Handy GK

We moved out of crime-free Midtown last February to East Memphis only to have stuff stolen from us. Sometime recently, I can't say when for sure, some piece of human excrement came into our backyard and stole my toolbox and a socket set from the storage room attached to the carport. We're in and out of the storage room a lot so, granted, it gets left unlocked from time to time, yet it is still very much on our private property.

Worthless people who steal from people who purchase things make me angry. A stranger in my yard so close to where my family sleeps makes me angry. And then, this evening, GK and I were horsing around and I was watching her do "somer-flips" on the bed when she decided she wanted to watch something on TV. I flipped around On Demand and she chose, emphatically, Handy Manny.

She never watches Handy Manny, so why this sudden interest in tools? And is her interest only in anthropomorphic tools, or is it all tools, even the heavy kind made of cold-forged steel and, decidedly, mine? Perhaps I've been cursing the public at large when, in fact, the crime was internal.

But where would a 3-year-old hide a toolbox? How would she even get to the pawn shop without my knowledge and help? What did she do with the money from selling my tools and could I borrow $20?

Internal or external, friend or foe, we will all keep the storage room door locked from now on and keep a vigilant eye on who may be around. We will stay on our toes and protect what is ours. And, God willing, we will never, ever have to watch Handy Manny again.

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On another note, GK and I were playing later on in the evening when I impressed her with a bit of magic. This is important because GK has recently done some retooling of her Favorite People List and my name has dropped dramatically. I'm lucky to even be on the list. I'm somewhere just below whoever stole my tools (so she says).

We were playing with a Zippo lighter (that's normal, right?) and I made it disappear ... magic! ... and then reappear in her ear. She was transfixed, awed and on the cloudy edge of that fantasy world where anything is possible if you only believe.

She spent the next five minutes trying to cram that lighter into my ear. And I let her because I'm her father, I can do anything and because I'm better than whoever stole the toolbox from our storage room (so she says).

Happy Thanksgiving

Once again we at Urf! have joined the great migration, packing everyone up and heading east to my grandparents’ house. We travel heavily with luggage, toys, computer, stroller and ravioli.

Travel at Thanksgiving is a tradition begun … well, a long time ago with the Pilgrims, a people who came to this country in pursuit of a decent homemade stuffing recipe. As brave and self-reliant as those people were, all they really did was take a sailing trip across an ocean – they even call it a pond – to get here. They never sat still in an unmoving Mazda van with four kids and a Quarter Pounder With Cheese pressing on the lower intestine on I-20 in Atlanta as they waited for cars to merge on and off of the 285 bypass. You want rugged? Try it with an iPod that won’t transmit clearly to your car’s FM receiver.

But we made it, as you’ll read one day in the history books. We arrived as those early settlers did, though bearing a cranky 3-year-old instead of smallpox. We were greeted by the natives here with arms wide open, food, wine and a decent internet connection so I can keep in touch with all you turkeys on the Facebook.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I was lucky enough again this year to be able to write my column, Because I Said So, in The Commercial Appeal for today. It’s all about Thanksgiving and travel and Pilgrims, but I didn’t come up with the smallpox bit until after deadline, so I wanted to put it in here.

I hope you’ll read and I hope you have a wonderful holiday, from my family to yours.

Overheard

C has been studying Greek mythology at school.

C: Dionysus is the god of wine.
S: Of what?
C: Wine, as in 'mom and dad drink it.'

Meat and pudding

A couple of things ...

Last evening I was yelling at S in the dining room to stop doing ... whatever it was she was doing, or to start doing what she should have been or ... something, as I was heading out to the patio to grill dinner. When I went through the living room, still shouting back at S, with a gallon-size Zip-Loc bag full of pork chops and marinade, JP looked up and screamed, "Aahhhhh! He killed S!"

Later, and on another food note, S was asking for dessert (she was not, in fact, in that Zip-Loc bag) and, as is typical, her mother told her that she could have some if she could get whatever it was she wanted for herself. Some time after that, Kristy was in the kitchen to get the last of the banana pudding that Heather had made and brought over for the ravioli feast last Sunday.

The pudding was gone.

"Who ate the last of the banana pudding!" she shouted, to which S replied, sardonically, "You said I could have dessert if I could get it myself."

Halloween Treat

Zeus, a zombie cheerleader and a mad scientist walk into a bar ...

S is for Stinky

I spend a lot of time and vocabulary defending the Memphis City School system, both here and in my column. But last night, S came running into the room and asked us if "stinky" is a word. It went like this:

S: Is stinky a word?
Us: Stinky?
S: Steeenky.
Us: Stinky?
S: Steeeenky.

Finally, C came in to help us out.

C: She thinks it's "stanky."

And she did, too. We set her straight. One of those lessons better learned at home, I suppose.

Spooky

For Halloween, JP dressed up as a mad scientist ... or as The Commercial Appeal's own Michael Donahue.

Socks and snot

Is it wrong to enjoy your child being sick?

Wait, no, that is wrong. Now that I see that written out, I can see where I may be misunderstood. Munchausen by proxy and all that. Call off DHS while I explain.

GK was up most of Tuesday night with fever and coughing, so I kept her at home yesterday. Sure, there were eruptions of wanting mommy, but she spent most of the day curled up next to me watching her cartoons and refusing the juice I implored her to drink every few minutes. And, sure, I spent much of the day being coughed, sneezed and farted on, but mostly she was just sweet and a bit pitiful. It's one of the only times she will just sit with me and let me rub her back and that she'll ask me questions and wait for, and listen to, the answers. She needed her daddy and that's a rare thing around here with such a good mommy in the line up.

Certainly I don't wish her, or any of my kids, to be sick, it's just that she's a different person when she isn't feeling well. She's suddenly not so 3.

Kristy took her to the doctor in the afternoon and it's a respiratory thing with a lot of sinus drainage. A little antibiotic will fix her right up and she was already feeling better and eager to get back to school today, back to her normal old self again. She was certainly well enough to throw a rousing, healthy fit about her socks, which was timely since that is precisely what my column in The Commercial Appeal is about today: socks, seams, toes, timing and GK.

Normal is good since I do have work to do. I did, however, while nursing her to health yesterday, manage to conduct three phone interviews, write one story and finish another, do dishes and the laundry, and cook dinner.

Other than the heartache of seeing my kid ill, and socks, this parenting thing might be getting ... easier?

Corner Kids

My kids are homebodies and I was remarking to my mother the other day that I almost wish they would go out and get into some trouble. Instead of venturing out, they're drawn to the comfort of our house or the coolness of their parents or, probably, the warmth of the television set. Whatever it is, they'd rather be right here - right here with us, all the time - than anyplace else.

Saying I want them to go out and find trouble is an exaggeration, of course. I don't want anyone to get hurt or any laws broken, but a little mischief wouldn't be so bad. A little mischief elsewhere, that is.

Having said this, we were at the park on the corner last Saturday and there was a Memphis City Schools security car parked in front of Richland Elementary. And then a police car showed up. And then another ... and another ...

A total of seven police cars rolled up ("rolled up" is an everyday verb in Memphis) on a group of kids milling about at the corner of Oak Grove and Melvin, across the street from Brennan Park. They weren't doing anything, just standing; gathering, as kids will do. However, before they'd gathered, they'd been running the hallways of Richland Elementary. On a Saturday.

So, the kids all got a ride home, or to juvenile court, from the police. It was like an East Memphis, middle-class episode of The Wire, where children loiter on 70-degree days at locations with names like "Oak Grove," "Melvin" and "Brennan Park."

I'm not so anxious any more for The Quartet to run the neighborhoods, meet kids and find mischief. I'm quite happy with them sitting in the living room, watching Disney and not rolling up into our driveway with Five-O.

Tell Me About It

I write a lot about being away from my children, those precious nuggets of time when they're out of earshot and I'm left to the peace and solitude that all parents crave.

But then there are times, like this morning, when I wouldn't mind being included just a little more in their lives. I watched them across the street as they headed to school and, once on the opposite sidewalk, they fell into conversation and laughter. I wondered what they were talking about and wished to be included in the talk and the jokes.

There's a good chance that I was the joke, I don't doubt that. I don't want to be included in all of their conversations, I know they need their own dialogue, topics and inside jokes. All siblings have their own way of communicating and it's great to see my kids getting along so well, it's just that they seem to be so much fun sometimes and I'm just a tad jealous of that.

I hear them at night, just before they fall asleep, talking about I-don't-know-what, and I'm curious, though I know I don't belong. I guess there's always that small part of us, even as parents, that wants to sit at the table with the cool kids.

First Nine Weeks

We watch our kids throughout the school year studying and getting their lessons, as my great-grandfather used to say; we look over their graded papers, read e-mails from their teachers and discuss the progress reports with them.

So we have a pretty good idea where each child stands with their schoolwork and report cards should not be a surprise. When JP stood across my desk from me last night and handed me a manila envelope with his name on it, I had a pretty good handle on what I was to find inside. I was ready to shake my head, wring my hands and berate him for letters that were a little deeper into the alphabet than I'd like, for unacceptable conduct grades and everything from missed opportunities to a failure to study to leaving the fax cover sheets of the TPS reports.

I opened it, slid out the paper and found myself with a parental dilemma I was not expecting. I was confronted with As and Bs. I was stymied by the ribbon that came along with the report card announcing inclusion on the honor roll and was faced with the task of not looking surprised.

Agog is what I was, yet I couldn't show that. I had to act as though it was exactly what I'd expected, that any less would not have been tolerated, but that was never going to be the issue.

It's not that JP is dumb, mind you. Not by a long shot. He just ... masks his intelligence in a youthful exuberance that involves jumping, skipping, falling down and running into walls. He does his homework like a Tasmanian devil, blowing in and whisking his pencil around before leaving the room again in a flurry of folders and notebook paper. He forgets to have papers signed, turns things in not quite on time, yet pulls it all off somehow.

I'm proud of him and I am surprised. I'm surprised that he seems to have gotten the hang of 3rd grade much quicker than I'd expected. So much sooner than I'd given him credit for.

It's up to me to encourage, acknowledge and reward him during each grading period, and for the last nine weeks I'd give myself a D with so much room for improvement.

Right Back At You

S's teacher has been off work the past couple of days. I asked S today if she was back and she said that no, she's sick. I suggested (jovially) that the cause may be that the teacher had seen S's face. To which S replied, "Maybe she read one of your articles."

Ouch.

37

I met her in September of 1987 and a month later she turned 15. Since that fall, we've dated, married, had a child, bought cars and a house, had another child, changed jobs and careers, moved, had another child, laughed, cried, had another child, traveled and loved.

And through it all, things keep changing and that's what it's all about, isn't it? Evolving together, learning and helping each other to grow, change and become better people?

She's made me a better person and she's grown into a beautiful, strong and smart woman, friend, wife and mother. It's been an adventure since the first birthday we spent together and I look forward to spending the next 22, and beyond, with you.

Happy birthday, Kristy, I love you.

Cash Strapped

Money making idea:

If someone were to put an ATM in our dining room, they'd probably do pretty well. The fee charge per transaction would add up every morning the kids, just before walking out of the door for school in the morning, tell me they need money for this field trip or that fundraiser.

Today's Tom Sawyers

Had Mark Twain chosen to write his classic in 2009, the story of Tom Sawyer would contain much more whining and arguing than it does. Twain's fence-painting tale would be filled with children who expect immediate gratification and refuse to wait their turn. Waiting is unheard of.

We finally got around yesterday to painting our cornhole boards that Uncle Johnny made for us (and if he's reading this right now, he's shaking his head because he made that game for us a month and a half ago and we're just now painting it. However, that is about a year sooner than I expected. Actually, what I expected was for the boards to be left out in the rain several times and to become warped and unplayable, and then I would have to build new ones to look exactly like the ones he built should he ever come around to play).

For those of you who aren't familiar with cornhole, it's played with two plywood boards set at an angle with holes drilled in them. The boards are placed a certain distance apart and the two players attempt to toss beanbags (or, cornbags - they're full of unpopped popcorn) into the holes. Score is kept, money is wagered.

Anyway, it was the day to paint them, the sun was shining and Kristy had stopped by Lowe's for exterior, high gloss paint. She also bought one Fisher Price-sized roller and a 4" brush.

There were six kids, each of whom wanted, needed, to paint something white. They pleaded for a turn, they argued, they snatched and they whined ... they whined a lot. The roller was rolled through the grass, which ended up in the paint and on the boards, and the tiny kids wielded the oversized brush as though it were Excalibur. An oversized Excalibur.

It was the loveable, timeless story of Tom Sawyer writ irritating.

Now, I'll take my leave to go fix yesterday's work.





[By the way, I am undefeated on my home course in cornhole. I'll take on all challengers.]

Choosing Battles

There is way too much going on around here for me to correct every bit of behavior or reshape all habits. We have to choose our battles.

One thing the kids do that drives me crazy, but just doesn't seem worth the constant reminding, is that they'll finish their milk and set the glass on the counter like they're supposed to, but they'll put it at the far end of the counter. The very counter where the sink is, mind you, but just out of reach so that I have to take a step or two to get to it when I'm doing the dishes. I've pointed it out to them without getting upset about it because it just isn't that big a deal. I think, at this point, that they're just messing with me.

Another infraction also takes place in the kitchen (I think I'll keep this to "kitchen battles" so as not take up too much of your time). We have one of those garbage cans that pulls out of the cabinet. It has little wheels and a track and it glides out smoothly, but you do have to exert some energy and pull on it. My kids have no energy, so instead of a full garbage can, I pull it out to find garbage piled up on the little lip around the can right in front. The can itself is mostly empty and most of whatever is piled up - Pop Tart wrappers, paper plates, used napkins, half-eaten fruit - falls to the floor.

Like I said, some things aren't worth the constant screaming and nagging, I just have to figure out if these are two of those things or not.

Candy Corn in the Pipeline

GK called out for me this morning when she woke up so I picked her up and carried her to my office. We sat on the couch and she fell back to sleep curled up in my lap while I read. I wish I could have stayed right there the rest of the day, partly because she's very sweet when she's asleep and partly to procrastinate even further on things I need to do.

I have 13 stories in the pipeline, plus That Other Thing, and the pipeline appears to be plugged someplace. I think the blockage is probably me napping in a fetal position because nothing is getting through. The paid writing (and napping) is also why I've been ignoring this blog, I suppose.

So today I have to find a globe and figure out where England is, then go to Cooper-Young to interview some kids from Nottingham, England. I've done five interviews in the past week and haven't written any of them up, so there's that. I was trying to work out lunch with Kristy, but her job is keeping her unconscionably busy lately. I need to nap.

I should vote for mayor today, too. I wrote my column in today's Commercial Appeal about that very thing, so I feel obligated now. I'm not taking GK, though, because she eventually woke up, crawled out of my lap and put on a dress with a shirt over it.

The shirt has a picture of candy corn on it and reads "Sweet." She says it's because candy is sweet, but I think it's because she is.

Hawkeye C

My kids know comfort. They like nothing better than lounging on the sofa, piled high with blankets and pillows pulled from their beds. Their clothing choice, if given the option, will run from pajamas to sweat pants.

C has taken his comfort to a new level. He comes home from school, grabs whatever book he's currently reading (Michael Chabon's "Summerland" at the moment) and puts on a robe*. And he'll wear that robe comfortably for the rest of the night.

I've taken to calling him Hawkeye, which I've had to explain. Next, I'll explain that Hawkeye Pierce lived in The Swamp and that it was called that because of the unkempt nature of the tent where he, Trapper and Frank lived.

The boys' room is swamp-like. It's overgrown with discarded clothing and has a boggy stench. It's the sort of landscape where Magwitch might hide out, where Kermit would feel at home or where a still might be built. I plan to search for that still later this afternoon.

My column in today's Commercial Appeal is all about what kids know or, rather, what they don't know. I urge you all to put on your robe, make yourselves comfortable and visit the CA's site to give it a read.

*That robe is one of his mother's old ones, though pretty nondescript and not overly feminine at all. Really.

7

Happy birthday, S!

International Children's Heart Foundation

I love HBO's "The Wire." I watched the entire series on DVD, each episode back-to-back. I fell for the drama's cinematic grittiness, pop of violence and Dickensian dialogue. One of my favorite scenes, my favorite line, came in the final season, delivered by Gus Haynes, the city editor for The Baltimore Sun played by Clark Johnson, when he simplified a newspaperman's drive in one sentence: I just want to see something different every day, maybe write a story about it.

I'm not a lifelong journalist. I come from a family of newspapermen reaching back to the earliest part of last century, though I was never encouraged to follow their footsteps to the Fourth Estate. Indeed, I was discouraged.

I've always loved newspapers, though, and storytelling and the storytellers. Listening to people and getting the essence of who they are and what they do and why, and then putting that down on paper, whether it's for the world to read or just yourself, is a gift to be worked at and not taken for granted. A truly compelling story, as well, is a gift not to be treated lightly.

I met Dr. Bill Novick several years ago when he would come into my cigar shop as a customer. We had sons in the same class at Downtown Elementary as well. He graciously gave me a copy of his first book, "Healing the Heart of Croatia," written with Father Joe Kerrigan. I read the book a little at a time, overcome with emotion at the thought of going through the struggles his patients' families were dealing with and the selflessness of the doctors and volunteers that comprise the International Children's Heart Foundation.

Dr. Novick's and the Foundation's story is one I've been fortunate enough to hear and to tell in today's Commercial Appeal as part of the celebration of its 15th anniversary.

The ICHF is a hometown organization, overshadowed by others and flying mostly under the radar to countries around the world; impoverished, fractured and transitioning countries where they perform surgeries, train local medical staff and so much more.

It's a good story and one I am honored to tell, my only regret being limited space to cover all that I've been told, such as the entire Abu Bakr story which ends with Novick in a meeting with the then-Undersecretary of Defense for the United States, in which Novick is lauded for all the work of the foundation and asked if there is anything he needs. "I need you to stop bombing my kids," he says, barely containing his ire. It was the last such meeting he was invited to.

There is the whole story of Novick's friend and facilitator in Pakistan, that country's surgeon general, who was assassinated in the shadow of the Children's Hospital by a suicide bomber. When told a matter of weeks later that it was too dangerous for the ICHF's next medical trip, Novick persisted, saying it was the only way he knew to honor his friend's memory.

There are awards presented, heads of state denied, foreign and domestic corporations called upon and globetrotting for a cause. There are funny stories and heartbreaking ones, hopeful stories and, through it and above it all, the stories of children who get more time on this planet to make a difference thanks to Novick and his teams.

The story of the International Children's Heart Foundation is as good as any novel, film or HBO series. It's one I am thrilled to tell.