What To Wear

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I Said So

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

You can read it all here.

A Magic Potion

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

A (Mostly) Good Boy

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

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

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

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

The Next Step

Here's the rumpus.

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

Or did.

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

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

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

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

[photo by Chip]

Happy Birthday?

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

And I understand about a third of it all.

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Code

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, though, S is it.

Let Me Tell You About My Pad ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I Said So

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

Eating Well

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

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

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

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

Cat 2

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

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

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

Change

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

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

Reading is Fundamental

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

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

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

Funny Boy

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

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

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

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

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

JP & Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I Said So

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

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

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

Duck!

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

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

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

The Keys Are By the Door

These kids cannot keep their hands off each other. The living room has become like a cage match. And not the good Pay-Per-View, ultimate fighting kind, either. Nobody's paying to watch this; I'm not making any money here.

And they won't listen to my threats, so I've made a new rule: I will not drive any children to the emergency room. So if one of them gets hurt, then they have to wait until one of their siblings is old enough to get their driver's license. And that one of their siblings is able to pass the test. They'd better take it easy on C, you don't want him getting injured as he's the nearest in age to being able to drive.

There it is, a new law, written in stone. Kids, you may now begin ignoring it.

SAHD

It's my understanding that that acronym up there stands for "stay at home dad." I'm not one of these. In fact, I work six days a week, and have for about nine years now. But GK's school was closed this week and, though we had childcare for Monday through Wednesday, we were left in a lurch for today and tomorrow.

So I stayed at home to be a dad.

GK and I began the day by taking the older kids to school, and then made a run to Office Depot for some supplies. We dropped those off at my store and took a minute to sit and read the paper.

After that we went to Cafe Eclectic to have an Americano, Eggs Florentine and some of their homemade doughnuts with local auteur Craig Brewer and his family. Brewer and his family actually sat about five feet away, so I guess we weren't together together.

We went to the playground at Overton Park from there, but GK was only really interested in the water fountain, so we didn't stay long. We went home to read books, do the dishes, watch some Blues Clues and dance around to CDs before she fell asleep and I could finish reading my book.

I was only a SAHD until 2:30 when I dropped her off with her mother at school. I'm good at being the sole parent for about six and a half hours as far as I can tell. In that six and a half hours, GK ate a waffle sprinkled liberally with chocolate chips, a couple of doughnuts, two cookies and an ice cream sandwich.

Perhaps she should have run around more at the park. Perhaps she should learn to prepare her own lunch. Perhaps I should have asked Craig Brewer for some fathering advice.

Hopefully I'll get a call back tomorrow.

The GK Advisor

Time for more help from two-year-old GK!

GK,

With your perspective as a child, perhaps you can offer insight into a question that has baffled me for years: why are children so freaking loud?

Harley Fontaine

GK: Why are these people so loud? I live here with three children and their chatter is incessant. When they occasionally stop talking, it's only to screech and wail.
Me: Are you suggesting to the writer that you don't add to the din around here?
GK: Who?
Me: Mr. Harley Fontaine. He wrote the letter asking you a question about loud kids.
GK: Letter? I'm telling you to go in the other room and shut those kids up for once. I'm trying to pay attention to the rhetoric at the Democratic National Convention.
Me: Have you decided for whom to vote this November?
GK: That's really none of your concern.
Me: But I'm your father.
GK: And, yet, I wouldn't vote for you.
Me: I'm not running.
GK: Thank you for that.
Me: You're being very disrespectful.
GK: Close the door on your way out, those kids are on my last nerve.

[To have your questions answered, please write to gkadvisor@gmail.com.]

GK: Lock it!