May Madness

I'm sure that the NCAA or CBS or somebody has a copyright on the words "March Madness" but I'm thinking about getting one for "May Madness" because it always seems to be the best description of our Mays.  The fifth month of the year is a big one around town because of Memphis in May -- that annually sodden welcome to Spring in the mid-South -- but apart from a trip down to the World Championship of Barbecue by Josh, we don't much participate in the other aspects of the festival anymore.  Still, we always manage to fill every hour of the month with various outdoor activities.  Gotta get it in before the heat of the summer forces us back into the cool embrace of the air conditioner.

In addition to our normal May activities, this year Walt and I decided to throw in a quick trip to South Carolina to crash Gram and DeeDaddy's beach vacation.  Our trip there included an unscheduled night (sans luggage) in Charlotte, NC, after we missed our connecting flight to Hilton Head.  Good times.  But hey, if it hadn't, we might not have this cool picture of Walt with the Jeff Gordon car that was parked in the airport.  Totally worth it.  Ahem.

Once we got to the beach, I was an absolute slacker with the camera -- maybe Gram or Aunt Mimi will email me some of their good ones -- but here's at least one.  It was seriously windy on the beach that day.  So much so that we ended up spending the rest of the day at the pool.  But not before Walt and Collier got in some sand time.

We followed up the beach trip with a stop in Macon, GA, to attend the wedding of my first cousin John Sawyer to his lovely bride, Amy.  The theme of this trip was my extreme neglect of my camera, so I have no pictures of any wedding event, but rest assured that we had a terrific time.  The highlight of the weekend was the rehearsal dinner (a low country shrimp boil -- one of my all-time favorite meals) where John and his band, The Deacons of Disaster, rocked the house.  John is a Presbyterian minister, a job to which I know he was called and is very good at, but this guy totally could have been a professional singer.  What's the age limit for American Idol again?

Back in Memphis this week, Walt had his final week of school for the spring semester, which is always finished up by the Spring Program -- a musical production in a slightly different vein from that of The Deacons.  Mainly it involves the teachers and a few of the kids who aren't too star-struck by all the parents' flashing cameras singing selections like "Waltzing Matilda" and "Have a Happy St. Patrick's Day" (in May).  Typically, Walt was on the back row of the risers behind a kid taller than him, so I've got no decent pictures of the actual performance, but I did manage to snap a few at the festival that followed.  'Cause nothing says festival like farm animals in a rolling cage in Midtown.

 

 

As if singing and pony-riding weren't enough for one day, Walt also had his swim lesson "graduation" that afternoon.  Parents and grandparents were treated to outstanding displays of athleticism, such as jumping through a hoop into the pool, holding on to a bar and kicking around in circles, and for the finale, jumping off the side and swimming to the teacher!  It's going to be a whole new ballgame at the Rhodes pool this summer.

 

 

 

Look out, Michael Phelps.

R.I.P. Slicky

There comes a time in a boy's life when he must learn about loss.  These are good times to learn about that, but despite us showing Walt our 401(k) statement every month, he never seemed to grasp it like he did last week when, you guessed it, Slicky went missing.  This was a day we all knew was coming.  We've had many close calls, many trips across town and many janitors manipulated into granting access to closed buildings.  But Slicky has finally succumbed to the rigors of constant companionship to a four-year old.

I arrived  home from work one day last week to the always idyllic setting that is our kitchen in the early evening: Ginger pleasantly working on dinner in her pearls and heels and Walt drawing would-be masterpieces at his little craft desk at her feet.  But I knew it was all a delicate charade with the first glance from my wife.  "What's wrong?" I said.  "S-L-I-C-K-Y is M.I.A." she said cryptically.  Uh-oh.  

We skated the thin ice well enough that evening, and I made an unannounced visit to school first thing the next morning since it was an off day.  The APB was issued and all trash cans were examined, as was the giant plastic hippo on the playground where it was said Walt was "hanging out" the day before during recess.  Nothing. 

 (As an aside, a couple of points about Harry the Hippo: 1. I know where all of that tuition money is going.  $679 for a giant plastic hippopotamus? 2.  Harry's internal organs are labeled . . . in English, Spanish and French.  Really?  Talk about specialized knowledge: the Spanish word for "hippo gall bladder.") 

Anyway, Slicky no esta en Harry.

We muddled through another bedtime, but after I got to work last Friday morning, I got the following email from Ginger:

"The reality of Slicky's absence set in this morning.  Rough time.  We both cried."

After brushing back a small tear of my own, my protection instinct shifted immediately into high gear resulting in phone calls to high powered lawyers and other contacts amassed during my almost ten years of legal practice in this city, contacts usually reserved for the most dire of circumstances like impending life sentences and escaping jury duty.  

We had a replacement by lunchtime.  

Some photos:

Acting on some sort of premonition, Ginger recently staged a Slicky/Walt photo shoot.

Poor Slicky never had a chance of avoiding the trash can once she was spotted by any self-respecting janitor.

R.I.P., Slicky.  You were a good lovie.

Attention readers at the Center for Disease Control: we promise she's really gone and no longer in frequent contact with people.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present New Slicky.  Special thanks to Autumn Chastain and the folks at Mango Street Baby for the damage control.  Let's just hope he loses it before freshman year of college.

Things I'm Looking Forward to About Having Another Baby

Tiny little toes.

Wrist creases.

Sweet little ears.

Buddha belly.

(Thanks to my very cute model, Micah Grisham!)

Things You Should Know About Walt

Back in the day, we used to do monthly updates (amid our regular posting of Walt doing exciting things like spitting up and cooing) of what Walt was up to/in to.  Now, it's more like just monthly posts.  It's not that Walt is less exciting than he was back then . . . on the contrary, I personally find him way more fun now.  But one, he's less cooperative with picture taking than he was before he became more kid-like and less baby-like, and two, he doesn't go to bed until close to nine most nights, leaving us with a precious hour or, at most, two before we both conk out.  After a solid twelve hours (no naps anymore, so I mean SOLID) of Waltiness, we're usually not chomping at the bit to rehash the day in print form. 

However, I know that one of these days I won't remember what made Walt tick at age 4.25 and I also know that I'll want to.  So, in that spirit, here's a list:

1.  He still carries "Slicky" (that shredded, grayish rag-looking thing in his hand) around wherever he goes.  And has no shame about it.  Occasionally, he will pick "her" up and squeeze her with all his might and say, "I just love Slicky SO much!".  She is on the verge of completely disintegrating and I'm not sure what will happen then. 

 
2.  Coming in right behind Slicky in the treasured belongings category is his collection of roughly two dozen toy NASCAR cars.  He knows the name of every one of their drivers, which almost earned him an invitation to Daddy's guys trip to Talledega last weekend.  Almost.  He stages races around the house every single day, and always comes to ask me who I want to win before they start.  Sometimes my pick does win, but when it doesn't, he actually seems kind of remorseful.

3.  He eats a (previously frozen) pancake with peanut butter and a touch of syrup almost every single morning for breakfast.

4.  Walt has quite the fascination with numbers these days.  I think it might have been prompted by the NASCAR thing.  In this picture, he is lining up the numbers to keep track of how many laps to go in his race.  He also uses the numbers to create pit areas for his cars, so they'll know where to pull in and refuel.  Then, yesterday, I came into his room and he was creating his very own leader board (or whatever you call it in racing) to show who was winning the race.  When one car pulled ahead, he would dutifully move that car's number to the front of the lineup.  His races transpire rather slowly, as you can imagine.  But apart from the NASCAR connection, he wants to know what numbers on anything he sees mean -- the car dashboard, telephone poles, measuring cups, etc.  MIT, here we come.

 

5.  It doesn't happen often, but he cleans up real nice.

 

6.  Walt hasn't yet met a sport he doesn't like.  He played soccer at a local church in the fall, basketball in March (pictured) and gets out in the yard with Daddy at every chance to swing for the fences with his new baseball bat.  I'm not even kidding when I say the kid hits better than I do.  Which is not saying a lot, I guess, but he can hit an overhand-pitched ball more often than not.  I find it pretty impressive.

7.  He makes a very effective security guard at yard sales.  We had no incidents.  (Okay, I might have just thrown this one in so I could post this hilarious picture.  Sue me.)

 

8.  Though he is capable of entertaining himself quite well, he really loves playing with his buds.  Luckily, our neighborhood is chock full of little boys.  I am scared for all of our windows as they get bigger and stronger.

9.  Walt likes to talk.  A lot.  (Not pictured.)

10.  If his baby brother is half as great of a kid as Walt, we will feel like the luckiest parents in the world.

(If not . . . well, one out of two ain't bad.)