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.

I listen to 80s music every day, but I like the music of your time, too

I am someone who enjoys music from all eras. That includes the 1990s, most of which I spent lugging babies around, changing their diapers, and playing Barbies with my girls, rather than paying much attention to popular music.

I've come to appreciate that decade's musical offerings retrospectively.

The point is, I like a lot of music today, I like classical music of 200 years ago, I like Big Band and bebop jazz of the 1940s and 50s, I like a whole bunch of 60s and 70s tunes, and I like music from the 80s.

Actually, I love the music of the 80s. New Wave, "college music" (that's what they used to call bands like REM, Husker Du, The Smiths and U2), heavy metal, whatever. I'm pretty sure not a day goes by when I don't listen to at least one 80s tune in my car, while I'm washing the dishes, or while I'm out walking.

A lot of people make fun of 80s music, and I get why. The associated fashion of the time was, shall we say, often garish. And there are plenty of songs from that era that are indefensible in any way other than to say they're fun.

Which is just fine. Not every song has to be deep and philosophical to be enjoyable.

You might argue that the only reason I'm so attached to 80s music is because that was the decade when I came of age, as they say. I was in high school from 1984 to 1988, and even before that as a middle schooler I bought more than my share of 45s and cassettes from the popular bands of the day.

But I think it goes beyond that. If there wasn't some intrinsic value to the music, it wouldn't be in such heavy rotation on my phone, nor would it populate my playlists like it does.

My favorites are Sting and The Police. My first concert was Sting at Cleveland's Public Hall in February 1988. I attach a lot of sentimental value and core memories to his songs. I think they still hold up very well.

Then there are Men at Work (the first band I really, really got into), Duran Duran, The Fixx, Howard Jones, Billy Joel, Iron Maiden (my favorite metal group), Huey Lewis, and a host of others I'm forgetting. They made music that was full of melody, musicianship and meaning, if you'll pardon the unintentional alliteration.

As I type this post, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Buffalo waiting to attend a work-related meeting. "Talking In Your Sleep" by the Romantics is playing over the PA system, taking me back in time to 1984. I'm the only one nodding my head and singing along.

And I guarantee I'll still be doing that when I'm 90 years old and an MTV-era song comes on.

Viva los 1980s.

The Legend of Johnny Flipperhands lives on

This is what my right hand looks like in 2026. In addition to being small, it's also beginning to look decidedly old man-ish. I'm not sure I like this.

NOTE: This was the very first post published on this blog back on December 12, 2011. I've updated the photo above, but the rest is just as it appeared then. And be assured...my hands are still small.

"Johnny hands." That's what I've always called my hands, because they look like they should be attached to a little 5-foot-tall guy named Johnny.

Seriously, I have the smallest hands. They don't look like they should belong to someone my age and body size. It's even weirder because the rest of me is fairly proportional. Well, except for my head. My head is freakishly large. I don't know why, but I've always had a large noggin.

And my feet, while reasonable in length (size 10 1/2), are quadruple-E in width. In some models of shoes, 4E isn't even wide enough.

So that's me in a nutshell: Large head, small hands, fat feet. Picture Fred Flintstone. That's me.

I have always had small hands. But now that my kids are growing up, my tiny appendages have become almost embarrassing. My daughter Melanie is 11 years old. If we hold our hands up against each other, palm to palm, my fingers are MAYBE an eighth of an inch longer than hers. And Elissa, my petite little 17-year-old who has trouble making the minimum weight to give blood, has fingers that are clearly longer than mine.

Don't even get me started on Jared, our 13-year-old man-child. He is not only taller than me, his fingers are longer than mine by a full knuckle. It's amazing. Where did I get these little digits? My dad had short fingers, but they were at least bulky. They had some width to them. Mine? They're the fingers of a third-grader, and I'm guessing they're not growing any time soon.

Actually, I think they're shrinking. I don't remember them ever being this tiny before. I just measured the nail on my pinky finger and it's 3/8" across. Three-eighths of an inch! There's going to come a point when my fingernails will disappear altogether – a process I have admittedly helped along because I chew them all the time.

Sometime in the next 5-10 years, I would say, my fingers themselves will just vanish. Then I'll be left with tiny flippers and no opposable thumbs, making even the most rudimentary tasks impossible. I'll need to hire a full-time assistant just to pick things up for me.

Yes, this is the fate that awaits me. Just call me Johnny Flipperhands – Master of the Large Head, Fat Feet and Tiny Mitts.

OK, let's get back to Calvin...

When my grandson Calvin was born last August, I changed the name of this blog to "5 Kids, 1 Wife, 1 Grandchild." As you might expect, the young man has gotten more than his share of exposure here over the ensuing half a year, and rightly so.

But I never wanted the blog to become "all Cal all the time," so you will note that it has been six weeks since I last posted about him.

Time for the little guy to return.

This Wednesday, Cal turns 6 months old. He rolls over like a champ, has a couple of teeth that have broken through, and delights Terry and me by Facetiming us on days when neither of us is able to see him in person.

He also sometimes wakes up a little too early for his mom Chloe's liking, and he is a master grump when tired or simply not getting his way.

Right now, Cal, his mom, and his dad Michael live about 45 minutes away from us in Akron. Where they'll be living this time next year is entirely dependent on where Chloe attends medical school.

She has already been accepted to one institution that would require her to move 2+ hours south of us. That's not ideal, but it's also not a dealbreaker. We could manage it and still see Cal and his parents regularly.

Meanwhile, Chloe is waiting to hear final decisions from two other med schools nearer to home. Acceptance to either could mean they would stay in Akron or move even closer to us.

Let the record show we would certainly not object to that.

I want what's best for Chloe and her family, honestly, but I also want the little guy with whom Terry and I are obsessed to be more accessible.

Either way, fingers crossed.

You can understand our dilemma.