Schitt’s Creek.

Deb recently started watching the series on Freevee. She wants me to watch it, too. I’ve seen episodes from Season 1 and some scenes from later seasons. After watching Season 1, Episode 4, I said, “Meh.”

While watching the first four episodes from Season 1, I didn’t laugh out loud. But I’m told by reliable sources that later seasons are wonderful. Okay. But I said to Deb, “If there are episodes where the homophobic townies are bullying or menacing the pansexual characters, I don’t want to watch. It’s been done.”

Deb said, “There is zero violence against LGBTQ characters on the show. The people of the town are very accepting of everyone.”

Alrightythen. I will watch more episodes. And to be honest, I am intrigued by the premise of the show because in the early spring of 1979, Mom, Doug, and I found ourselves living in a motel.

You see, in 1978, my mom got engaged to be married (husband #2). She sold her house in South City in the fall. Got married around the same time. Moved us to High Ridge to live with her new husband. Then she got scared. Got separated. Moved us into a motel in Sunset Hills while the husband (soon to be ex-husband) was at work. We stayed around a month until Mom could scrape together enough money to get an apartment and some beds and dressers. The apartment was on Weil St. in  South City, and we were right back into our old school district. We went back to Southwest High School.

The motel wasn’t that interesting. (There certainly was no front desk clerk like Stevie.) But I know what it’s like to have a house one day and be living in a motel the next. And I know what it’s like to be happier living in a motel than in the nicest house on Skyline Drive.

Since Joy came into our lives, we have lived in three different houses. I am aware that the current house can be cluttered, untidy, too hot on the first floor, too cold in the basement. Our furniture does not match, and many of the towels are different colors. The garage is unorganized and full of stuff. The doorknobs need to be replaced. The kitchen flooring is twenty-five-year-old laminate. I don’t weedwack often enough. I don’t own a summer house in Utah. But guess who doesn’t care about those things. Joy doesn’t.

Joy is completely happy with the house. She’ll take a teal towel or the gray one. She loves Aldi donuts and Aldi orange juice. What she thinks is important is love and affection. She loves kisses and hugs and laughter and stroller rides. She is as happy playing in her four-foot pool shaped like a turtle as she is jumping into an Olympic-size pool.

There is nothing contrived about Joy. She always lets us know what she likes and doesn’t like. She likes watching ABBA sing “Dancing Queen” on the iMac. She does not like Lawrence O’Donnell. She likes playing outside; hates coming back in.

“Joy, do you want a stroller ride?” I say. “Yeah,” she says, clapping.

“Joy, can you give Dad the iPhone?”  “AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” (That’s a no.)

Wednesday was Joy’s second day on the bus, so I made sure I was home by four to see her exit the bus. Joy’s bus ride was so long that she was napping when it pulled up to our driveway. Mary grabbed her phone and started filming. The driver opened the folding door and the monitor released Joy’s seatbelt, and she hopped down the stairs and into my arms and promptly laid her head on my shoulder. Meanwhile Mom grabbed her school-bus-themed backpack and chatted with the driver.    

Deb and I had dinner plans with my brother and sister-in-law, and so we headed to Chesterfield’s 54^th Street Grill at 5:45 p.m. We brought Joy along. However, within a minute Joy had run into the bar, so I dragged her out. When we were seated, Joy tried climbing over us, apparently to go back to the bar. So Deb picked her up and said, “I’m taking Joy to my mom’s. I’ll be back in ten to fifteen minutes.”

Doug and Chrissy and I had drinks while Deb dropped Joy off at Booshie’s (aka Besty’s). When Deb returned, we ordered dinner. (I always get the Rattlesnake Pasta and a margarita.) We had a fantastic dinner and got to hear about Paige and Alex and the dogs and Doug and Chrissy’s upcoming cruise.

Two hours later we picked up Joy at Booshie’s. Booshie had taken Joy to the park and had a half dozen videos of Joy having a blast on the swings. After the park, they went back to the condo and had dinner. Joy then had a bath and probably ice cream. Joy loved every second. So, thank you, Booshie! After looking at the videos several times, I think it’s clear that these two love each other so much.

The Time Traveler’s Wife is a great book, and the movie is good, too. I liked both. But the last scene in the movie (which isn’t in the book) is stuck in my head. And it has recently made me think about why it affected me so much when I saw the movie.

In the last scene, which is just over three minutes, Henry travels into the future, the meadow, and sees his daughter Alba, now age nine. (Henry dies when Alba is five.) Alba immediately sends her friends Max and Rosa to run to the house to get her mom.

Henry spends one minute and twenty seconds with Alba, telling her the story of how he met Clare. Clare runs through the meadow and into Henry’s arms and spends 59 seconds with him before he goes.

And so, I think, what would I give (what would anyone give) to have a minute or two with someone who is gone (and by “gone” I don’t necessarily mean deceased). Maybe I’d go back to Kat’s third birthday party or Emily’s high school graduation or Mom’s house on the day after Thanksgiving or Talladega with Dad.

Early this morning I handed my phone to Joy (who was whining and bouncing on my back) so she could watch reels on YouTube. I then lay back down and closed my eyes. Because it was freakin’ 6:45 a.m. Suddenly I opened my eyes. I rolled out of bed and got dressed. And I searched for Joy. She was in the basement watching some annoying thirty-second videos by a Tik-Tok’er named Okanutie.

“Joy, please give me the phone. Let’s go up and get breakfast.” She handed me the phone, and I put it in my pocket.

Instead of Cheerios and screentime, Joy and I had mini donuts and milk and made funny faces. She does this imitation game in which I have to do exactly what she does—hand gestures, sticking a finger in her mouth while making funny noises, peek-a-boo poses, etc. And she laughed so hard that I laughed. After her bath, she lay on our king size bed and gave me something like thirty kisses. And I was smiling so wide that my mouth hurt. And right then, at 8:30 a.m., I realized that those two minutes of kisses were going to be the best two minutes of my day.

I can’t go back to Kat’s third birthday party. I can’t even go back to this morning and have breakfast with Dr. Kat on her thirty-first birthday. But I can turn away from distractions (especially the iPhone) and give Joy and Deb and others my presence. I can: Sit next to Joy when she plays. Open up the Play-Doh and help her make balls and Play-Doh rope. Go to the pool with Deb and Joy and actually get in the pool. Make Joy’s favorite smoothies and drink them on the back porch. Put a dozen bath toys in the tub and watch Joy have a blast.

I can stop writing this blog entry, close the laptop, and pick up the girls from school.

So on Thursday, I came home from the library at 2 p.m. I read an article from the AARP newsletter, “8 Things to Do After 50 to Help You Live Longer” (as far as I can tell, I’m not doing any of those things), I took my Metamucil, and then I helped get Joy ready for the preschool open house at Meadows Parkway.

It was crazy. So crowded. Morning families, afternoon families, and full-day families all there to meet teachers and drop off supplies.

Joy knew exactly where to go. Her teacher, Ms. Dana, was her teacher last year. Joy played in the pretend kitchen with the pretend cookware, and then she knocked over some blocks that had been carefully stacked by a blond four-year-old girl, who pointed at Joy and said to her thirtysomething mom, “She knocked over my blocks.” Yes. Yes, she did. Maybe you should read “The Three Little Pigs.”

Meadows Parkway installed new playground equipment over the summer, so we had to see that. Joy did the jungle gym, slides, ladders, the merry-go-cycle, monkey bars, balance beam, climbing wall, the tube, and eighteen other fun things.

After forty-five minutes, I told Deb, “I’m going to get the car and pull it around. Grab her in three minutes and carry her to the car.”

Joy screamed all the way to the car.

Joy had had so much fun that she fell asleep in the hallway when we got home.

I fell asleep at the library.

I flew from St. Louis to Albuquerque on July 28. Deb and Joy had dropped me off at the Southwest terminal at 6:30 a.m.

I was in group B11. Not bad. I got an aisle seat. We landed at 10:55 a.m.

In ABQ, I proceeded to the Hertz counter.

Agent: Next!

Me: Hi, I have a reservation.

Agent: Last name, please.

Me: McConnell.

Agent: I’ve got it right here, Mr. McConnell. You reserved a minivan. A Pacifica. [Pause; agent types at his terminal] Would you be interested in upgrading to a GMC Yukon? It has more room…

Me: I’m good. The minivan gets better gas mileage.

Agent: That’s true. But unfortunately we do not have any minivans on the lot at this time. I’m sure some will be returned later today.

Me: I guess I’ll take the Yukon.

Agent: Excellent. The upgrade will be at no charge, of course.

Me: Have you seen the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and Elaine are in line to rent a car?

Agent: Ha. Yes.

Me: And Jerry says, I made a reservation for a mid-size blah blah… and the agent says, I’m sorry, we have no mid-size available at the moment. And Jerry says, I don’t understand, I made a reservation. And the agents says, Yes, but we ran out of cars.

Agent: Yes, that’s funny.

Me: And Jerry says, But the reservation keeps the car here. That’s why you have the reservation. And the agent says, I know why we have reservations. Then Jerry says, I don’t think you do. If you did, I’d have a car. You know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to HOLD the reservation and that’s really the most important part of the reservation, the holding.

Agent: Do you want insurance on the Yukon, Mr. McConnell?

Me. No. I’m good.

Agent: Okay. Just sign here. [I sign.] Now, walk right out those doors, and then go to the right. The Yukon is in space 355.

—

I drove to Kat’s apartment in a brand-new Yukon, and we spent the weekend cleaning the apartment and selling furniture. Kat and I then filled up the Yukon and her car with the rest of her belongings.

On Monday morning, Kat defended her dissertation (and passed), and then Dr. Kat and I spent three days driving to Chicago. We ran into very little construction or delays. We stayed at a hotel in Oklahoma City, then the next night stayed at home in St. Louis.

In Chicago, we pulled up to a beautifully maintained four-story apartment building in the center of the charming Hermosa neighborhood. The building is at least 100 years old. Original doors, trim, and moldings. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Steam heat. (But no A/C.)

We unpacked the cars. Shopped at Walmart. Assembled some furniture. We went to a Mexican place for dinner, and in the morning went to an upscale diner called Rise and Shine that had the most amazing bread pudding French toast.

And then I headed back to St. Louis.

I pulled into the Hertz parking lot in St. Louis at 6:09 p.m. Thursday. Mileage: 1,767 miles. I typically drive 7,000 miles a year. So 1,700 miles is huge for me.

But the time went by in a flash. Each day, in fact, seems to go by faster than the last. It seems like just yesterday that I would lie down and read Lemony Snicket books to Kat or Horton Hears a Who to Emily. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was twenty years ago. It seems like yesterday that I held a four-year-old in my arms and got huge hugs and three dozen kisses. Well, actually, that was yesterday.

I read recently that 75 percent of the time we spend with our kids is before they turn twelve. Ninety percent of our time together is before age eighteen. Those are scary, depressing numbers. But someone calculated those numbers so that we can change them.

My iPhone stopped working a week ago. The touchscreen, which has been cracked for about year, is no longer operating. I took it to UBreakWeFix, but a replacement screen did not fix the problem. I went to AT&T and purchased a new phone, but the staff said they could not set it up if the old phone was not working. I’ve also forgotten my AppleID password, and resetting it kind of requires that the old phone work.

During my first day phone-less, I was furious. I wanted my phone to work NOW. I tried to set up the new iPhone myself. Fail. I tried to reset my AppleID. Fail.

Later that day, my credit card was declined at Aldi, so I called BofA from Deb’s phone. “Hello, I’m trying to find out why my credit card is being declined…”

“Sir, we can’t help you unless you call from the phone on file.”

My blood pressure instantly went through the roof. “Really? Well, that phone is broken. I’m calling from my wife’s phone. What if I told you my mother’s maiden name, or my birth date, the make and model of my first car, my social security number, the name of my first pet, or the name of my best friend from eighth grade?”

“Sir, I can’t even access your file unless you call from a phone number on file. You need to add this phone to your profile.”

I hung up.

Deb and Joy decided to steer a wide berth of Dad for the rest of the day.

But it’s been a week now with no phone. And I feel good. Yes, I need my phone back. I need the Zelle app, as well as the phone call feature, my contacts, voicemail, clock, alarms, calendar, camera and photos, email, texts, PayPal, PNC, GPS, Google, Facebook Marketplace, iTunes, Instacart, and YouTube for Joy.

Joy wakes up at 7 a.m. most mornings and heads to my phone for her early-morning screen time (YouTube reels). She was irritated last Friday when she woke up and there was no phone on Daddy’s nightstand. So she climbed into our bed and cuddled with me and fell back to sleep. She has repeated this ritual almost every day. I love it.

I’ve started wondering if there is way to live without the iPhone. Ed Sheeran does it. Arnold Schwarzenegger does it. Can a freelance copy editor do it? Probably not. I need to check email at least every two hours. I need to receive phone calls (I don’t call anyone), and I need texting. Or I think I do.

My screentime reports say I spend an average of 4.5 hours a day on the phone (some of that is Joy). What could I accomplish if I had an extra 4.5 hours every day?

I lived without a mobile phone for 41 years. I didn’t do the smartphone thing until 2012. Yes, I had a flip phone until the summer of 2012. When I get my phone working (tomorrow, I think), I need to turn it off more often. And I need to keep it off my nightstand, because: cuddling with Joy.

We all need to learn to live without the iPhone. Because as you may know, in all postapocalyptic scenarios, cell phone service stops everywhere.

The photos below are from PrideFest.

My dad was a saver. He was frugal. He’d pick up a lost penny off the ground and put it in his pocket. He never had his car towed. Not once in 75 years did he call a towing service. That was a waste of money, he said. If his car stopped running while on the road, he’d work on it till he had it running. Or he’d push it home. Every time we went to dinner, he had a coupon.

But he did spend money on things that he loved. He once told me about buying a pair of custom-made roller skates in the mid-1950s when he was obsessed with the sport. His skates were made in Chicago. Cost $150. At the time, 1956, he earned less than $20 a week working part-time at IGA. So he saved his money for months to get those skates.

Dad had dreams of being a semiprofessional roller skater. He did precision figure skating—jumps and spins. He did dancing on roller skates. Skating was apparently a big  deal in the 1950s. And Dad was very good.

In the 1960s he was suddenly married with children. But he still loved skating, and he took me and Doug to a skating rink in Ellisville on the weekends. (The building is still there, on Manchester near Clarkson.) He never taught us to skate. Just gave us the rented skates and expected us to figure it out. And we did.

In some ways, I’m like my dad. I found a dime at the car wash last week. And I still love skating. I was skating about a week ago. I put on my speed skates ($51 on Amazon in 2015), and Joy chased me around the house. I skated the hallway and the kitchen. The foyer. Suddenly, BAM! I was on the floor. At first, I thought I had broken my wrist. But it was fine. However, my shoulder was on fire. I couldn’t lift my arm. A week later, it’s a bit better. But I’m putting the skates up for a while.

I cannot afford to be seriously injured. Or worse. I have a four-year-old daughter who kinda relies on me. In fact, I think I have to figure out how to live until age 90.

I need to get more exercise. But it will not be on roller skates. A stationary bike is a better option for me. And, of course, chasing Joy when she hops out of the tub.

At 9:15 a.m. Tuesday morning, my iPhone was placed on my chest as I slept. A minute later a pair of jeans was tossed on my face.

I didn’t yet know it was 9:15. It felt like seven or seven thirty.

“Morning, Joy,” I mumbled. “Please, let Daddy sleep for five more minutes.” I put the phone on the nightstand and pushed the jeans off my face and onto the floor.

Joy picked up the jeans and dropped them on my face again. She put the phone on my neck. (Translation: Dad, put on your clothes, check email, and let’s get going on breakfast.)

“Okay, Joy. I’m up.” I sat up. I looked at my phone: 9:17.

Joy handed me a diaper and then she lay on the floor. I made the change.

“Let’s get some Cheerios,” I said. “I think we have chocolate milk today.”

Joy led me to the kitchen, where I put Cheerios in a bowl, chocolate milk in her cup, and water in the tea kettle.

Joy pointed to the fruit bowl on the counter.

“Hey, baby,” I said. “You want a banana?”

Joy smiled.

“Aw, Joy. The nanas are still green. We can probably eat them tomorrow.”

Joy started to cry.

Some things I can solve fairly quickly. I can make microwave popcorn in two minutes, eleven seconds. I can replace the batteries in a toy in about a minute. Diaper change: just over a minute. Warm bath: five minutes. And normally I can slice a banana in around thirty seconds. But today I was telling my little girl that Daddy couldn’t make sliced bananas until tomorrow (even though they’re right there on the counter).

So, I get the tears. Bananas are yummy. But they have to be just right. If I gave Joy a green banana, she would never eat them again.

I almost decided to make a trip to Schnucks to get bananas. (Our green ones were from Aldi.) But Joy had stopped crying and was playing with her Fisher-Price toys.

After breakfast, I gave Joy hugs and kisses. “Happy World Down Syndrome Day!” I said.

Joy said “love you” in the way that she does.

I could say that, at our house, every day is Down Syndrome Day. But it’s really not. In our house, every day is Joy Day. Joy lets us know what’s on the agenda. Today was: wake up Dad, diaper change, breakfast with Cheerios and milk, snacks (grapes and graham crackers), jumping, screen time (with dancing), playing with dolls, playing with Mary and Amanda, trip to Goodwill with Mom, visiting with aunts, stroller ride with Mom, drawing, nap with Mom, stacking blocks, and lots of love and hugs and kisses.

And tomorrow: BANANAS!

Once again, Joy is in her footed pajamas at the front door, looking out the glass storm door, clapping and jumping. She has the biggest, most beautiful smile, and she’s laughing, so excited that Daddy is home. And of course, I am happy to be home.

I love this ritual. I love that Joy is so tickled at this event: Dad is home. All she wants at that moment is for me to step inside and pick her up, telling her that I missed her all day. That I love her to the moon and back.

“How was your day, baby?” I say as I lift her up and swing her around.

“Oooo-Ooooo!” says Joy.

“I love you too!” I say.

Mommy watches us and smiles.

Deb orchestrates this daily reunion. She tells Joy, “Daddy will be home soon.” Then, “Let’s go to the front door. I think Daddy is home. Oh my goodness. I hear Daddy’s truck.”

And Deb opens the door so that Joy and I can have this moment.

I hope Deb does this for years to come.

When I was about eleven years old my mom gave me a pair of stilts for Xmas or birthday. It was fun at first.  I got the hang of it within minutes and soon could amaze my friends from the neighborhood, who always said, “Hey, let me try.”

The novelty wore off after a while. Stilts increased my stature by maybe ten or twelve inches. But by age twelve or thirteen I had moved on to other interests—a ten-speed bike, skateboards, bowling, baseball, and roller skating.

But for a while stilts made me feel on top of the world. I was as tall as an adult. Falling off my stilts happened from time to time. I skinned my knees and suffered bruises. But I survived.

Joy turned four today. No, I did not buy her stilts for birthday. But her stature has increased by at least three inches this year. And she seems to be on top of the world. She feels so grown up now that she’s going to “school” (Psst! It’s daycare). She likes using the tallest chairs at home. She stands on (and jumps off of) the couch and does acrobatics on our king size bed. She is proud of her ability to run and jump and throw. And dance.

Joy has a friend named Dylan. They like each other a lot. They play on the slide and jump on the mats and stack blocks. Dylan teaches Joy how to play with his dinosaurs. Joy follows Dylan around the house and is learning from him.

Dylan is six. A few days ago, when Joy was still three, Dylan said, “Some people don’t talk when they are three. But Joy will be four soon. And she will talk to me.”

That may be. But right now Joy is communicating with hoots and laughs, smiles, hugs and kisses, and long, confident pronouncements composed of syllables and words that only she understands completely. But I know she is telling us about her day and how grown up she feels and how much she loves us, her family.

Happy birthday, daughter. We love you to the moon and back.