game in beautiful downtown Memphis. Here is what we learned:

1) C will turn down a $3.50 hotdog because there is too much free ketchup on it.
2) S gets angry when her pleas for nuts are ignored.
3) JP's wheels turn when he spots a big foam finger, trying to figure out how he's going to get that in his nose.