No It All

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.

Monday was our 18th wedding anniversary.  And Star Wars Day– May the fourth be with you.  And Day 50 of the lockdown life.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We’re fortunate we get to eat a lot of meals together these days.  Three squares really.  I’m pretty sure Nate is skinny not so much because of all his running, but more because during mealtimes is when he’s running… his mouth.  He’s a boy of few words, except when it’s lunch or dinner.

At some point this week I see him using his shorts as a napkin.  “Nate!  How many times do I have to tell you not to wipe your hands on your clothes?”

“I’m not!  I’m using my knees.”

This week marks one full month from that dreaded Friday the 13th when an email from the school Superintendant, Dr. Prater, made this whole thing real.  Now I look fondly upon that naive me that couldn’t imagine how we’d survive three weeks without school.  And had never heard of Dr. Prater.  And felt sorry for those poor sods in states like Washington, staring down the barrel of four weeks without school.

Earlier this week we got the Parent Square notification we knew was coming.  None of us believed Dr. Prater and that interim push of the date from April 14 to May 1.  School year’s history.  Sayonara third grade.  Hasta la bye bye fifth grade.  On the bright side, we can in fact survive several weeks without school.  Christmas breaks now look like a cake walk.

And even more importantly.  The boys really miss school.  They miss that feeling of accomplishment after a solid day of good, quality work.  Hopefully this situation results in a deep and lasting academic appreciation and work ethic.

Not a degree in YouTube.