When people say nice things about your kids

This is going to sound strange, but when Terry and I used to go to our children's parent-teacher conferences, it was always somewhat uncomfortable for me to hear a teacher talk at length about how much they enjoyed having one of our kids in class.

Don't get me wrong, I really did love hearing the compliments. We were blessed with good kids who worked hard to do well in school.

My son Jared worked particularly hard at figuring out the bare minimum effort he needed to do well. Like, if 90% got you an 'A,' he would inevitably clock in at 90.2%.

But hey, it was still an 'A,' and we'll get back to Jared in a moment.

I don't know the exact reason why effusive praise of my kids made me feel somewhat awkward, but I have two theories:

(1) I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop: "Chloe is a great student, BUT..." Rarely did this happen, but I always assumed it would happen.

(2) Being born and raised in Ohio – which I don't consider a Midwestern state but which does have certain Midwestern sensibilities – there is a part of my brain that assumes you should always do your best and not expect anyone to say too much about it. And the same holds true for your kids.

Returning to Jared, following are two videos I posted on Facebook last fall that illustrate the point. Both are taken from Cleveland Guardians baseball broadcasts, and both feature Hall of Fame play-by-play man Tom Hamilton saying very, very nice things about my eldest son.

As mentioned here before, Jared works in communications with Major League Baseball's Tampa Bay Rays. He's good at what he does and puts a lot of time and effort into keeping it that way.

He has matured greatly since his teenage years and is a good example for any young person looking to get into the sports business.

Jared did a one-year internship with the Guardians early in his career, and during that time he got to know Tom. Now, whenever the Guardians travel to Tampa to take on the Rays, the two of them always catch up.

That resulted in this clip from September 4, 2025, in which Hammy (as he's known) gives Jared a shout out and calls him "one of the bright young stars in media relations."

That was so nice of Tom and very much unexpected. And it could have ended there with a nice memory.

But a few days later on the broadcast, Hammy was at it again. This time he not only mentioned the birth of our grandson Cal, he also heaped more praise on Jared (listen to the very end of the clip).

When Jared received this second mention, I started to wonder if people thought we had compromising photos of Tom or that he owed us money or something.

Again, I loved it, but...I also squirmed a little. And knowing Jared, I think he probably did, too.

All of which is to show that either I need to loosen up or maybe you really can have too much of a good thing.

Now, you could argue this whole post was just an excuse to share these two videos and brag about my son. And you would be right.

But in my defense, my joy over Tom Hamilton's comments is mixed with just enough discomfort to make the whole thing feel OK.

You live for the smile

At some point every day, our daughter Chloe and our grandson Cal will FaceTime Terry to say hi and talk. Sometimes it's multiple times a day.

If I happen to be home when these calls come in, I peek over Terry's shoulder and give them a big hello.

Actually, as much as I love Chloe, my big hello is almost always directed toward Cal. And no matter what mood he seems to be in, he will usually return my greeting with a big cheesy smile.

I don't have to tell you veteran grandparents my heart then melts. It makes my day.

When your grandchildren are still babies, that's what you're constantly going for: the smile. They can't yet talk, but the message that happy grin conveys is clear: "You're one of my favorite people!"

Recently I had the privilege of watching Cal all day on a Saturday while his parents took a day trip and Terry was out of town. We did all the usual stuff you do when caring for a 6 1/2-month-old, but a lot of our time was spent just having fun.

We did The Flying Calvin until Grandpa's arms gave out. We played with his toys. We made up "The Naked Baby Song" while changing his clothes (which, if I may say so, was a pretty good impromptu composition).

The whole time I was just looking for the smile. And I got it. Many times over.

Chloe, Michael and Cal ended up spending that night at our house because the power at their place was knocked out by a windstorm. I was sad they had to throw out all the food from their refrigerator, but I have to be honest...

I was even more sad the next day when their power kicked back on and they went home. I was kind of hoping for another day of Cal smiles. 

Hang in there, Bus Stop Dad, you're doing great

My morning drive to the office takes me through 6+ miles of mostly residential streets. I see people walking their dogs, little kids playing in front yards, and bathrobe-wearing senior citizens fetching the newspaper.

The cast of characters varies, but there are three people I see consistently. As I head down Lander Road, I always notice a particular dad standing with his two little boys while they wait to catch the school bus.

The boys wear Minecraft-themed coats in the fall and winter. I would guess them to be maybe 7 and 9 years old. They are always moving, chasing each other around or running up and down the driveway to blow off morning steam before having to sit still for several hours at school.

Their dad is a tall fellow with a beard. Usually he's holding a mug that I assume contains the coffee he needs to jumpstart his day. That day, I imagine, consists of getting the boys onto the bus, hustling to get himself ready, then heading off to work to put in 8-10 hours in support of his family.

I have seen the mother only a few times, because (I'm guessing) she needs to be at work earlier than her husband, so it's his job to make sure his rambunctious little sons get to school.

"Rambunctious" is a word my mom would have used for them. "Spirited" is another euphemism meant as a polite alternative to "occasional pains in their teachers' asses."

Maybe I'm wrong about the boys, though. They could be angels in the classroom and hellions at home. I can only go by what very little I observe of them as I drive past at 35mph.

The dad, however, I do know. I don't know his name, of course, and I don't know what he does for a living or where he grew up.

But I know the life he leads. I know the things that keep him awake at night when he thinks about his wife, his boys, and what he needs to do to make sure the lights stay on and food appears on the table.

I know the uncertainties he has even after nearly a decade as a father. I know his often-troubled internal monologue and the confident front he puts on for others.

I don't know him personally, but I know him as a member of the Brotherhood of Dads.

He's out there day after day with his kids, his coffee, and his anxieties.

And there's no place in the world he would rather be.

Part of him looks forward to the day they can drive themselves to school while part of him dreads it. He knows these exhausting mornings are the stuff of memories and that someday he'll miss all of it.

I don't think I'm reading too much into this situation, even though I see him for only 2-3 seconds at a time, three mornings a week.

Because I've been him.

And I'm here to tell him, whatever his name is, that he's doing a great job. Much better than he thinks he's doing. And that those boys have a million reasons to know they are loved, including the fact that their father uncomplainingly stands outside with them while they wait for the bus in heat, cold, rain and snow.

Keep going, my friend. In case no one has mentioned it today, you're an amazing dad.

There's a lot to figure out when you move into a new office

 

My (relatively) new digs at Materion.

A month or so ago, I moved out of the office I had occupied for nearly four years. It was a literal upward move, as I went from the first floor of our building to the third.

I wasn't particularly looking to move, but my boss Uli wanted me to be closer to many of the people I support and/or work with directly. My first-floor office, you will note, was in the middle of a ghost town with only two co-workers located anywhere near me.

I liked the peace and quiet there, but as is almost always the case, Uli's instincts were correct and my move to the top floor has been a really good thing.

Still, like any office move, there was some work involved.

For one thing, I had to get all of my stuff up to the new place. That included a wide range of knickknacks and sports bobbleheads. I packed everything away, threw it on a rolling cart, and managed to transport it all in an hour or so.

My new office is larger than the old one, with plenty of space to display all of my stuff (as you can see in the photo above). It also includes a little conference table, which I didn't have before.

More important, though, is the area around my new office and what it has to offer.

For one thing, the neighbors are excellent. Next door to me on one side is Galina from our tax group, and on the other is Rich from the finance team. Both are great, and I can say with confidence that none of us makes any noise that would disturb the others.

Then of course I had to scope out the coffee situation. Down on the first floor, I was usually the first or second person to arrive in the morning, so I would always make the coffee.

It was Starbucks drip coffee stored in a pump-dispensing carafe. It was good, but it was also the only option. You either drank what I made or went elsewhere if you preferred another type of java.

On the third floor there is a Keurig machine with lots of k-cup choices, almost of all of which are caffeinated. There are usually a couple of Dunkin decaf cups laying around, and those are what I drink after being told by my doc to limit my caffeine intake.

You take the good with the bad.

Near my office is also a table on which there are always snacks and a jigsaw puzzle for anyone who wants to spend a few minutes there putting a few pieces into place.

The last thing I need is the snacks, and I am not a puzzle person, so I steer clear of that table when I can.

Other things you have to account for when moving into a new office include proximity to the restroom, access to a reliable printer, the amount of space in the fridge for your lunch, and the location of stairwells for quick building entrance and exit.

I will say my new pad scores well on all of these factors,

As long as I keep my own personal stash of decaf k-cups, I'm in business.

A Q&A interview with my 7-month-old grandson Cal

NOTE: It's not often we here at 5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild score anything you might call an "exclusive," but we've definitely hit a home run today. We're proud to present the first published interview with Calvin Edmonds, world-renowned formula expert, diaper connoisseur, and – in what I do not consider to be any sort of journalistic conflict – our grandchild. Calvin recently sat down with us to share his views on life as an infant and how easy it is to manipulate your parents and grandparents.

5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild (5K1W1G): Calvin, this is so exciting! Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule of rolling, crying, pooping and attending the occasional library story time to talk with us.

Calvin: It's all good, Grandpa, my pleasure.

5K1W1G: So...you've been around for 7 months now. How is it going for you? Has life been everything you expected?

Calvin: Honestly, I didn't have any expectations at all. One minute I'm in a warm, dark, cramped place, the next I'm in a hospital NICU hooked up to all sorts of machines. I had no idea there was anything outside the womb. Let's just say I'm still adjusting.

5K1W1G: Your parents, Chloe and Michael. They meet your every need and respond to your every whim. You have to be happy with their performance so far.

Calvin: Oh absolutely, they're amazing. I didn't realize I would be given my own personal servants, but now I can't imagine life without them.

5K1W1G: Any constructive feedback for them?

Calvin: I don't want to sound ungrateful, since those two are rookies at this just like I am. But I will say that sometimes when I cry, they take upwards of 15 seconds to figure out what I want and give it to me. Seven months into this gig, I don't think we need those sorts of delays.

5K1W1G: What about your Grammy Terry and me? How are we doing?

Calvin: All due respect? You guys are suckers. I thought I could make Mom and Dad do whatever I wanted, but you guys...it's like mind control. You're hilariously easy. Whatever I want, whenever I want it, you give it to me.

5K1W1G: We view it as our mission in life. Any areas of improvement for us?

Calvin: I enjoy coming to see you, but you can't drive down to my house more often? Akron too far for you to spend time with your one and only grandchild?

5K1W1G: Well, I mean, Grammy comes to your place quite often. It's just that I have to work five days a week to keep her in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.

Calvin: Sounds like an excuse. Let's work on that.

5K1W1G: We will, I promise. I see your mom already has you in swimming lessons and music classes. How engaged are you with these activities?

Calvin: More than you think, though my job is usually just to look around and occasionally smile to let her know I'm enjoying myself.

5K1W1G: Speaking of your mom, she plans to become a doctor. How do you feel about that?

Calvin: My experience with doctors is that they talk to you like they're your best friend then turn around and give you shots. I don't trust 'em. At some point during med school, I predict Mom is going to see through this charade and rethink her life choices.

5K1W1G: And your dad, Michael. What does he do for work?

Calvin: It has something to do with trucks. And buildings, I think. I'm not entirely sure. I mean, I'm 7 months old.

5K1W1G: With a surprisingly advanced vocabulary. Hey, I can't help but notice you have a couple of teeth now. Are you putting those to use?

Calvin: If by "putting those to use" you mean biting my mom from time to time, then yes. Food-wise, they've been giving me cereal and other mushy stuff, but nothing that really requires you to have a good set of incisors, you know? I assume the steak and hard candy will come later.

5K1W1G: What about hobbies? Any personal interests you've picked up?

Calvin: My dad and I are gamers. Well, I mean, he does the actual "gaming," but I'm usually strapped to him in the carrier while he does it. I've seen enough to know that if you put a PlayStation controller in my hands, I could dominate at FIFA.

5K1W1G: At this point in the interview, we should probably address the elephant in the room – your looks. You're a strikingly handsome fellow. Gerber Baby cute. How has that affected you?

Calvin: <sighs> Look, I appreciate the compliments, but do you know how hard it is to look this good? People treat you differently. They stare at you. They don't care about your thoughts or ideas. Like the other day, I had just finished reading "The Communist Manifesto" for the third time, and I wanted to share with Mom my criticisms of the book and where Marx went wrong. But she wasn't having any of it. Over and over, all she did was get in my face and ask, "Who's a cute boy? WHO'S A CUTE BOY?!?" Me, the answer is me. I know that, she knows that. Can we move on? I'm telling you, it's exhausting being one of the Beautiful People. You uglies have it so much easier...

5K1W1G: Wait, what?

Calvin: Nothing.

5K1W1G: Well, I think it's just about nap time for you, so one last question. If you could be a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

Calvin: Oh, Grandpa, that's so cliche. You're better than that. Why don't you just launch into your "I was on two game shows" story for the thousandth time?

5K1W1G: That hurts.

Calvin: Sorry. I love you, Grandpa.

5K1W1G: I love you, too, buddy.

I haven't been a tall person in more than 40 years, but I still occasionally do tall person things

My son Jack making me look like a dwarf.

I was just down in our basement laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer when I stood up and nearly hit my head on the metal gas pipe running across the ceiling.

Actually, my head didn't come anywhere near the pipe, but I flinched as if it had. This is funny for a few reasons:

1. That pipe is probably 6 1/2 feet above the floor. I am not, have never been, nor ever will be 6 feet, 6 inches tall.
   
   
2. For that matter, I am not, have never been, nor ever will be even 6 feet tall.
   
   
3. The last time I was considered anything approaching "tall" was during Ronald Reagan's first term.

As I've chronicled here before, I spent a few early years of my life being tall. From about 5th grade through 8th grade, I was taller than most of my peers.

This was only because I hit puberty way before the majority of my classmates. I spent 6th grade literally looking down on them with my suddenly deep voice and hilariously wispy mustache.

I played two years of middle school basketball as a center, not because I was especially skilled but because I was still relatively tall and could grab rebounds.

I could also commit fouls, which I did with frequency. I fouled out of almost every game in which I played.

Genetics being what they are, I stopped growing and everyone eventually caught up to me. I have spent my adult life at a shade under 5-10, which mathematically makes me of slightly above-average height compared with the typical 5-9 American male, but in reality has meant I'm just another guy who isn't short but isn't tall.

Still, even three years of tall person-hood back in the early 80s ingrained in me certain tall person habits that surface from time to time. Like ducking under metal pipes that are nowhere close to my head and thinking I can reach things on the top shelf of the grocery store when in fact I can't.

My sons are fairly tall at 6-1 (Jared) and 6-2 (Jack), but that either comes from Terry's side of the family or a recessive gene linked to my Uncle Jim, the tallest of my dad's brothers.

I don't remember how short I really am until I stand next to one or both of my boys, at which point I feel like the mayor of Munchkinland.

But I will always remember the time when I was the Shaquille O'Neal of Mapledale Elementary School. It was glorious.

Hearkening back to when I was tall. Bob Holmes to my immediate right was the only boy who could challenge me for vertical endowment.

Happy birthday this week to my wife! And apparently me!

My daughter Chloe made this birthday cake for Terry a few years ago.

This post first appeared here on September 22, 2023. I bring it back because my wife's birthday is this Wednesday, and because she still considers us to be the same age even if officially she is a year older than me from March through November. Also, I'm now 56. And for the moment, so is she.

Do you have a hard time remembering how old you are?

I ask because I don't. I never have to stop and think, "Wait, am I 52? 53? 54?"

I just know I'm 53.

I notice a lot of people have to give it real thought when asked their age. It may take them a good 5 or 10 seconds before they can confidently offer an answer.

In their defense, if you're in the lower-middle and upper-middle parts of a particular decade, those years and birthdays do tend to run together. By that I mean, for example, when you're in the 52-54 or 56-58 age ranges.

Those particular years are, for practical purposes, all essentially the same.

But you know right away when you're a "milestone" age like 20, 30, 40, 50, etc. And you can usually remember if you've turned the "1" number (21, 31, 41, 51, etc.) in the last 12 months OR if you're in the final year before a milestone (19, 29, 39, 49, etc.)

Other ages, though? Yeah, they go by so quickly they can be difficult to keep track of.

As I said, this is never a problem for me. I can rattle off my current age at a moment's notice even despite my wife's attempts to throw me off.

Terry is about 7 1/2 months older than me. We were born the same year, she in March and me in November. It is her policy, when she turns a certain age, that I am immediately that same age. In her mind, there is no time lag between us.

So for instance, if the calendar suggests that on March 18th (her birthday) she turns 40 years old and I remain 39, Terry sees things differently. To her, we are both instantly 40, birth certificates be damned.

I am so used to hearing this from her that I will admit an occasional fraction-of-a-second hesitation in declaring my age to anyone who asks. But it's so slight you wouldn't notice, and thus I claim no real trouble in remembering how old I am.

For now, that is. Try me again in 30 or 40 years. By that time, it will be sufficient if I know my first name and can come within a decade, plus or minus, of my age.

There comes a time in life when it's all about the little victories.