Nerds and Germs

Just because there is no new posting here in over a week doesn’t mean things don’t happen. There is no giant “pause” button. Trust me, I’ve looked.

I imagine that since it’s been so long, you’re probably wondering what we’ve been up to. Not the six of you, specifically, but the two guys who run this morass of a website from their perch high atop Mount Blogspot. The ones who keep an eye on us, who conduct their day to day, minute to minute, census of all of us and who our friends are and what we had for breakfast or whose cat did something cute.

They’re a benign and curious duo, they mean no harm. They collect the information simply for their own beguilement. Though one of these days, I can’t help but fear, they will sell that information. Possibly to the government or possibly to the Google, if they are not, in fact, the same thing.

The purchase money will be used to erect a stately pleasure dome, a 21st Century San Simeon. It will be 1,200 square feet of living space above for their parents, and a 48,000 square foot basement room for their XBOXes and their oversized Apple monitors and their poster of the Beyonce and their very own land line, in case a girl should call.

A girl never, ever calls.

But the two young men will be comfortable with their Twittering and their virtual Dungeons & Dragons and their meals still prepared by their mother upstairs even though these young men are 32 and 34. Comfort and security are what matter at home.

We’ve been in our new house for two weeks now and we are as comfortable as can be. The space, though, is somewhat disconcerting. In the old house, we could sit in the living room and see where everyone was, hear what everyone was involved in and smell what was for dinner, or what had been for lunch, from our spots on the sofa. Now, though, I really have no idea what’s going on when I’m in my office and the others are … elsewhere. In some ways that’s good, in a lot of ways that’s good, but sometimes I wonder what everyone is up to.

I read a book once about a family that lived aboard a sail boat for a year. They were a close family, both physically and socially, and the mother wrote that what was odd was upon returning to their large home after the sail, they would practically speak in whisper to a child or sibling. They were so used to having that person practically touching them at all times that they didn’t have to speak so loud to gain their audience.

It’s new to me to have to go find someone if I want to ask a question or, more often, make a demand. But I do go in search, and it’s a nice house to pad around in with sock feet looking for someone to talk to … although it’s no sailboat.

Last week, however, I was not looking for anyone to talk to. I didn’t need to. For most of the week, GK was right there on me, either throwing up, or needing her diaper changed immediately. And just miserable. I hate seeing my kids sick. Thankfully, I didn’t have to see her being strapped to a board in the emergency room to get an IV, Kristy handled that. I’m not sure I could have.

But I handled the rest of the week – three days with GK, and then two with S when she polluted with it. Whatever it was, this strain of virus, it was awful. I’ve been washing my hands ever since.

Everyone is better now and the house truly feels like ours, having been puked and pooped on. We can’t wipe it down enough with bleach and soap. I imagine soon enough it will be quarantined, once the boys on Mount Blogspot get a green, putrid wind of this. Immutable germaphobes, those two.

Bad Parent

JP had a field trip this morning to go see an IMAX movie and he really wanted me to go along. My plan was to drop off all the kids and then meet him and his class at the Pink Palace for the movie.

However, as I neared Evergreen Montessori on the second leg of my bus route, I couldn't help but notice that there were no cars in the parking lot. I checked the clock, thinking maybe I'd made a mistake and was actually very, very early, even though I'd just dropped off the older kids at a bustling school. The note on the school's door reminded parents that they would be closed today and Monday, the teachers all had some sort of out-of-town classes to attend.

After I finished my rounds, with GK still in tow, I didn't think it was a good idea to take her along to the movie with JP. She was sound asleep by that time and I still had about 45 minutes before I had to be at the museum, so we just went home.

I'm not sure what makes me a worse parent: not knowing that my daughter's school would be closed today or standing my son up for a field trip when he was expecting me.

The Unkindest Cut of All

I kid, because sometimes things are too funny to me not to. I try to be witty here, for you, for free, as often as I can. Every other Thursday, however, my wittiness is worth 50-cents in The Commercial Appeal, which seems fair. Today is one of those days and you can read the latest "Because I Said So" column here (for free).

I do kid, but the truth is that the Conrad Pearson Clinic was an experience as pleasant as possible, considering. Dr. Eber and Nurse Lori were very professional and friendly and informative. And once all that waiting was over, the procedure itself only took about 10 minutes. I recommend these good folks highly for those of you with a bunch of kids who are also at the end of your rope.

Super?

When I began working six days a week 10 years ago, I almost completely stopped watching Sunday football. I just didn't have the time on my one day off and I didn't see it as a particularly advantageous way to preserve harmony around the house.

But the Super Bowl is different, right? It's one day out of the year. It's like this country's Christmas in February. So I turned it on tonight.

Once I made it through the interminable pre-game nonsense, from the shots of the teams packed into the tunnel like so many yellow and black rodeo bulls, to some sort of grimace-inducing music video by Faith Hill and then even more subjection to Faith Hill's singing on the field, before finally getting to the point where yet another "diva" makes the national anthem all about her, the game started, though by then I thought I was watching an episode of American Idol. Well, after the coin toss, brought to us by Cialis, or whomever.

The Steelers received the kick-off, moved the ball quickly and adeptly downfield and scored. And then that touchdown was reviewed and called back.

And isn't this what everyone wants? Isn't this what a nation expects on their February holiday from one of the toughest sports around? For the first touchdown to be negated because the opposing coach wants a do-over and has a red pocket square?

So, with nothing forthcoming but crappy football and the promise of Bruce Springsteen singing "Born in the U.S.A." - again - and waxing philosophic about his new BFF, Barack Obama, I turned the TV off.

JP cheered. Vince Lombardi probably would have, too.

A Vast Difference

I love my children, I really do. All of them. But, seriously, four is enough and has been for quite a while. So tomorrow I take a stab, so to speak, at being sterile.

This little procedure (less than 30 minutes!) goes against everything I've ever held dear. From the very first I can remember, every waking moment has been spent keeping sharp, pointy objects away from the area above my knees and below my navel. It's been my raison d'etre. It's become a way of life, a creed, almost like a sixth sense.

And, yet, tomorrow I am actually paying someone - someone I have never met, mind you - to snip some wiring underneath there as though I were a faulty dashboard on an 18-year-old Volvo wagon.

Ouch! That's my blinker!

And then I will recuperate. Ohhhh will I recuperate. I plan to lie in one spot for as long as I can possibly get away with. I'll read books and watch movies and play on my laptop ... well, maybe not that. At some point I know I'll have to get up and become productive (though not reproductive!) again. There's only so long a woman who has been through labor four times is going to walk into the bedroom to see me lying prone with a bag of frozen peas on my pods.

I'm still not sure how to explain my prolonged convalescence to The Quartet, other than "It's Saturday, I'll get out of bed by dinner." Because it will be Friday ... and then, eventually, Sunday. I've had The Talk with C, but I haven't had The V Talk with him. There's no need to scare the boy just yet. I suppose I'll tell the kids that I just don't feel well.

Because I won't.

In fact, I'm not feeling so good now just thinking about it. A little nauseous, in fact. I think my vas deferens are twitching. I'd better go lie down ... just to get used to it.

An Open Letter to The Quartet

President Barack Obama recently wrote an open letter to his daughters for Parade magazine because that is the publication his 10- and 7-year-olds read regularly, so he knew they'd see it there.

I have no idea what kind of president Mr. Obama will be, but he seems to be a pretty good father. I was inspired by his letter and wrote one of my own to my children. Parade magazine declined to publish it, which is fine, as my kids have no idea what that is anyway. For them to see this letter, I'd have to have Homer Simpson read it on air. So, for now, I'll let you read it.

Dear C and JP and S and GK,

I would like to address you at this time as we embark on a new chapter of our nation's history.

I ask you today to think of things larger than yourself. As President Obama recently asked of his own daughters, I encourage you to hitch your wagon to causes greater than the individual. But first I ask you to pick your socks up off the floor and take your dishes to the sink. Wipe up that spill, please.

This isn't The White House. No one here is scurrying around to assure that your taxpayer-funded home is kept pristine.

I hope you children have taken from this last presidential campaign, and recent inauguration, that even you, too, can one day be the President of the United States. Or, at least, a voter.

Until then, however, I am the president of this house, and my vision is clutter-free. There is no spilled milk here, it is a land with no half-eaten Pop-Tarts left on a chair.

And as much as I want you to hitch your wagon of promise to great dreams, I also want you to promise me you will pull that wagon out of the front yard and to the back at the end of the day, because it looks tacky; and also because this is Memphis and someone will surely steal that wagon of hope if it's left out.

In these heady days of change, regardless of your politics, kids, embrace Barack Obama as your new commander in chief, but remember, always, that I am your commander in this house. Now, please, bring me my drink.

Love, Dad

JP/HP

We went to the bookstore the other day and JP found these glasses for sale. He had his own money, so the decision was up to him. $5.45 in quarters later, and he was the spitting image of Harry Potter. Or George Burns.

He hasn't taken them off since.

He puts these up as soon as he wakes up in the morning, as though he needs them to see Curious George. He doesn't wear them to school, yet puts them on as soon as he gets home, as though he needs them to see Homer Simpson.

They're also his reading glasses, he's wearing them to help him read the first Harry Potter novel.

Because I Said So and More

The Commercial Appeal handed their M section over to me today and I ran with it. I ran like a Mario Brother.

Read the column here. Read about a triathlete and her students here.

The new Edible Memphis magazine is out, too, and I have a piece in there on making the Zanone family ravioli. Here's a picture of us all making the ravioli, but you'll have to pick up a copy of the magazine to read all about it.

Who Is That?

I had a friend, once, who at the very beginning of any movie, when the first actor appeared on screen, would whisper, "Who's he?"

This evening we were watching a PBS presentation of Cyrano because we realize that our purpose as parents is to fill our children's heads with culture and art and the beauty of stage and screen. And because I couldn't find the remote or convince any of my kids to get off the couch for fear of someone taking their spot.

GK, at the start, asked, "Who's that?" With some authority, I said, "That is Cyrano de Bergerac."

And then she said, "Who is that?" Cyrano was the only name I knew, but I had to answer, so I said, "That is Darth Sidious." And then she asked who that was and I told her it was Julius Erving.

Who is that? Winston Churchill.

Who is that? Paul Simon.

Who is that? Oprah Winfrey.

Who is that? Kramer.

And on and on it went. She got her answers, so I see no problem, because my job as a parent is to nurture these children and fill them with some sort of knowledge to hopefully make their way in life; to teach them of philosophy, economics, civics, trivia and history. 

And to always, no matter what, appear smart to my offspring. Even if they end up thinking that Dean Martin shot Abraham Lincoln in a Ford dealership, thus beginning The War of the Worlds ... starring Woody Allen.

Staying At Home

There is an experiment afoot here at the castilo. Kristy and I have decided to send GK to school only three days a week to save a little money and today is Day One.

What we aim to learn this week is how she copes with that. Okay, just kidding. What we really hope to learn is how I cope with it. Stay at home dad? Me? Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed being a stay at home dad since switching careers back in October, but so far the kids have been in school five days a week. Staying at home with no kids has suited me just fine.

So far today has gone pretty well. We took the older kids to school this morning, and I kept GK in her pajamas. When we got home we watched Sesame Street and Sid the Science Kid. We ate sandwiches on the couch. I read. We cleaned up the living room, did dishes and laundry. I tried to teach her the names of the members of U2 and she fell asleep.

I think I may look forward to our two days together. I've never had this before.

It will be interesting, anyway, to see which of us cracks first. Who begs the other to just let her go to school five days a week. Either way, I plan on continuing to watch Sesame Street and eat on the couch on a regular basis.

My Server Ate It

C informed us tonight that, for his CLUE class tomorrow, he has to have some photos of things that define him. I stomped around here wondering what kind of teacher assigns a project to be done over the Christmas break and cursing that very teacher.

[editor's note: please understand, if that teacher is reading this, that I didn't really question or curse you and that this is all just for effect.]

It was finally mentioned by C that the project was actually due the Monday they got out early from school due to the threat of ice just before Christmas break, and that he didn't have it for that day, either. So it isn't really due tomorrow, it was due a couple of weeks ago ... but I digress.

He laid out some things that are typical C and I took the photos and then I e-mailed them to him. Now, this was the first I've ever heard that he has his own Gmail address. Apparently they set them up in computer club. Therefore, it's also the first time I've e-mailed his homework to him.

It struck me that it would have been a wonderful thing, when I was in fifth grade, to be able to e-mail homework to myself at school. Because, I can tell you this, there would have been untold number of technical difficulties with my e-mail. "My homework? Well, I e-mailed it to myself, but it didn't come through for some reason."

The "faulty" e-mail would have freed up my evenings and taken a large amount of blame off of my obviously underfed dog.


For some reason, a die defines C. Probably has something to do with the family from which he comes.

Some Un-Assembly Required

Mr. and Mrs. Claus went to bed late last night trying to wait out C and S falling asleep. It took another half hour - or two glasses of wine - after the traditional Christmas Eve viewing of It's a Wonderful Life for the low, rhythmic snoring to begin in earnest.

What was nice this year, though, is that there was really no assembly required. We've had assembly for many years and it's not so easy when you're very tired from the wine.

Assembly, however, has been replaced by un-assembly on Christmas morning. It takes me forever to de-wire all of their toys from the packaging with scissors, pocket knives and expletives flying. And I've had very little wine by 8 a.m.

I usually end up frustrated and just yank the thing out, pulling with it scraps of cardboard and plastic attached. And then I thrust it at the kid, "Here! Here's your damn toy!"

It's like something from Currier & Ives & DHS.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas and peace on Urf! from all of us to all of you.

When testing out your new computers and iPhones and whatever else the internet lives on, be sure to dial up The Commercial Appeal and read my latest column.

Yes, Virginia ...

I believe in Santa Claus. Of course I do. But I don't believe that Santa coordinates all those elves and toy making and delivering. No, that would be Mrs. Claus.

Luckily, I have a Mrs. Claus here at the house. She does the planning and the buying and the baking and makes the gift decisions. I ... carry the tree into the house. It's a lot of responsibility, really.

Oh, and then, after Christmas, I carry it back out and dump it on the street.

But Christmas around here happens because Kristy makes it happen, and without her, well, all we'd be celebrating is the winter solstice. Maybe we'd make some popcorn, or watch a little TV. Perhaps a trip to Walgreens so the kids could pick out their favorite size of battery. It certainly wouldn't be the time of year filled with wrapped gifts and cookies and a decorated tree.

So, thank you, Kristy. And Merry Christmas to all the Mrs. Clauses out there who, I know, are the busiest and jolliest of the elves.

True Believer

We all went to Davis-Kidd Booksellers today to get out of the house and do a bit more Christmas shopping. And to find out what 29-degrees feels like.

Davis-Kidd has a great area for kids and I grabbed a book and sat there with everyone watching my kids, as well as several other plague-infested children, run around. There was a kid with a glistening nose and upper lip having a grand time playing alongside my own little typhoid-riddled girl.

But it's that time of year, so what are you going to do? I don't know, and neither did the kid in the t-shirt with his name, or a name, printed across the chest. Yes, Frank and I were at a loss for how to keep the germs at bay.

There's no fighting it. My only advice to you is to not purchase any books from the children's section of Davis-Kidd. If you do, boil them before reading.

It was while sitting there among the Jack-in-the-Boxes, pop-up books and phlegm that I learned that Nick Hornby will no longer be penning the column "Stuff I've Been Reading" for the Believer magazine. This column is a kind of book diary where Hornby writes about books he's bought, books he's read, books he hasn't read and why he has or hasn't read them. It's smart and funny and the writing of it must be, without a doubt, the greatest job ever.

So, since the column has no author now, I'm officially throwing my name into the hat. If there is a hat. Believer magazine, if you're reading this, give me a call, or an e-mail, and let's talk. I'd be thrilled to write for your magazine about books and bookish things. I write now and I consider myself funny. At times. For more money, I could be funnier. I could read more and write longer. I don't know what you paid Hornby, but I'd be willing to take a little less, as I've not (yet) had a novel published, or won any awards. Or had any novels adapted into movies. Or become friends with Sarah Vowell.

So, let's say you're paying him 150,000 pounds (Nick Hornby is British and bald). I'd be willing to go less. Say, 110,000 pounds. I'm no good with weight conversions, but what is that? $300 per column? That seems fair.

Anway, you think about it, I hate to see the Believer caught in a lurch like that. Meanwhile, I'll be over here in the children's section. Just Frank and me, awaiting your call with covered mouths and anti-bacterial-soaked hands.

Hocus Pocus

Has anyone seen my eldest? I haven't. Not in a few weeks. He's been away at Hogwarts, where young people go to learn about being witches or Hobbits. Or whatever.

I haven't read any of the Harry Potter books because, well, I'm an adult. This doesn't explain, though, why Kristy has read all of them. Several times. C has read five of them in about three weeks. If you're looking for him, he's right there, at the end of the couch underneath the lamp. Reading.

Or he's in the passenger seat of the Volvo, on the way to school. Reading.

Or he's in his bed. Reading.

Or he's eating a bowl of cereal at the table. Reading.

I don't mean to complain about his new favorite past time. Since we started having kids, I've always hoped they'd become readers, and I always wanted that day to be sooner rather than later. I know that, as a kid, I did the same thing, plowing through book after book without a care as to what went on around me. But I'd like to have a conversation with my son again. And I'd like for that conversation to be about something other than whether or not Edward Cullen won a game of Quidditch in the third book. Or whatever.

Is it wrong to tell your kid to stop reading and watch TV for a while? I suppose I should have him go outside for some fresh air, at least. He could read on the front porch.

He's watching the Harry Potter movies, as well. He reads a book, watches the movie, and denounces that movie as nothing like the book. So he's building that disdain for Hollywood that all readers have, which was inevitable. He's also able to eat a meal without looking at his food, simply staring at the page while his fork goes from plate to mouth, just like a real reader. And he's staying up late to read. He would stay up late anyway, but at least he's reading and not watching reruns of Sanford & Son.

All in all, I'm glad he's reading. Constantly. I just hope those books of witchcraft aren't teaching him anything dastardly. I have enough on my plate with these four kids, I don't need one of them being able to travel to other dimensions via a wardrobe. Or whatever.

Because I Said So

It took me the same amount of time to write my latest column for The Commercial Appeal as it would to run 26.2 miles. Most of a weekend.

Coats

I did not like to wear a coat as a child. Or, at least, one specific coat. It was a pea coat with large buttons which may have had an anchor design on them. The collar was huge and the inside red. It looked feminine and what does a 10-year-old boy need to maintain more than his masculinity? So if I could get out of the house without it, then I would, regardless of the outside temperatures. And that is how I found out that wearing a large-buttoned, naval-themed, possibly woman’s, pea coat isn’t half as embarrassing as looking up to see your mother standing at the classroom door with said coat in hand.

The temperature has finally nosedived and it seems that winter has settled in for the duration. With this downrush in the mercury comes the one thing that can slow getting four kids out the door and to school in the mornings. Neither ice nor snow or a slow-starting 17-year-old car is any match for what this time of the year brings. I’m talking about winter coats. And not the red- or blue-approved colors of the city schools’ uniform that may be worn all day long, but the big, oversized, fleece-lined armor that Memphis kids really only need for approximately eight weeks out of the year.

We’ve been in our morning routine for about five months so far this year and have breakfast, dressing, lunch-making and leaving the house timed down to the second. The whole drill looks like a special ops force rescuing hostages as we spill from the house and pile into the car to speed off.

But when these kids add something as foreign as a coat into the mix, everything comes to a halt. It’s as though I’ve asked them to build the engine for the car that we’ll be escaping in. With mittens on.

There are zippers, the reversible linings, a hood that snaps off, suggesting it may or may not be necessary, and then the problem of just finding the coat. It may have been left at school, or in mom’s van or … what coat?

I think it may make things easier and speedier in the mornings if I dressed them all in a layer of Under Armour the night before and a simple furry Russian hat on the way out the door. I’m pretty sure muskrat is approved wear in Memphis City Schools.

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.