wild*life

Jake’s convinced he’s smarter than me.  (He literally just read this first line over my shoulder and said, “Well that’s true.”)  Which shouldn’t be surprising given 1. I’m pretty sure he’s the original Boss Baby and 2. He’s a twelve-year-old boy.  The thing he texts me most is some kind of Beautiful Mind giphy signifying “he’s a genius.”

Meanwhile, I’m excited to report the pandemic is finally lifting.  It’s particularly anticlimactic given it started so abruptly and is ending in dribs and drabs.  Fingers crossed, this will be my last blog with a numbered Coronavirus title.

It started with a mask-free baseball playoff game.

Then it was Trader Joe’s.  Arlene came to visit and I thought we’d hit the TJ outdoor waiting line jackpot.  I was so disoriented when the gal at the front door said the line was a thing of the past and we were back to the crowded aisles of yore.  Really?  I’m not prepared.

I noticed the Whole Paycheck stopped disinfecting their carts.  But they still made me bag my own groceries if I wanted to use reusable bags.  Every week has been a reenactment of that Supermarket Sweep show that I’m not old enough to have watched.  So many scientific studies on the dangers of Coronavirus outbreaks via earth-friendly totes.

We even had our first indoor meal at the Thai place downtown to celebrate James’ birthday.

Then yesterday there was an actual bag boy, bag man (?) at the grocery store who loaded up my groceries in my personal bags.  And there it is.  The final unquestionable truth that the pandemic is finally over.  At least for us.

And Jacob pipes-up in his infinite wisdom, “Mom, the pandemic isn’t over.  Lockdown is over.”

Touché Genius.  Touché.

We had our final baseball game this past week.  While the boys sat lined-up on the concrete wall behind the dugout, inhaling pizza and cookies, Coach Gillett gave a sincere and spot-on little speech of recognition for each player.  As might be expected from an attorney coach who directed the late weeknight game in a suit and tie, he had three rules for the season.  Rule #1: Listen.  Rule #2: Be kind.  Rule #3: Work hard.  And a mid-season contractual amendment offered up an ice cream novelty to any player that caught a fly ball during a game.  My son Nate ate a lot of after-practice, ice cream Drumsticks.

At lunchtime on Wednesday the second, the following day, we lost you.  Our biggest baseball fan and dearest Papa.  I’m told you were at peace, both physically and mentally and I hope, deep in your heart.

I must have been nineteen when we met.  Sometimes they called you Skinny Vinny.  I still love that.  You have big blue eyes that crinkle at the corners, a wiry build, and a gentle and generous way about you.  You drive a big truck with your wrist draped over the wheel, just like your son, James.  You hate red pens.  You like to tease me and chuckle.  Your Spanish is terrible.

My earliest memories are of sheep in your backyard, Mickey Mouse accent tiles in the guest bathroom, and a raucous game of Monopoly at the kitchen table.  Years later I’d find out that all of us who have married into your family have a Monopoly story…  naively wandering into the competitive world of gaming where you handily dominate the table, no matter the game.  I’m quite certain your grandson, Jacob, has been chosen to carry-on your legacy.

After a lifetime of working in the Central Valley heat, you revel in the coastal fog.  You enjoy taking your dog, River, to the beach.  You like coffee.  Thanksgiving.  And Motown.  And showering your family in donuts.  We both are partial to La Nita’s caldo.  At restaurants you always give your meal a score between one and ten.  You’re a discerning grader.  I can’t remember a single score above eight.  You love seafood and pasta and sushi and ice cream.  When we lived on Shasta, one of our favorite nights of the year was when you’d come to visit on Halloween.  We’d hastily eat a big Door Dash sushi feast.  Then you’d man the porch while we walked the little Sock Monkey and Lilon around the neighborhood before it got too dark.  You’re deeply loyal, a provider, and a protective husband and dad.

We both collect succulents.  We love fishing.  Some of our best conversations are over concrete quotes, or the years I spent in an engineering department where they built big, expensive things.  You can spend hours walking paths and patios telling me about concrete.  You have mad math skills.

You’re up for anything.  We faced the killer whales of Marine World.  We wrestled marlin in Cabo.  We sipped piña coladas on the high seas and walked the Vegas strip in August.  We sauntered into a cantina and drank blue cocktails on the planet of Tatooine.  We napped through Incredibles 2 at the Downtown Centre Cinema.

I’ll never forget the spark in your eye when Nate was just about two.  Still unsteady on his feet with the weight of his baby belly in front, and his diaper in back.  You two were playing catch in your kitchen.  The kid guns that ball at your head like a third baseman throwing an out at first.  And your eyes lit up as your heart leapt, revealing your secret inner talent scout.

It seems fitting that you headed home just as our baseball season came to a close.  We love you Papa.  We miss you so much.  I know you and Coach never crossed paths, but you both live by the same rules: Listen.  Be kind.  Work hard.  And most importantly… save room for ice cream.

Today as we drove to baseball practice, I marveled quietly at Bruno Mars’, Leave the Door Open, being sung word-for-word in the backseat, especially when it got to:

Cuddling
Rose petals in the bathtub, girl, lets jump in
It’s bubblin’

Neither of them missed a beat.  I’m not sure they were really absorbing the lyrics, thankfully, but boy did they sing them with feeling.  We’re going down Tank Farm Road when I think I hear, “Uterus” blurted into the world.

Over the music I ask the question that must be asked, “Uh, did someone just say uterus?”

Jacob replies, “Yeah– It’s a word I heard during class today that I remember, but I don’t know what it means.”

There’s some giggling as I explain the basics of the female reproductive system and their personal experiences in utero.

Looks like sixth grade health class has finally started.

Friday morning I wake-up in the 4:00 hour and lay in bed till the 5:00 hour, when I can no longer take it anymore and climb out to put on the kettle.  Somehow the first few days of Daylight Saving Time leave me incredibly groggy until my internal alarm kicks-in and instead of springing forward one hour, my body overcompensates and springs backward two.

So I’m on the couch waking-up with my warm cup of joe and decide it’s so early, I’ll watch this super funny and informative Trevor Noah video on YouTube about the history of the filibuster.  After you’re done razzing me, you’ll thank me later.  So I’m sitting there with just the glow of my iPad illuminating my face when this silent, puffy white baby hand comes out of the darkness and glides in front of my screen.  My heart is racing again just remembering it.  I most certainly jumped.  We’re not sure if I screamed.  I had ear buds in so my memory is just silent terror.

I recover and have the wherewith-all to ask Jake what’s wrong.  Why is he up this early scaring the filibuster out of me?  And he says his legs are itching like crazy and he has hives.  I take him into the dark kitchen and the poor child is covered.  He looks like a globe but where all the oceans are angry and red.  I scramble around and find some children’s Benadryl and it seems to make a difference.

Fortunately it’s Friday-zoom-school-for-a-minute day and therefore the most convenient day for a non-life-threatening emergency.  Unfortunately, the second and third doses of Benadryl don’t seem to be working and my war chest of medicinal itch inhibitors is declared ineffective.  Side note: It appears if you were to analyze my medicine cabinet you would come to the very strong conclusion that I am most frequently afflicted by various types of itchy skin ailments.

Jacob wakes-up Saturday morning and the problem is worse.  His hands are covered and he tells his dad that his “eyebrows feel droopy.”  I look at him and his eyes are definitely puffy and the rash is now on his face.  It’s Med Stop time.

We luck out and they let us in almost right away.  We know Jake’s had hives before because all of our hive medicine has been eaten up and we remember that one time where he got into the doTERRA cinnamon essential oil Aunt Laurie gave James to rub on the bottoms of his feet to protect him from evil spirits and Jacob rubbed it on his body and was possessed by evil spirits.  There were definitely some times when we fed Baby Jacob some random cheese and he would break-out in a rash around his mouth.  We think there was another full body experience, but no one can remember and so today my blog becomes our EHR, Electronic Health Record.  Totally PCI compliant.

We get a prescription at CVS that I keep calling hydroxychloroquine until I remember that’s that crazy drug previously sold via Twitter.  Well, it’s hydrox-something and Jake washes down two of the little pills in the parking lot.  Some Sprite and our first Hawaiian pizza home delivery ever, and Jake is reborn.

In any event, like most hives, they are generally considered a mystery.    Maybe it’s the fact that our oak trees are literally blooming yellow weeping willow like flowers which we’ve never, ever seen before and could be pandemic-induced, or occur only in years where winter rains lasted exactly three days and then it was spring.  Or maybe it was the sloppy joe’s spice packet, even though he’s had that before.  Or maybe it was the jar of Prego Creamy Vodka spaghetti sauce I mixed the spice packet with.

Personally, I’m going with vodka.  Nothing like a miserable skin burning rash for days to keep a twelve-year-old far away from the liquor cabinet.