Hard Hat Area

Walt occasionally gets enthusiastic about household tasks that we give him.  Very occasionally.  Usually, he resists with every ounce of his being any attempt to get him to be a productive member of this family, although he has promised many times to brush his own teeth, dress himself, wipe his own bottom, etc., etc. "when Mike gets here."  Somehow I think he understands that Mike's gestation will be a full 16% of his life, and he's making the most of it and is not about to exercise any independence any sooner than necessary.

However, there is one job he has taken seriously: pecan picker upper, a job vital to the survival of our backyard grass.  Despite the inherent hazards in picking up nuts that have fallen, and continue to fall, from above, Walt has embraced his task with great zeal, a dump truck . . . and, of course, a level of precaution only a Crouch could muster.

FM Radio

Memphis recently launched a new ESPN sports-talk radio station on an FM signal.  Which is kind of like the Sirens on those islands in Greek mythology.  Ships would sail straight into the rocks just to listen to the beautiful sounds.  In Memphis, men (and their cars) just drive toward the signal.  Bridges, medians and trolleys beware.  We just drive.  We take the long way to work.  We sit though green lights.  We sit in our cars for 10 minutes after we get where we're going.  Just so we can hear Mike Golic's opinion of who is winning the battle for starting tight end in the Seattle Seahawks' training camp.  Life is good.

Ginger is set to go into labor within the next two weeks.  She will give birth to my second son.  See, I told you life is good.

If you think these two events have nothing in common, you haven't been listening to ESPN Radio recently.  I don't know if this is just another indicator of my advancing age, or if it happens every year, but it seems like every morning, another of ESPN's radio personalities is telling about his son's training camp and imminent starting role for a college or NFL football team. They wax philosophical, as only self-important, former pro athletes can.  They tell tales of weeping in the press box as their first-born emerge from the tunnel at Notre Dame or some such institution.

Well, I haven't wept, yet, but the opportunities are piling up around here. 

We don't have to tell you about the obvious new beginning.  It's stretching the physical limits of Ginger's stomach as we speak.  But we also began a new chapter in Walt's education just today.  He started two days per week in a Pre-K program at Downtown Elementary School this morning.  This is probably a lot like starting on the offensive line for the Fighting Irish but without the remedial math tutor.

Never mind that he looks like he's 27 in this picture.  He and his giant backpack climbed into the car with me this morning for our first "boys trip" downtown to pre-kindergarten.  My immediate plan for the trip was to introduce him to the aforementioned ESPN Radio station and all of its NFL Preseason glory.  We had made it approximately five houses down Nelson before I switched off the radio and just listened.  And listened.  And contributed when prompted, "Daddy, now you talk about dinosaurs."  We quickly established that I knew precious little about our favorite extinct friends.  And we moved on to the various schools that we passed on the way downtown.  When I pointed out that the people walking on the sidewalks around the University of Tennessee Medical School were also going to school (to be doctors like Deedaddy), Walt responded with exasperation and panic, "But Daddy, I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up, yet."  As if he needed to figure this out before we got to his new school.

I reassured him that we would figure it out later, and we held hands as we crossed the same street as those future doctors and ventured into a "big boy" school buzzing with First and Second and Third and Fourth and Fifth and Sixth Graders!  Scary.  "I wasn't even scared, and I liked it," he would tell me later about his first 2.5 hours of formal education.  Part of me wanted him to cling to me as I left, but he didn't.  He dove in and played and drew and ate gingerbread men and got a blue (the highest) for conduct today. 

I needed that crossing guard more going back to my car than I did going in.  So I didn't get hit by a bus while I fought back the tears of pride and fear and anticipation of starting it all again in a few days.  I can't wait.

The Time Draws Near . . .

Obviously!  I'm 37 weeks today and, as of Tuesday, 2 cm dilated.  Which could mean something or nothing.  I'm still kind of hoping to hang in there until at least September, but then again, the nesting instinct has been quite strong this time, and if it takes too much longer, I'm going to start reorganizing the . . . uh, I can't think of anything ridiculous to reorganize because I have already reorganized EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE.  No, wait!  I still have my pajama drawer to go!  Gotta run!

Anger Management

If having one child has taught me anything, it's patience.  We'll see whether the trend reverses with two, but I can't imagine I'll last long if it does.  I've just been piling on the patience since January 15, 2005.  And this from a guy who has been thrown out of more than one recreational league basketball game.  But that was years ago.  I've come a long way.  Until last Saturday night, I was pretty sure I had tucked my temper tantrums away in some dark recess of my psyche occupied by my secret high school love of Wilson Phillips and stamp collecting.  I was wrong.

The Scene

We'd been with the Lareaus at their house for hot dogs and Pictionary.  The kids had reached the point where the Pictionary-playing was fruitless.  Besides, Chris and I dominated.  It was over.  It was 9:45.

The Plan

Family Breakfast (or "Family Breakthast") on Sunday morning has become a fun tradition now that we go to church in the evenings.  We only lacked eggs.  Forgetting to steal some from the Lareau's hen house, we made a course correction and stopped at the neighborhood Schnuck's on the way home.

The Situation

Now, plenty of Midtown Memphians will deride the Schnuck's for being quirky and small and having terrible parking.  But none of those things should matter late on a Saturday night, right?  You see where this is going?  Well, into the store I went.  Every time I set foot in a grocery store, two things happen: 1. I recall that moment during George H. W. Bush's re-election campaign in 1992 when he went to a grocery store and was "amazed" at the scanners (turns out that story is quite fabricated; not sure how I'll deal with that, but anyway.) and 2.  I choose the absolute wrong checkout line.

I began my best impression of poor old Number 41 wandering around looking for eggs.  Did you know there is an apparent distinction in price, color and level of consumption guilt for free-range, cage-free, organic and regular-old-white eggs?  And none of them come in those styrofoam cartons that we used to use to make caterpillars in vacation Bible school.  Who knew?!?

Despite my amazement at the advances in poultry science, I managed to secure my provisions and make it back up to the front of the store in approximately five minutes.  Then I stood there.  For another 15.  Three times as long as it took me to get eggs and three other items!  Now, it wasn't entirely the fault of the the checker in the line that I chose (there were only two open and the one I wasn't in was like that "speedpass" lane on a toll road; the people barely slowed down as they spilled out the door into the parking lot), but she could have said something.  I was the fourth person in line, but it had grown to at least ten more behind me.  The lady at the front (we'll call her The Next Contestant) was playing a real-life version of that game they used to play on The Price Is Right where you had a limit and tried to pick products that would keep you under it.  Twice she sent her co-contestant back into the store.  Two cases of Diet Dr. Pepper the first time.  A bag of brown sugar the second. 

Finally, her absolute obliviousness got the best of me.  I had felt the bubbly rage in the depths of my torso for a few minutes, squelched it and then thought of Ginger in the car, almost 9-months pregnant with a chatty and irritable four-year old strapped to the seat behind her.  I blew my stack.  Don't worry.  I didn't say anything embarrassing (at least not loud enough that I thought anyone could hear it), but I doubt there was a person at the front of that store who wondered about my mood and/or my reason for leaving.  I never saw any cage-free egg yolk hit the conveyor, but I can't be sure that I didn't crack a few when I slammed my stuff down in the adjacent lane and stomped out the door muttering like an old man reading the newspaper.

The Realization

As I marched across the parking lot, feeling rather proud of myself for some reason, the regret began immediately.  Yes.  I was going to have to come out early the next morning.  Yes.  Someone I know may have been standing behind me (turns out this is true). But my real concern was that I was clearly not going to be able to hide my intense anger and frustration from my psychologist-in-training son, who was waiting for me in the car.

The Therapy Session

First pull on the door handle: locked.  Deep breath.  Second pull: door barely stayed on the hinges, and Daddy enters the vehicle so fast all inside are immediately silent.  Which is good, because they got to experience the full metal impact of the door against the frame of our car when I shut it.  "Now what, Daddy?" I thought.  Here goes:

Walt: Daddy, why did you get in the car so fast?

Daddy: [four deep breathes; six shy of the goal] Well . . .  Walt . . . because . . . some people . . . some people just . . . don't . . . eh . . . think about others like they should.  [Oooh.  That was good.  I nailed it.  Teachable moment and all, . . .  but still very, very angry.]

Walt: But Daddy, why did you get in the car so fast?

Daddy: [two deep breathes; not nearly enough]  Walt, because sometimes people only think of themselves when they should be thinking of other people around them.  [A little more forcibly than was necessary, for sure.]

Walt: But Daddy, why don't you have any eggs?  What about Family Breakthast?

Daddy: [how can he be thinking about breakfast at a time like this?] Well . . . uh . . .we'll go back in the morning and get the stuff.  A boy trip.  Right?  [that was good, Josh, but I'm still furious]

Daddy [to Ginger]: You wouldn't believe how ridiculous this woman was.  She just had no concept of the people behind her.  Unbelievable!  I can't believe it!  I can't even explain it right now.

Ginger: That's probably best.  [Or some other classic Gingerism.]

Walt: But Daddy, why did you get in the car so quick?

Daddy: Walt, I told you . . . there was a lady.  . . . She was not thinking of others.  [My ruse was wearing thin.]

Walt: [quite pensively] Daddy, I don't think you're saying what you're thinking.

The Lesson

I don't think I'll be storming out of any retail establishments anytime soon.  And neither should you.

 

Self Portrait: The Doctor Is In

Old Crib Is Back

Evie knows what's coming.