Drizzling Homework

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving

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

Hello

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

Daddy's Great

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

Candy Pain

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

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

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

And then it opened.

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

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

Because I Said So

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

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

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

We Made Some Ravioli

Read all about it.

The Politics of Puke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vote for Pepsi

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

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

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

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

None of Your Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

What To Wear

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I Said So

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

You can read it all here.

A Magic Potion

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

A (Mostly) Good Boy

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

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

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

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

The Next Step

Here's the rumpus.

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

Or did.

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

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

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

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

[photo by Chip]

Happy Birthday?

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

And I understand about a third of it all.

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Code

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, though, S is it.

Let Me Tell You About My Pad ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I Said So

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

Eating Well

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

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

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

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