wild*life

Last night, Geoffrey George, got hitched.  It was a beautiful wedding.  Warm weather, a breathtaking view, delicious food and elated couple.

Jake was pretty tired by the time the ceremony was about to get underway.  Three days of wedding rehearsals, dinners, parties and brunches (he skipped two nights of evening drinks) were finally catching-up to him.  We line-up to begin the procession and Jakey is suddenly hit by a round of the “stomach issue” he and Mommy have been suffering all week.  Literally, we are supposed to walk down the aisle and I smell “something.”  Uh oh.  Really?  Right now?

My dad says, “Well, we’re 45 minutes late.  What’s 5 more minutes while we change his diaper?”  We rush down to the back of the car.

So we’re back, refreshed, and waiting for our turn.  I test the situation to see if I can get Jake to “take the ring pillow to Dada!”  No such luck.  It’s a make it work moment.  I yank the nigh-nigh and carry him down the aisle in his little three-piece suit, quick drop him off with his Grandma and Granddad (“get out the Cheerios!” I hiss) and take my place.

“The good Reverend James” was amazing.  Truly, truly amazing.  His ceremony struck the perfect balance between humorous and heartfelt.  Everyone showered him with praise on how special it was.  I was mesmerized.  He was so handsome and confident, like he’s been marrying people for years.  I am so lucky.

Part way through, Jake jumps down and runs across the front to be with me.  It’s time for my story and reading so I step forward with my new “accessory.”  Apparently I didn’t miss a beat, despite the fact Jake was grabbing my dress, lifting it up, and several times, just putting his arms right up my skirt.  I maintained my modesty.

We went back to our spot and I picked him up per his less than hushed commands.  Then it seemed he planned to dart back across to his Grandma and Granddad.  I put him down, thinking it would be a short trip and hopefully only slightly disruptive.  Jake ran to the middle and then pulled a hard right.  He ran directly down the aisle, arms in the air.  One day you’re in, and the next, you’re out.  (Said in Heidi Klum’s accent, of course.)  If he could, I’m sure he would have yelled, “I’m free!”  Apparently, at that point, he was done getting married.

He never looked back.  He ran with unrestrained abandon, right past everyone and everything.  Auf Wiedersehen.

Fortunately, Uncle Jay jumped-up and gained on him…  I didn’t see him until Jay came back with him at least 20 minutes later, completely zonked out in his arms.  Jay is the baby-whisperer.

All in all, Project Runway was a success.  We overcame hard-soled shoes.  We braved pictures and parties and dress-up clothes.  And Auntie Angela and Uncle Geoff were beaming: the picture of happiness.  *contented sigh*

As a parent, you come up with new ways to get things done.  Time is precious.  Energy is fleeting.  Lately I’ve noticed James and I are also getting more clever.  It goes something like this…

From the living room I hear: “Jakey, take this to Mama.  Take this to Mama!”  (The sound of little footsteps running…)

“Oh wow, thank you Jacob!  A dirty sock.  Wow thank you.”  (Mommy really needs to get dressed for work.)  “Jake.  Where’s Dada?  Go find Dada.”  (Quick, throw on my pants.  Run to the bathroom to put on my make-up.  A few moments of peace.)

“Jakey.  Tell Mama to brush your teeth.”  (Slap mascara on.  Deoderant.)  “Oh hi Jake.  Where’s your ball?  Go find your ball.”  (Get to the kitchen.  Put my tea in a travel cup.)

(Without warning, he’s back.)  “Mama’s almost ready.  Take this to Dada in the bedroom.  Take this to Dada.”

“What is this?!  Trash?  Why would Dada want this?”  (It’s not trash exactly, it’s just the wrapper from my tea bag.)

Later that night I find the “trash” stuffed into my pillowcase.  Maybe James will find a dirty sock in his…

On Sunday, my baby brother, Geoffrey George, is getting married.  Jake has been named as a “ring bearer.”

For the occasion, we bought him a little 3-piece grey suit (I promise to post a picture, post-matrimony).  I was having a hard time justifying a pair of wear-once dress shoes, so we found some really adorable matching grey converse.  I think it will look very J-Crew.

In any case, Jake has pretty much refused to wear hard sole shoes, ever.  He can only wear the finest soft-soled moccasin like shoes that mimic bare feet.  When we tried the Converse on him at Nordstrom’s, he stood stock still and just cried.  We figured that with some practice, he’d get used to them.

James started the footwear desensitization project yesterday, strapping him into his new velcro Chuck Taylor All Stars.  James called me at work…  “Jake is crawling around the house.”

Apparently there was measurable improvement by the end of the day.

We also thought we should do a little “ring pillow” practice, since my attempts at explaining a wedding to Jake were met with clear disinterest and a general air of cluelessness.  Mommy walked up and down the hall with a little pillow, humming the wedding march.  “See how carefully I hold this pillow in front of me?  OK, now you try.”

We put Jake in his newly hemmed 3-piece suit to make sure it fits.  We don’t bother with the shirt, just the pants and jacket.  Then I delicately hand over the little white pillow.  Mommy starts humming the wedding march…. da da da dum, da da da dum…

Jake takes three steps, hoists the pillow back over his shoulder, and throws it about two feet.  He then picks it up and hurls it another two feet, repeating this process down the entire length of the hall and back.

I don’t really think this is what Geoff and Angela had in mind when they bestowed him with this honor.

When I was in about fourth grade, my best friend Esther got a new baby sister.  As her sister started talking, Esther and her siblings thought it was the funniest thing ever to get her to say “truck.”  Little Becca’s “truck” rhymed with truck but started with “f.”  Now, this was a mormon family where you were in serious trouble if you got caught saying “butt” and therefore had to say “rump.”  I tried to stay out of it.

I was recently reminded of these problem words this past January when we went with my nephew to Disneyland.  We were in the hotel lobby, waiting to be seated for the “Mickey and Friends” breakfast.  My nephew was so excited he couldn’t keep still.  All of a sudden, he comes running past the hostess yelling, “It’s Tits!  It’s Tits!”  I was a bit taken aback.  Is Pamela Anderson in a new Disney movie?  Then it dawned on me, Stitch was in there.  That creepy koala bear alien.  Jakey was so scared he hid his face in my stitch.

And then I was hanging out with our godson, Cooper.  Coop is addicted to trains; specifically, Thomas the Train.  Apparently Thomas is British, which I did not know.  Thomas has a train buddy named Percy.  Only, let’s just say, most kids cannot say Percy.  I’m starting to see a pattern here… I tried to change the subject.

Now we’re at the stage where Jacob is ready to start upping his polite factor.  I’d like to hear more frequent use of the words “please” and “thank you,”  without so much prompting.  The only problem?  “Thank you” is “doo doo.”

It’s not really improving my impression of his manners.   

I’m a big believer in nature.  Some things I’m sure are nurture, but really, I think there are genes and combinations of genes that we wouldn’t believe in our wildest dreams.  I’ve already written about Jake’s “torture gene.”  Not long ago, I read a book that said the proclivity to suck on something like a pacifier is passed down from generation to generation…  constant evidence supporting my AA analogy.

Almost every morning I am reminded of the constant battle between nature versus nurture.  To illustrate:

Nature: Every morning my son pops up like toast, some time between 4:30 and 5:30am.  He is naturally a morning person.  I too am more of a morning person than a night owl… as those who piled cans on me and toilet-papered my little innocent form, as I slept soundly through junior high slumber parties, will attest.  However, given that my alarm clock is set for 6:00am, one of us usually stumbles into his room, picks him up, and dumps him into our bed each and every morning, desperately hoping he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep.

Nurture: James came up with this game while playing with my nephew.  I call it “Smell My Feet.”  Here’s how it goes: Jakey puts his little toes in my face and then I’m supposed to hoop and holler and make a face about how bad they smell.  I like to say, “WhoooooWeeeee!  Your toesies smell like marshmallows and monkeys.  Or, your toes smell like butterscotch and basements.”  So, it’s a clear example of “nurture” when I’m laying there at 4:45am and Jake thinks it’s a great time to put his little toes in my face… Mmmm, no thanks.

Nature: Another of my fondest ways to wake-up is when I’m laying there in the dark and all of a sudden, a little finger goes up my nose.  Ha ha.  The more I block him, the funnier Jake thinks it is to torture my nostrils.  Clearly we did not teach him this game.  This is genetic.  As is the non-stop kicking in the stomach.

Nature: Jacob also thinks that my neck looks exactly like a saddle.  There’s nothing like having a 30lb. toddler climb up on your jugular and bounce up and down in the wee hours of the morning.  I am not a horsey.  Unless you consider me bucking him right off and pulling the sheet up over my head.

Nature: Ever since he could crawl, Jake has decided that he can’t really go back to sleep unless he is really close to me.  As in laying on me.  As in, his face must be ON my face.  His cheek must be resting on top of my cheek.  He came up with this all by himself.  He is not OK if I try to implement the Ross and Rachel “hug and roll” from Friends.  I squeeze him, and then roll him over toward his dad.  Nope.  Cheek to cheek.

So, as we can see, nature is the clear winner in this highly scientific examination of mornings with a toddler.  This weekend, James and I went away to the Napa Valley for a wedding and one of our first times away.  Of course, we’ve now been “trained” and can’t really sleep in…  James thought it was so hilarious to wake me up by imitating morning-Jake.  First he had to roll on me and gently kick me in the stomach.  Then he stood up in the middle of the bed.  When he pretended to pull the ol’ “saddle neck” move, he was in mortal danger.  Good morning funny man.

Growing-up, we had the most loving white umbrella cockatoo named Roxie.  We bought her at the Santa Cruz flea market, where we bought several other birds that were most certainly smuggled in from far away places and then sold to slightly suspecting bargain shoppers at the drive-in movie/swap meet.  Every night at dusk, Roxie would squawk.  The most ear-piercing, rhythmic, incessant Raaaaaawk, Raaaaaawk, Raaaaaawk!  My mom read that parrots in the jungle call to each other at dusk in order to find their flock for the night.

Jake is a lot like Roxie, regardless of the time of day.  We’re at the mall and I hear a child scream 200 yards away.  It doesn’t register consciously.  Until Jake screams back.

Screeeeeeam!  He calls out to his flock.  His feathered comrades are everywhere… in the park, at school, in the grocery store.  He feels compelled to call to them.  I’m here!  I’m here!

Little screaming kindred spirits, passing… morning, noon and night.

Last week was Jake’s 17 month birthday.  I’m pretty sure that he has been exposed to more wild bears in 17 months than most people have in a lifetime.  But I’m getting ahead of myself…

A couple of weeks ago Jacob came home with a great picture of an oso (that’s bear in Spanish.  I’m sure you knew this in 9th grade but understand if you haven’t retained this tidbit of vocabulary).  So Jakey brings home my new favorite piece of diningroom artwork.  Later on, I was watching the news and he says “Oso, oso!”  Not sure what the story was– I was too impressed with this new lexicon.

Rewind to when Jake was 3 1/2 months old… we decide to go to the hunting cabin in Pennsylvania with my family.  There’s really nothing like camping in a cabin with no running water in the wilderness with a new baby.  Actually, in hindsight, it was significantly better than 2 weekends ago.  There I go again, getting ahead of myself.  Anyway, we are at the cabin no more than 3 hours when James goes out the cabin door to check on his BBQ, holding Baby Jake in his arms.  About 20 feet away a bear was “using the facilities,” right next to the outhouse.  This was Jacob’s first encounter with Juan the Bear (who then proceeded to find Geoff, Angela and me up at the lake… but that’s another story for another time).

Now fast forward to two weekends ago.  We went to Yosemite on a 3-night camping trip with the Kellums (Jamie, Marcus and Jack), the Palms (Melanie, Dave, Amelia and Chloe), and Jenny and Steve.  Jenny and Steve got the “most adventurous award” in their actual enthusiasm about camping with 4 kids, 3 under the age of 1 1/2, none of them their own.

The campsite, Crane Flat, was a dirt pit.  There were no showers.  But wait, there’s more.  Crane Flat “has a lot of bear activity.”

The first night I am convinced we all slept in ignorant bliss.  The second night, not so much.

At about 1:30 in the morning, Jamie A. now K. awakens in the middle of the night and jabs Marcus.  There’s a bear in our campsite.  Marcus gets up and instead of making loud noises to scare the bear away (he missed this 30 second ranger tutorial when checking-in), quick jumps in his van and drives out looking for a ranger.  Meanwhile Jamie is left cowering in terror, grasping her son who has only just celebrated his first birthday, that very night.  We are ignorantly sawing zzzz’s 2 yards away in our tent.  Of course the rangers work from 8am-6pm so Marcus returns and must take the situation into his own hands.

I wake-up to the following shouting outside our tent, “Get the f&*k out of here, F&8#er!  I will kill you!” (This literally must have scared the s*&^ out of the bear, as we noticed the next morning.)

Jake stands up in his Pack n’ Play, disoriented.  Then the bear bolts directly toward Jamie and Jack in their tent.  Jamie watches through her little screened window in horror as the bear comes galloping directly at her, only to make a hard left turn after she has gotten a look right up his nostrils.

By this point I have sent James out of the tent to help save us.  He comes back a bit later, reporting that the bear had gotten a white wine box that was left on top of our bear box.  What was in this box you ask?  Oh, just our leftover lunch… tuna fish, a box of Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Entertaining Collection cookies, and a gourmet orange Izzie soda.  The bear ate the cookies and drank the soda.  Great, I was really looking forward to eating some more of those cookies!  And now it’s our fault that we are being terrorized by the bear.  There is a fine if the rangers find you are at fault for “bear activity.”

I am frozen in terror, clutching my flashlight and watching every shadow illuminated on the sides of our new tent mansion.  I don’t think the bear will purposely get me, but is likely to lumber right through my tent out of sheer bewilderment.  There is an invisible tent cable that keeps tripping all of us.  The bear will surely trip on this and come sprawling through my “screen porch.”  Jake is cocooned in my sleeping bag in case I have to sacrifice myself to save the innocent.  James finally comes back to bed.

I hear a twig crack.  My heart is racing.  “James, I think the bear is out there.”  James sticks his head out of the tent–the bear is hiding in the woods by our microscopically thin, nylon door, hoping to sneak back for the overlooked tuna fish.  Somehow the bear gets back in and fearfully, climbs a tree directly over our bear box in the middle of our camp.

All I can think about is how I left my chapstick in our daypack in our tent.  With me.  And little helpless Baby Jake.  Anything that smells is supposed to be in the bear box.  Please God, don’t let me die for a tube of Blistex.  Why did I watch that news story about the camper being bitten in his tent in Yellowstone, and then the next guy being killed?  (Luckily I didn’t watch the show Melanie watched, “When Bears Attack.”)  Exhausted, I finally fall asleep.

On the third and last night I did a thorough camp inspection.  Anything remotely bear-bait-like was stowed safely in the bear box.  All night I can hear “Pepperidge the Bear” terrorizing other campers above us on this hill.  Each time these crazy people would hit their car panic buttons, lay on their horns and wake us up with the clambor of what we deemed “The Bear Parade.”  I kept my big pan and wooden spoon next to my bed in case I needed to save my family.  We were so thankful when these campers scared a new bear back through our campsite on the morning of the third day.

Jake loved camping… tons of dirt, sugary snacks, swimming every day.  I am still beary tired.

“Holy molar Batman!  I owe my life to dental hygiene.”

Yes, I married a man who has said this to me on countless occasions.   How does he even find appropriate situations to whip out this Robin quote?  I have no idea… but you have to be somewhat impressed, right?  I got in trouble with Jacob’s Grantmother for not having documented the fact that he has multiple molars.

I’m pretty sure he has 3 and a half. “Brush teeth, Nigh-nigh” has been particularly challenging this week.  I hope his vitamins with fluoride are helping to counteract the ineffectiveness of “suck on toothbrush, arch back, squirm, cry and escape in a blur of black cape and pointy ears”… which is roughly what happened tonight.

You know, Batman is known for his teeth, as most bats are I’m sure.  Nigh-nigh Bruce Wayne.  I’ll get you next time.

One of James’ favorite movies is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  Gene Wilder, not Johnny Depp.  Apparently, Willy Wonka looks like his dad.  In general, I’ve been Roald Dahl’s biggest fan since Mr. Shepherd’s lunchtime readings in 4th grade.  Unfortunately, the creepy singing tunnel scene makes this movie unwatchable for me.

In one scene, Mr. Beauregarde yells, “Violet, you’re turning violet!”  And then she becomes a blueberry (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNm1kfxlNJQ&feature=related).

Have I mentioned how many blueberries Jakey eats?  It’s his favorite food.  It’s the perfect food.  He’s probably eaten a case of blueberries just in the past 3 months.  So, it didn’t surprise me when we took his little shirt off after school the other day, and his chest was blue.  It was only a matter of time.

It’s all Alesia’s fault.  She is the reason that I have been addicted to a certain teenage romance vampire series.  Honestly, I like it, but I don’t love it.  Not in the same way that I love my Phillipa Gregory princess books.  In any case, I’m still addicted.  And the vampire books seem to be sucking my blog brain dry.

I never could figure out how James always knew everything that had gone on in the sporting world.  Football, baseball, basketball.  Names, scores, amazing plays.  Then he finally let me in on his secret.  Apparently there is this show called SportsCenter that tells you everything you need to know about sports in 30 minutes.  The secret to maintaining your manliness and your marriage.  Just wait… bear with me, there is a link between SportsCenter and vampires.

So I’m quietly reading my e-book, fairly skeptical that kissing an ice cold, marble boy would really be any good… even if he is a super model, when a certain guy I know asks, “Have they played vampire baseball yet?”

“What?!  How do you know they play baseball?  What else do you know about this book?”  

Said unnamed man I know rattles off: the vampire dad’s a doctor, there is a boy named Jacob, he’s a werewolf, she lives with her dad.

Uh.  I don’t know what to say.  I didn’t even know the werewolf thing– great, thanks for ruining the second book.  This guy swears he has not read these books.  I am highly suspicious that all of this knowledge is possible through ads and pop culture osmosis.

Can someone tell me which channel the 30 minute VampireCenter program is on?