wild*life

My dearest Nate,

It’s that time of year where your birthday was 13 weeks ago and I’m just now getting around to writing my favorite letter of the year– your birthday letter.  The one where I do my best to capture just a little glimpse into who you are, what you represent, and your latest faves in potty talk.

So 2020.  We had your birthday party.  Our very first friend slumber party on Saturday, March seventh.  And then, as luck would have it, the lockdown descended upon the earth seven days later.  So this year isn’t so much what you’re like as a nine-year-old, but more like what you’re like as a nine-year-old under pandemic house arrest.

I also thought it might be fun to use Maestra Zatt’s template for your Mother’s Day poem and so, without further ado, an ode to Nate’s Nine:

You are living your best life.  Well, prior to lockdown.  Now you’re becoming one with the couch.

You love soccer.  And the dreaded video games.  Maestra Zatt says the Pacheco recess soccer games are as competitive as the Costa Rican Primera División.

You hope we get a president that is a girl.  At random times you tell me this is what we need.  I agree.

You see all of the wonders in the seafood case at the grocery store and want to buy them.  Crab legs?  Octopus?  Clams?  Giant fillets of halibut?  “Let’s get that.”

You hear what your body is telling you.  You listen to yourself.  You recently decided you don’t feel good when you eat bread, so you stopped.  Your stomach aches stopped.  You like “stackers” for lunch, or what I call cheese tacos– pickles and meat wrapped in a piece of cheese.

You feel too sensitive to music.  You love to dance.  You seem to know all the words to the songs on the radio.  Your latest fave is the “I got the mojo deals” song.

You dream about creepy monsters touching you.  When prompted with this question in various ways, you take it literally.  Every time.

You want ice cream.  From McConnell’s.  You appreciate quality ice cream.  Dog Burstein’s isn’t even worth it.  Double peanut butter chip is the best.  Eureka lemon marrionberry is second best.

You need grass.  And we finally have it.  You put it on your Christmas list.  And the turf guys finished installing it last Tuesday.  Now you need a full-sized goal.

You give things away easily.  A couple of weeks ago you cleaned up in a game of Monopoly.  You’re a flexible negotiator.  You empathize with the other side.  You cut me a break when I couldn’t pay.  You finished the game with “two death rows and 38 100 dollar bills.”

You would like to go to England for a Man City game.

I love my Nate because he is generous, smart, feisty, and funny.  I love my Nate because he is exactly who he is.  Who he is meant to be.

I love you Baba ganoush,

Mama

My blogging frequency has taken a hit ever since James implemented a new family TV night post dinner.  What we watch rotates.  And all “little screens” are banned.  Based on this new schedule we’ve dug up a few classics including Swiss Family Robinson.  Interspersed with several they made me watch called, Ready Player One, and Alita– Battle Angel.  Now I’m inclined to casually pepper the phrase Battle Angel into all of my conversations.

Last night we watched Big.  I had totally forgotten how unbelievable the kid-sized Lambos and Porsches had been at FAO Schwartz in New York.  Think of the foot traffic that could drive to the shop…

After the movie, I must have been a little on edge from that creepy Zoltar machine with its red deviled eyes and ventriloquist mouth opening and closing and mouth breathing.  I was in the kitchen filling up my water bottle in the fridge when there were multiple bangs on the dark window next to me.  I screamed and the boys came running.

“I think something’s outside, or in the cupboard.”  And then as we all watched, the cupboard door moved.  Clearly because a disembodied head with red deviled-eyes was tumbling from shelf to shelf.

Turned out to be a slow falling plastic bottle of ketchup, which has been mistaken for a decapitated head many a time.

A few minutes later, I’m standing by the glass door to the back deck talking to the boys.  James comes up behind me and bangs on the glass with two hands, causing another round of screams and startled fleeing.  Ha ha.  So funny.

Later Nate gives me a hug from behind and apologizes for scaring me.  “Did it take the light out of you, Mom?”

Yes, yes it did.  Took the light right out.

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.

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.