No It All

Earlier this year JJ gave me my first warning.  It went something like, “Mom.  You have one more year of reading and then it’s done.”  I’ve blocked out the exact words and the exact timing as one does when stabbed directly in the heart with a blunt baby spoon found in the back of a silverware drawer.  We’ve been reading every night for twelve years.  Based on my last count, it’s been at least 60 chapter books just in the past five.

The countdown started sometime around his twelfth birthday as I remember the explanation being something about “It’s too childish.”  Harumph.  I pouted on the floor.

So we read A Long Walk to Water, and a bunch of tweenager books by Gordon Korman, and all three of the My Side of the Mountain trilogy.  During this past series, I was reading the first book and was instantly struck with a twinge of sixth grade quasi plagiaristic guilt– apparently I’d copied the idea of an escaped convict sleeping in a forest fort when I turned it into a creative writing story.  Who knew?  Hopefully not my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Post.

We wrapped up Frightful’s Mountain and needed another book, stat.  I didn’t want to let too many days pass for fear of the warning being activated early.  Jake recommended The Ranger’s Apprentice because kids at school have said good things.  We looked up the sample and I was reminded we’d already started this book and I hit the eject button.  The first sentence alone will explain why:

“Morgarath, Lord of the Mountains of Rain and Night, former Baron of Gorlan in the Kingdom of Araluen, looked out over his bleak, rainswept domain and, for perhaps the thousandth time, cursed.”

The first word alone is exactly what I don’t like in my reading for pleasure.  Add the introduction of creatures called Wargals described as “stocky, misshapen beings, with features that were halfway human, but with a long, brutish muzzle and fangs like a bear or a large dog” and you’ve lost me exactly one page in.  I mean really.  I read every single book written by the author of the Percy Jackson series where he took us to various versions of the underworld multiple times in assorted cultures and I’d say I’ve done my time in adolescent boy hell.

But Jacob convinced me to power on and we’re several chapters in.  Now it’s mostly knights and castles and somewhat Harry Potter-esque so it’s getting better.  They just went through the Choosing Ceremony which wasn’t a talking witch’s hat but…  basically makes my misstep in sixth grade look quite mild in comparison.

I’ve just looked up that there are 16 books in this series so far.  Brilliant.

Mark my words… I’m gonna get an extension.

My dearest Nate,

It’s seriously September and you know what that means?  Time for Mama’s belated birthday letter attempting to capture just what ten-year-old Nate is like.  This year I’m going for a new Day-in-the-Life format.  You know, fourteen thousand steps in your shoes… you’ll see.

7:00AM: You stumble from your bed, Kramer-style, and after a quick bathroom stop go directly to the kitchen table.  You crouch on the metal chair, squatting like premier league coach Marcelo Bielsa.  You shovel Honey Nut Cheerios into your mouth like a shirtless and famished orphan.  Then you shovel Honey Nut Chex in like you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.  You immediately scamper back to your bed and pull the covers up to your chin while you stare into space.

7:15AM: I think you take a shower.  If standing under hot water counts as bathing.  Since the pandemic started you’ve been pretty cagey on your bathing frequency.  You think getting me to smell your armpits as proof is a great idea.  I disagree.  You love to wrap yourself in your hooded towel and lay on the bath mat or lounge on the couch.  You appreciate being “nude.”

7:30AM: You generally choose a soccer jersey, shorts, and a sweatshirt.  You’re a creative and lightning fast dresser.  Any color combination is possible.  Fluorescent green with red– why would you even comment?  You seem to be naturally built for athletic team life where they provide you with matching clothing and tell you what to eat.  Lately I’ve noticed a decent routine of brushing teeth, combing hair, and deodorant.

7:45AM: You’re highly attuned to time.  You hate being late.  Your Fitbit doubles as the time keeper for all people that surround you, big and little alike.  After Dad drops Jake at Laguna, he lets you out at Pacheco where you’re in your second year of upper classmanship.  Fifth grade is obviously the big time.

8:25AM (unless this is Monday, then it’s 9:25AM… don’t even get me started): You’ve got Maestra Del Toro and Mr. Marthaler this year.  I don’t know what he does exactly, but that Mr. Marthaler just keeps getting 5-star reviews from the lads in our house.  I really have almost no idea what happens during your class time at school.  You don’t share much.  You like math.  And sciency things.  I do know that at sometime during the painfully too short 15-minute morning recess, you head to the cafeteria for…

10:25AM: Honey buns.  Or pan dulce.  Or sometimes cinnamon rolls.  It seems all food is free at school this year and the daily bakery has plenty of customers.  You’re a vocal fan of the honey buns.  I don’t even know what those are but I’m confident they’re dessert for breakfast.

11:50AM: I imagine you inhale your lunch from your Man City lunch bag and then head straight to the field that appears to be ruled by King Moi versus King Nate.  There are many team-picking stories and we’ve had a lot of after-school talks about making sure the teams aren’t being divided into native English speakers versus native Spanish speakers.  It sounds like that’s improving.  I like that there are a lot of stories about a player named Ronaldo, even if he is the pushiest one.  Maestra Irion’s version of daily events is dramatically different than King Nate’s.  In your stories there isn’t a single mention of girls being excluded.  Sus.

2:50PM: You’re free and burst into the sunshine.  Bishop’s Peak looms large in the distance.  I can easily see you from my car across the playground in your fluorescent yellow sweatshirt.  Because of COVID we all have to circle the campus and wave from our vehicles.  Every day you and Cruz come racing across the fields.  Two blond heads.  Two big backpacks.  Cruz has a shark mask.  I see it in the dirt most places I go.

3:00PM: We take the big loop down Foothill and Los Osos Valley Road to the golf course to get Jacob.    Now that soccer has started I try to buy Jake’s patience to hang out for 2 and a half hours with stops at the Whole Foods sushi cooler.  You usually want mochi or macarons.

4:00PM: Then it’s off to soccer practice.  You go to Club on Mondays and Wednesdays and AYSO on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Every so often you complain but mostly I can’t get you to leave.  You can shoot a ball at your buddy for hours.  Your jersey is #8.  Now that I’ve taught the team parents that “Nate’s Eight” everyone knows your name.  You had your first Club game today in Santa Maria and it was like a new team.  We won 8-2.  You had a hat-trick and an assist as goalie.  Your soccer ego continues to grow but you do a decent job of keeping your bragging contained to the inside of my car.

6:00PM: We pull into the driveway and you’re off to your chicken chores.  You’re good about washing your hands with soap and putting your new blue Phantom shoes and your lunchbox away.  Of course you want to squeeze in some time playing Minecraft or Fortnite with your friends.  Over the pandemic you finally got sick of playing Fortnite with your buddy Oscar.  This past week you got a VR headset which is an entire post on its own.  You love wandering around the living room with this thing on your face that makes you look like a zombie, waving your arms in space.

6:30PM: You’re the last one to the dinner table.  Always.  You still gravitate to seafood, sushi, Mexican food, and hamburgers.  Last week you told me you don’t even know why anyone would want steak… “It’s so tasteless.”  Meanwhile you were completely fascinated with eating roasted jalapeños and nopales out of Daddy’s and my lunchtime molcajete today.  If I say something is too spicy or curiously foreign your eyes light up.  The idea of eating cactus totally appeals to you.  You ate all of it.  You struggle to sit down at the dinner table.  It’s a parental tight rope.  You just seem to need to eat and dance.  Next to your chair.  After dinner you’ve taught yourself to use the ice cream scooper.  Your commitment to McConnell’s Double Peanut Butter Chip has inspired the development of new skills.

7:00PM: This is usually when you really need a shower and somehow distract us into not noticing what you’re up to.  You dance your way out of the kitchen.  Sometimes there is music.

8:30PM: After three to four reminders you go to brush your teeth with your electric Quip toothbrush and don your little pajama bottoms covering your little bottom.  I used to tease your dad about his “default song”… which was the song he was always singing as he made his way through the world.  Your latest is Vanessa Carlton’s 2001 hit, “Makin’ my way downtown, walkin’ fast, faces pass and I’m homebound…”

8:45PM: You dive into your bed like a stuntman.  You’ve been reading Harry Potter with your headlamp while Jake and I read.  This is also when I attempt to guess your exact Fitbit step count with a game of higher and lower until I finally get it.  A Good Nate Day is a minimum of 14,000 steps.  Anything less and the goofball meter is off the charts.

9:00PM: Lights out.  You are the first to sleep and the last to get up.  You like the covers pulled over your head like Grandma.  I’m convinced you’ve never had a bad night’s sleep.  I give you lots of kisses and special appetizer names.

I love you my Baby Nake.  I’m so happy to see you so happy back out on the fields and living your best life.

Love,
Mom

Earlier this summer we took a short detour from the Survivor Marathon we’re on to watch the latest season of Top Chef.  Or Top Escallop as I like to say.  At some point there was a frustrated Italian contestant named Fabio who was griping about another chef named Jamie, of course, “All she does is scallops.  For Christ’s sake, c’mon.  This is Top Chef, not Top Scallops.”  Having rewatched the clip, it appears I added the “es” to scallop, but I’m not changing my attempt at an Italian accent now after all these years.  My apologies Fabs.

Meanwhile, it appears I mentioned our switch to the Larder seafood box for children with champagne wishes and caviar dreams.  A few weeks ago James made a beautiful weeknight dinner of grilled scallops.  Nate rolls up to the dinner table last (he’s always last to dinner) and asks, “What’s for dinner… bananas?”

So we’re watching Top Escallop as it’s taking place in a COVID bubble in Portland and I basically buy four direct plane tickets before the credits roll.  The Portland tourism board wishes they could track such pure revenue attribution.

We visited the last weekend in July and based on our iPhone pictures, this appears to be the exact weekend we always visit Portland.  Like migrating birds to gourmet food and lighting factories or something.

We had a blast visiting our usual haunts and a few new ones.  The Japanese garden and the Lan Su Chinese garden kicked-off James’ newest bonsai-garden visiting-nursery hobby. I fell in love with Wayne Jiang’s condiment paintings.  Jake was disappointed I hadn’t made a reservation for the Umami Café at the Japanese garden (note for next time).  But he did order the best jasmine tea at Lan Su.  I’m still devastated Schoolhouse was COVID-closed.  But the boys and I were in heaven at a Blue Star out in the burbs.  The second stop at Nola put us over the edge of the donut cliff.  At some point we worked it off… we’re forever zoo connoisseurs– the entrance to that zoo is magical.  And we adored the food at Eem based on James’ newfound connection with Top Escallop Star Chef Chris Cosentino, who moseyed on into Office Hours at some point this year.

Two Friday’s ago James brought the scallops back into rotation with a bright, lemony risotto.  His youngest son joins us…

“Still looks like bananas to me.”

Dear Papa,

Today’s your birthday.  I think you’d be turning 67.  Pretty sure you were never 100% sure and I’m not 100% sure so we’re even.  Ha!  We think about you all the time.  Nonna told me she saw River twice today.  Certainly doesn’t seem like a coincidence.

I’ve been meaning to write you to share some memories from your celebration.  I just couldn’t take pictures that day, so I’ve got a real head full of mental pictures I snapped just for you.

When we arrived at the cemetery, I was delighted to see the most perfect concrete container.  It had a “VF” inside a heart traced on top just for you.  And it was surrounded by the most beautiful flowers and succulents.  We brought a baby succulent home and it watches over us from the kitchen windowsill.

I held your eldest son’s hand during the ceremony.  He has the softest hands.  It was his birthday.  And while I’m not sure there is anything quite as traumatizing as attending a memorial with all of your family after just receiving a diagnosis, he was the big brother he always is.  Your daughter broke down.  Your wife was beautiful.  Sofia recited a prayer with such confidence and poise.  Nate was really still, blinking and blinking.  He does that when he’s trying not to cry.  My sons were wearing their matching navy linen button-up shirts and charcoal shorts.  With their cousins, they released a basket full of beautiful white pigeons, disguised as doves.  The birds flew up and away in unison.  While we looked off through the trees, they circled back toward us and then carried our love up into the sky.

Father Rod was funny.  He’d forgotten his phone and all his directions, but he carried on nonetheless.  A true professional.  Your big, loving family was all there.  The cousins grown.  New cousins on the way.

We piled into hot cars and headed to the Elks outdoor pavilion.  It was big and shady and almost held the hundreds of friends you’ve made over a lifetime.  Your brother and your youngest son played their guitars and made us all smile as we sang along to all the best songs.  All of your kids spoke.  James talked about how you never tried to be perfect, but you were perfect at trying.  He’d just had his stomach surgery so he mostly had coconut popsicles.  Erin handled the caterer disappearing with the utmost calm and poise.  A man came and talked about how you’d poured that very patio we were all standing on, while the kids ran around the grass, guzzling the unguarded lemonade.  I know you’re not a man for big gatherings and a lot of chitchat, but it really couldn’t have been more perfect– you would have loved it.

It was a celebration of you and all that you mean to us.  Today Terra had her baby boy, on your birthday.  And his middle name is Vincent.  We had a big Italian dinner downtown with Nonna.  Happy birthday Papa!

The Central Coast is not exactly a hotbed for new, diverse dining experiences.  So when something new shows-up… I.  Am.  On.  It.  One such place is the chicly designed Paso Robles Public Market.  For the record, it’s infinitely more attractive design-wise than the not yet opened SLO Public Market.  But I’m not complaining.  I can overlook wire barnyard statues and windmills and white Italian fountains and giant rusted tractor sculptures squeezed into one small street corner for some new tacos and Thai food.

So this one time we all went to the Paso Market for lunch.  It was possibly just before the pandemic or maybe during the pandemic.  No one knows.  The pandemic has boiled our brains and all sense of time.  Well we’ll never forget this trip because as we’re climbing into James’ car, the boys point into the gutter where we’re parked and are like, “What’s that?”

Of course I looked at what they were pointing at.  And the image was permanently burned into my brain for the rest of my life.  It was a long rectangular piece of completely flat fur.  With a tail.  Seriously it was perfectly rectangular and flat.  And the boys gleefully deemed it “Rat Bacon” and loved to torture me by talking about it and giggling uncontrollably as it incited my gag reflex and immediate plugging of my ears.

I thought nothing could be worse than Rat Bacon.

Until yesterday.  Yesterday James goes to use the gas grill and he exclaims “Ohhh no….” and thankfully I don’t have a visual, but just three words shot right past Rat Bacon into outer space.  And those three words?  Barbecued Baby Mice.  Yeah, we’re both gonna vomit just reading this.  I’m sorry.

The boys have so much fun with this information that I have to not only put my headphones in and listen to a podcast to drown out all sound, but I also have to sharply threaten a full 7-day screen ban if one more word is spoken.  Including smacking your lips while giggling evilly, “Finger-lickin’ good!”  Nate.

Today was the very first day of fifth grade and Middle School.  Ack.  It’s almost inconceivable.  And of course I wanted a first day of school picture, which has been a motherly indulgence since basically second grade.  Jacob tells me he won’t smile because he can’t seem to give a good smile on demand.  I can’t argue with that.  Strong self-awareness.

So I give them a two-minute pass on the screen time threat.  Those two minutes of rodent mom torture produced genuine smiles and gleeful expressions captured digitally for all to enjoy.  Now back to school you go.

We had a terrific Saturday in Portland today.  Started with a breakfast feast at a diner-like joint up the street coincidentally called The Feast.  Nate didn’t have Japanese pancakes, but it was definitely a plate of pancakes the size of Okinawa.

Then we headed to the Japanese garden and it was truly stunning.  The bonsai alone were unforgettable.  A darling docent told us the story of Jizo the road guardian, and we bought four pairs of chopsticks for our at-home Party Girl rolls.  James and I did a quick visit to the Rose Garden and serendipitously smelled a patch of peach roses, out of hundreds.  Then we saw the Just Joey sign—the name of our very first rose bush at Baby Jacob’s house.  I couldn’t believe it.  Followed by a short stop for ice cream at Salt and Straw before we loaded up on Manga at the Japanese bookstore.

Somehow Pokémon is making a comeback in our house.  After a short break, we headed over the river to Game Guardians where Nate picked his Pokémon souvenir and was thrilled to get some kind of rainbow Cheryl.  He can’t wait to sell poor Rainbow Cheryl.  The boys were perfectly trained to find the kid playhouse at Rejuvenation under the stairs.  It only took $80 in Japanese products to buy myself uninterrupted time to look around at lighting, hardware, and furniture.  Then a short walk to Afuri for a truly memorable meal of gyoza, sushi and a bite of asparagus that was outstanding.  We loved our special drinks and tried all of the desserts.

Finishing off the day with Tokyo Olympics.  Such a great day.  Omayawa mu shindu.

On Sunday, May 23rd we trooped down to the Tractor Supply and picked out four baby chicks to replenish our aging flock.  We chose two black and white baby Sandos, a little Rhode Island Red, and an even littler golden one with feathered feet.

We brought the girls home and set-up a new chicken nursery in the hot water closet.  And I say girls because we were extra discerning.  Requesting the ugliest, littlest ones we could see.  We’ve learned the hard way that the prettiest babies are boys in Chickenland.  The two Sandos came from a galvanized water trough that advertised its contents as pure pullets.  Apparently a fancy old-timey french word for girl.

The two Sandos grew quickly and it’s been clear by their bully behavior that it was time for them to grow up and move out.  Independence– here you come.  Poor Taki Nitro and little Mini Featherfeet were constantly running scared.  Then this weekend James comes running and says, “Did you hear that?  Are you hearing it?  One of the black and white ones is cocka-doodle-doing.”  I did not see it, but I’m certainly on high alert for even the smallest sign of one vocalizing misstep.

It’s probably a good thing these two don’t yet have permanent names.  Because Bait and Switch may be returning to the Tractor Supply.  They have a policy that you have to buy at least four chicks to deter college kids from abandoning poultry around town.  And I have a policy that if you advertise pullets and send me home with roosters then you accept returns.

So last night Jacob and I were in charge of the independent chicken relocation project.  The boys and the Corcorans are taking Animal Science at College for Kids this week and apparently there hasn’t been one single mention of the first rule of Animal Science: No hesitation!  None.  You grab that chicken with authority kid.

Jake and I successfully introduce the Sandos into the coop in the evening.  Grandma tells us this is how it’s done.  All I can remember is the last time we did this and we could see, as the sun set, the chicks jumping around in the coop like a slumber party and the older girls outside looking evicted and terrified.

This time around, the babies ventured outside and one of them proceeded to chase Spaz (Pipsqueak?) around, despite her being about one tenth the size.  Suspicious rooster behavior?

Once it was dark we sent Jake and James back out to make sure the little girls went back into the coop, which of course they hadn’t.  Suspiciously dumb rooster behavior?

A few minutes later, Jake comes back to his bed and I ask him how they decided to keep the babies in the coop.  “We blocked the door with a Biden Harris sign.  And a rock.”

I really did not see that coming.