Coronavirus Day 64 — Crocs
When the boys were little, their feet were square. Pudgy blocks on the ends of pudgy blocks for legs. It’s no wonder they couldn’t reliably stand. Getting shoes on their fat little feet cubes was an effective alternative to going to the gym.
At some point their feet started growing into a recognizable foot shape and they began going through shoes like I can get through a bag of those organic high-end Late July Doritos. Up until last year, we had a terrific record of maintaining shoe possession, except for the orange Croc incident of 2014. Likely because I subscribed to Jill’s strategy of one pair of shoes at a time. Which was reconfirmed last year, when, within the span of two weeks, Jake lost his PF Flyers while wearing soccer cleats, and Nate lost his new Vans while wearing soccer cleats.
Somehow during lockdown, we found Nate’s new Vans. Now they’re too small. Plus he’s outgrown his gray Crocs. These are a daily staple and so James picked-up a new, bigger pair at Roxanne’s Birkenstock shop, owned by Kevin. No one can tell me what happened to Roxanne.
James brought the new Crocs home, Jacob took one look and proclaimed Size 4 waaaay too big. Till he put them on.
Apparently we’ve officially outgrown big kid sizes and, I’m not sure I’m ready to put this in print… have entered the world of…
Man Crocs.
April 3, 2014
Coronavirus Day 57 — Mother’s Day
Sometime last year the boys and I were in a dark movie theatre watching previews. In between trailers there was a moment of silence, the screen turned midnight blue for two beats, and Jacob audibly groaned. Followed by an immediate crescendo into the Frozen theme song. I was stunned. How did he know? The boys have some kind of anti-Frozen sixth sense. I’m surprised he didn’t turn to me with his usual index finger trailing down his face like a tear and sing forlornly, “Hello darkness, my old friend.” Apparently it’s a meme spawned by a Simon and Garfunkel song. All the kids do it.
Which is why I was shocked when they agreed to letting me pick Frozen II as our Mother’s Day family evening entertainment. They actually suggested it. I’m convinced they were secretly looking for a convenient excuse to watch it.
Leading up to my Disney Mother’s Day, I took Friday off, did the full Bob Jones, and then the boys and I had a joyful day eating sandwiches in the shade and frequenting our favorite Pacheco practice pastime. On Saturday we had take-out tacos downtown, visited the shop, and swung past the plant store. And on Sunday we had a beautiful breakfast of lemony hollandaise followed by another date with the Bob Jones. Then we embarked on an exciting masked family expedition to California Fresh for supplies to… wait for it… make our own pickles. We also made a big family-style seafood paella and washed it down with McConnell’s.
Finally, we cozied up to watch the much anticipated Frozen II. We found out Nate “actually likes” Olaf, unlike me, who still isn’t over a bad personal experience with an Olaf. And much like baby Nate who refused to sing in swimming lessons, big Nate still finds musical scenes excruciating. Though we all easily agreed Kristoff’s solo should have been cut.
Meanwhile I’m generally inspired to belt out the latest Disney single mid-movie. I really only need a bit of the hook and the basic melody to swirl around as my best Disney-princess self, my formal gowns and deceptively warm ice-skating ensembles billowing in the breeze surrounding our couch.
I’m especially drawn to Ana songs. And was particularly proud of my improvisational music talents when I took the lyrics to The Next Right Thing and performed a mesmerizing version, including the line, “Hello, darkness, my old friend…”
I got an appreciative snort from Jacob.
And… scene.
Coronavirus Day 52 — Strike
Today was just another Wednesday under SIP. On Monday night, as a special anniversary dinner, we made a beautiful piece of halibut with mango salsa and chocolate lava cakes. The salsa was one of my go-to recipes in high school. Then last night for cinco de mayo, James recreated our favorite dish from Mountain View. The second I came into the house I knew he was making camarones con salsa nueva. Delithioso.
This evening we tried to rally the little zombies for a family walk on the Bob Jones. Jake resisted mightily, till we left him at home and then he texted me endless regrets. Meanwhile Nate made it, but got pretty grumpy partway down the trail and wouldn’t talk. By the time we got home, the boys were both staging a hunger strike.
Look I get it. The lockdown life isn’t for everyone. It might not be for anyone. James and I enjoyed a quiet, delicious dinner of juicy blackberries, pineapple bacon sausages, and salad with pickled red onions and an assortment of sweet and spicy mustards.
The hunger strike lasted fifteen minutes.
Coronavirus Day 50 — The Lockdown Life
Monday was our 18th wedding anniversary. And Star Wars Day– May the fourth be with you. And Day 50 of the lockdown life.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Coronavirus Day 48 — Thrill
I was rooting around under the vanity in the barn and found a brand-new, unopened package of toilet paper. It was a small thrill. So weird.
Coronavirus Day 47 — Salad & Soda
It’s Day 47 on house arrest and somehow this is the fastest week I’ve lived in years. I had a couple of crazy good laughs over the last few days. My favorites were the article I read about creative face masks. I can’t stop giggling when I think about the woman in New York with the salad container over her face. My second favorite is the Diet Fresca impersonation from J-L Covid. Or Cauvin? I think I’ve just unwittingly created the title for his Netflix comedy special.
And Salad Lady can open.
Coronavirus Day 42 — Camp
On Thursday morning James packed-up the back of the truck with the big aluminum horse trough (aka the cowboy bathtub), a bunch of gear, and the young’uns for two nights at Schilling Ranch. The Ranch is just over 200 acres of oak-studded hills, happy cows, and views of half dome dusted in snow. Granddad considers it his “Flatrock of the West.”
All the boys had a blast. It was Granddad, Uncle Geoff, Devon, Bry-Bry, James, Jake and Nate. Us women folk got a steady stream of pictures and videos of Devon torturing cows with his RC truck, the boys catching bullfrogs with their homemade net, turkey hunting, and general meadow frolic. Pure joy.
Schilling Ranch is never without incident. The last time the boys went, they were pretty little. I remember they had to stay within the confines of a large circular fenced corral. Nate came home and told me “a little old man fell into the fire.” I didn’t think I was understanding him right. But, it turned out Granddad’s friend Elvin had breathed in some smoke and pitched forward right into the campfire. The details are still a bit foggy. This trip Jacob got his crocs sucked off by mud in the dark in a pond. James mistook Nate’s tears for brotherly empathy, but turns out he was mad his frog hunt was cut short.
That said, I’m told brothers stuck together the whole time. As expected, James made great ribs. They enjoyed s’mores. And our organic eggs. But the tea was lava and the first night saw hurricane force winds. I’m told the wildflowers were stunning. Jacob met the property’s caretaker, Jim. Jim pans for gold to pay for groceries, which he buys once a month. He has an old car and beautiful teeth. Jake is positive that he does not want to grow-up to be a caretaker.
Last night the boys got home. After two showers they still smelled like campfire. At some point they start telling me about the rank order of the “Yellingest Dad.” I take it this is an informal contest determining the dad that yells the most. There are four little boy judges.
James was pretty cocky having placed third.
Coronavirus Day 41 — Survey
Earlier this week, our neighbor Lea sent me a survey via text message. She has a master’s degree in public health from Yale and teaches classes titled No Drama Discipline, The Adolescent Brain and other intimidating titles. We’re still paying penance for the great chicken incident of 2019 so I wanted to provide a thoughtful answer.
The text said: I’m taking a poll… Pandemic parenting is _________ (fill in the blank).
I thought about it all night. I asked some work colleagues the following day. All kinds of inappropriate answers crossed my mind. Someone offered up that it is blank. A big fat, black hole of blanking chaos. Finally, I went with:
Pandemic parenting is a three grown-up job.
Coronavirus Day 38 — Monopoly
On Tuesday of this week, we picked-up Chinese food and broke quarantine for a rare evening with Papa and Uncle B in Los Osos. Jacob was hell-bent on a lively game of Fucillo Family Monopoly.
Now I’m fairly certain I haven’t played Jake in Monopoly since he was six. All I remember is his shrewd negotiation, relentless strategy, and his ability to mop the board with his fistfuls of paper cash. Needless to say, the kid had quite the spring in his step as we made our way to family game night.
Over dinner I ask the boys if I’ve ever shared the story with them about the first time I played Fucillo Family Monopoly… No? Well then. I have an all-male audience held captive by Chinese food. Mind you, it’s been twenty years or so, so the memory is still fresh…
I’m a sophomore in college and we’re at Nonna and Papa’s old house. Not the one they live in now. The one before that. We gather round the kitchen table for a friendly game of Monopoly with my fairly new boyfriend’s family. One minute we’re having a good time, the next minute I’m winning pretty sizably and there’s some dramatic excuse-making, and harrumphing, and I find myself alone at the table. Everyone quits before I can properly win. The board may or may not have been capsized. Nonna (aka Kathy) just shakes her head knowingly as she gives the whole kitchen table a wide berth. I tell Jake and Nate it’s a miracle I’m still here… so many years later.
We clean-up the Chinese food and set-up the board on the big Los Osos dining table. I’m nominated banker, despite having nursed a small can of sparkling rosé that may affect my mathematics. Now this is no ordinary Monopoly game. It’s made of cherry wood and felt. The hotels are pure fake gold– straight out of Mar a Lago. Nate’s the ship. I’m the shoe. Papa’s the bell. Uncle B’s the cannon. And Jacob’s the sports car. Daddy volunteers to watch and offer unsolicited advice. Hours later, Jake’s built hotels from Go to Jail– he calls it Death Row. The only bright spot’s when I land Free Parking.
I’ve never seen anyone beat the competitive Fucillo Family men so deeply into submission. Papa’s hard driving negotiations transform into easy money. Uncle B deems Jacob the Wolf of Wall Street. Everyone’s folding and he’s ready for more. I’m the last competitor standing.
Auntie Trisha FaceTimes during the game and has a remarkably similar story to mine. Though sounds like she and Brett almost broke-up afterward.
Looks like we’ve found the elusive answer to identifying when Jake’s met “the one.”
I can’t wait to watch her land Free Parking.
Coronavirus Day 34 — Football
I’ve never been much of a sports watcher. I’ve always liked playing ’em but watching ’em? Not so much. Until we watched a Netflix show on Manchester City. And now I really look forward to their Saturday and Wednesday Premier League games.
This afternoon we picked-up sandwiches from Lincoln deli and took it to Pacheco for some mother-son soccer practice and picnicking. We enjoyed our lunch with a friendly neighborhood kitty and then I did the full Bob Jones this afternoon.
One of the toughest things about lockdown has been the loss of sports. I’ve found it really hard to delete the boys’ flag football and baseball practices and games from my calendar. Football playoffs were supposed to start yesterday. The Kansas City Chiefs and the Georgia Bulldogs had so much potential. The Chiefs were undefeated, and Nate was running several hundred yard touchdowns every game. Unfortunately, looks like their mouth guards are hung-up for the season. Nate’s last season as a pure Pacheco team, as the Yankees, may be over before it really started.
We’ve gotten so desperate for some good soccer that we’ve been watching this Netflix show called Sunderland ‘Til I Die. They’ve dropped all the way down from the Premier through the Championship League to League One. Outside of England, who’s ever even heard of League One? If they drop any further it’ll be Boys U-12. Needless to say, the show’s just all right.
I sure hope it’s not Sunderland ’til I die.