No It All

My dearest Jacob James,

It just does not seem even remotely possible that in March you turned ten.  TEN.  It has taken me much too long to write your annual birthday letter.  In fact, today was the last day of fourth grade.  My most favorite grade.  The grade that is likely the beginning of your most formative years and experiences.  In my annual tradition, it’s time for a mini memoir on Jake.  And of course this year I’m sticking with my new format, successfully completing the pilot a few weeks *cough* months ago.

Just like your brother, never in the decade of your life have I looked at you and thought, “Oh, he’s just like me… or his dad.”  I’ve more frequently thought, “Where did this little force of nature come from?”  You’ve always been supremely yourself. Not a miniature version of either one of us.

That said, there are little bits about you that seem to come from all kinds of characters, both real, fictional, close and remote…

Like your dad, you love movies and stories and get sucked right into the depths of a good book.  You’re naturally artistic and crazy creative.  Today you were asking about creating the future brand of the future company you plan to start.  You have big dreams and the special gift of being able to visualize exactly what you want to make.

And like Dad, you think no one cooks better.  You sincerely have never liked anyone’s food more than Daddy’s spaghetti and Daddy’s tacos and Daddy’s sliders, fondue, and brekkie sammies.  You’re hyper sensitive to being late.  You couldn’t have possibly inherited this from the Purnells… just ask Daddy.

You seem to have inherited your great grandfather Pop’s intuition for how things work.  You love building things and figuring out mechanical and electronic challenges.  You’ve decided you want to study Computer Science in college.  You tell me about how you’re going to work for a company so you can learn from them and then leave to start your own endeavor.  You’re torn between your desire for success and entrepreneurship, and your desire to make a difference saving wildlife from habitat destruction and humans.

Like your great aunt Rox, you are deeply compelled to help animals in need.  We tried to watch the new Netflix documentary called Our Planet.  We had to quickly turn it off after the scene where the baby flamingo tripped and stumbled alone in the salt flats of the desert, its little feet caked with salt.  Your heart was breaking.  It was too much.  You covered your eyes and cried.  You were haunted by the image burned into your mind’s eye, pleading that we somehow erase it from your head.

You give a lot of thought to the problem of plastics in the oceans and the harm humans are causing to the earth.  You read food labels and have sworn-off all foods containing palm oil.  No matter how much you like it.  Nutella?  Dead to us.  You learned somewhere that rainforests are being destroyed and replaced with palm oil plantations.  Baby orangutans are dying.  It bothers me deeply to know my generation hasn’t done more to protect the environment for you and your future children.  We talk about what we can do to make a difference and how your tears make you different.  More powerful.  And how to take that sadness and turn it into meaningful action.

When it comes to action, you’re always in motion.  Like me, you’re very busy.  You make lists.  You have plans.  You’re undoubtedly destined for a lifetime of projects.

It’s usually 9PM when inspiration strikes and I’m the bad guy for saying it’s not a good time to be starting this project.  Like Nonna, you’re a night owl.  Like Papa, you’re good at math and love your buttered carbs.  You have Uncle Geoff’s feet.

And yet there are so many traits that are uniquely you.  Your hazel eyes, your iron will, and your absolute resolve.  You actively practice the trendiest new dance moves.   You can sing all the words to all the songs on the radio and get every word right.

We love you Jakey.  You are powerfully special.  And while I see little bits of so many of our favorite people in you, there is only one you.

Love,
Mama

We have a bit of a running joke at work… as I’m known to do, I shared how my children are generally the recipient’s of the “Self-directed Learner” award-themed school assemblies.  Now of all the award categories, this is definitely the primary one I’d like these high-maintenance munchkins to set their sights on.  Mind you, this is also what I’m looking for in hiring.  Being curious, creative, and independent are primary values ’round these parts.  Plus we talk about how spending your whole life continuing to learn has shown to prolong longevity.  They like ideas that help you live as long as possible.  Granddad’s community college class on history is one of their fave examples.  I’m not planning to tell them about pass/fail grading till absolutely necessary.

Now we don’t spend too much time emphasizing the importance of awards and trophies and medals.  I’m pretty sure they’re part of a generation being raised by generations still wasting brain power warring against the everybody-gets-a-trophy war.  Suffice it to say, I’m proud to say we’ve been the recipients of many award assemblies, especially at the beginning of the year, when the value of recognition is undoubtedly more valuable.

So a couple of weeks ago we got a call from Pacheco.  Normally we do not like to get any calls from Pacheco as they really only call you with bad news.  For us it’s generally that Nate is sick or hurt, or Jacob is in trouble.  Jake’s semi-rare infractions are generally centered around saying something he shouldn’t say or refusing to do something.  We’re always working on it.  Our principal is familiar with some research showing those on the lower end of the agreeability spectrum can excel in leadership.  I should google that…

So we get the call and Nate is winning an award.  Yay!  I’m confident they don’t hand-out recognition for potty talk— though I’m positive he’d win it if it was winnable.

James and I go together on a Friday morning.  We generally get to enjoy a gourmet coffee at Scout prior to filing into the school cafeteria, iPhone cameras at the ready.  It seems today’s themes are “Quality Producer” and “Effort in Your Second Language.”  I’m whispering to James, debating which one we’re going to win.  Yes, I said “we’re.”  I don’t get any paper certificates these days.  And I’m not sure we’ve ever been to a Non-Self-Directed-Learner assembly.  Maybe ever.

A few minutes pass.  We get through Kinder and I’m getting a better feel for the criteria of “Productor de Calidad.”  (That’s Producer of Quality for my Gringo Readers.)  There are a lot of little girls winning this award.  They have perfect braids and I can’t see their knees through their jeans.  I begin reflecting on Nate’s evening homework.  Generally he rocks it.  No tantrums.  No tears.  Minimal help.  Prides himself in doing all the “optional” stuff.  But my coaching on fully erasing one’s errors, rather than just writing on top of it in extra hard pencil hasn’t really landed.  He values speed.  Smears and small holes and wrinkles and freshly showered wet hair drips don’t phase him in the least.  He’s happy transforming a lower case t into an upper case T with a “mustache,” if you will…

My money’s on “Effort in Your Second Language,” which I secretly think is far better than neatness.  We go to a Spanish-immersion school.  ¡Habla español, niñito!  I mean seriously… don’t be one of those kids that goes to Spain for a semester and lives with Americans.  Though second-grade me probably would have completely disagreed, or wondered why I couldn’t win both, if we’re being totally honest.  And we always are.

And so Nate was the proud winner of strong effort in his second language.  We brought it home and displayed it among our wall of Self-Directed Learner certificates.  Right above his latest opinion essay on why Man City is better than Juventus.

This past weekend I enjoyed a long anticipated girlfriends weekend, thanks to the generosity of Geoff and Angela.  And maybe also the super powers of their new kid-sitting dog, Skipper.

We all convened at Jamie A’s in Glendale.  It was a perfectly relaxing Moscow Mule drinking, celebrity hiking, pedicure gone wrong sitting, hilarious horrible people playing, delicious home smoked bacon brunch eating, very first bloody Mary imbibing, bucket list Venice checking, baby E3 celebrating, cloud couch sitting, Pasadena sushi noshing, girls gabfest of a weekend.

Remember that part where I told you I’d totally screwed-up?  Yeah, well that seems like yesterday, but it was actually the second week of January.  Nineteen weeks of our lives have passed as we triple lettered in basketball, flag football and baseball.  It’s been a blur of wardrobe changes, snacks, ski jackets and cheering.  So I have a little catching-up to do.

This was our first year playing basketball and it shot me straight back to my fifth grade glory days and those dark weeknights rolling around in the back of our coach’s seat-free, blue moving van.  These days we’d call it a kidnapper van, but it was the eighties.  Memories of my best coach, Pete Gonzalez, flooded back just with the squeak of high-tops and the familiar backward shuffle.  The skills I took from basketball made me a better player in every other sport.  Pete taught us how to block-out the biggest, pushiest players, how to fall to the floor and rip the ball from someone else’s hands, and that you can’t lose if you have the best defense.  Plus he’d buy us sodas at the gas station.  He also swore like a sailor at us.  We hadn’t even really noticed until another team’s parents complained.

This was only their first year and the boys were playing for the NBA.  Nate played for the Utah Jazz.  Jake played for the LA Lakers.  Our first season of basketball was especially funny.  There’s a lot of wayward tap-dancing and two-handed dribbling and six-step lay-ups.  One game was especially cute as our team got confused and started shooting at our own basket.  We threw it up and missed at least three times before realizing we were at the wrong end of the court.

Basketball was fast and exciting and indoors.  During the season Nate was best known for his assists and his ability to make long passes.  He made a number of baskets and was a good hustler.  Jake was fast and a strong stealer.  Similar to his favorite positions in soccer, he especially liked defense.  I don’t remember Coach Sofi or Coach Riley swearing even once, but it was still fun.  All in all, I’m hoping we’ll have a few more basketball seasons in us.

Meanwhile, our nightly dinner routine always needs a little spicing-up.  I’ve done a bang-up job putting different versions of Thai curry into the rotation without too much resistance.  The boys are pretty opinionated about anything new or different, but they’ve warmed-up to these new chicken options.  One night Jake encourages his brother to give it a chance, “It’s good Nate.  You’ll like it.  It’s Steph Curry.”

Yesterday, Nate was so excited to give me the Mother’s Day present he’d made.  It consisted of a colorfully wrapped ceramic caterpillar, which holds his school picture, and an artistic portfolio with a letter and a whole bunch of things about me, written in Spanish.

My favorite part of the portfolio is where the first thing he says is that I’m as funny as a baby giraffe.  We’ve watched several shows with newborn giraffes and they’re hilarious.  Trying to stand up and toppling over left and right like little drunken deer on stilts.  I’m also as pretty as a star, aaaaand I smell as sweet as chocolate.  I sound a-MAY-zing.

But wait you say… Mother’s Day isn’t until tomorrow.

Nate insisted.  He says, “Well, you can open it today.  It’s Mexican Mother’s Day.  It’s Mother’s Day in Mexico.”

And I’m a mother.  And I LOVE Mexico.  So, allí está.

My friend Emily’s parents have one of her childhood poems framed in their downstairs bathroom.  It’s so catchy you’ll be repeating it for days after a trip to the loo.  It’s accented by an adorable, colorful flower scene.

Flowers
By Emily Rosenoff

Big flowers,
Little flowers,
Flowers everywhere.
I like to see them every day.

Here’s Nate’s most recent second grade poetry:

Haiku
By Nate Fucillo

A snake ate my face
Then it went into a hole
I sure miss my face

What do we think, frameable?  I’m actually thinking it’s probably better he didn’t illustrate this one…

At Tuesday’s game I got a chance to talk to Nate’s buddy Eddie.  In Spanish.  Eddie is great at holding conversations with me in Spanish.  Our interaction went like this:

“Yo, Eddie, great to see you!  How are you?”
“Good, good.”
“So, I hear it’s beach day tomorrow.  Are you going on the beach field trip?”
“No.  Unfortunately, I can’t go.  I’m going to Mammoth.”
“To go skiing?  Wow you lucky duck…. so another question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Is tomorrow snocone day?”
“Yep.  Wednesday snocone days.”
“So… how much do snocones cost?”
“$3.”
“Huh.  If they’re $3, how come Nate always asks me for $10?”

“Oh, yeah?  I meant $10.” He says, with a big dimpled smile.

Battle Battle
Hit it to Seattle!
If you don’t, try again
Hit it to
Michigan!

Superman with a bat
In his hand
Knock it out
Wuh Wuh!
Knock it out
Wuh Wuh!

Extra Extra!
Read all about it…
Jacob’s gonna get a hit,
No doubt about it!

Battle Battle
Hit it to Seattle!
If you don’t, try again
Hit it to
Michigan!

Superman with a bat
In his hand
Knock it out
Wuh Wuh!
Knock it out
Wuh Wuh!

Extra Extra!
Read all about it…
Nate’s gonna get a hit,
No doubt about it!

Repeat 500 times.  The Newsies one is particularly effective at torturing me via perpetual mental loop… All.  Night.  Long.

A few months ago I was with the boys upstairs at our local Barnes and Noble.  It’s a solid weekend favorite when coupled with a visit to the Apple Store and Nerf gun gazing at Tom’s Toys.

So we’re headed down to the checkout and as Nate passes a display he declares, “Censored!” and turns a paperback romance novel around to hide the sordid cover art.  As usually happens, I catch the snicker of a male twenty-something employee who happens to watch this go down.  A similar scenario takes place at the checkout, where we’re faced with a magazine cover graced by an artfully posed, nude pregnant model.

Meanwhile Jurassic World has risen from the ashes of the early 90’s.  My four-year-old nephew apparently watched the movies and declared them not too scary.  I scream to differ after many nights of T-Rex heart attacks.  Nate and Jake claim they’re not scared and haven’t had any nightmares.  Last night we had an unexpected thunder and lightning storm and James claims he was dreaming about a dinosaur growling before he woke-up.

As we’ve made our way through all four Jurassic movies, I plug my ears and cover my face during the heart-pounding scary parts.  But not the boys…

They only cover their faces during the kissing parts.

Have I mentioned it’s baseball season and flag football season?  Probably not.  Because instead of blogging I’ve been taxiing people around multiple times a week at 4PM.  Coordinating high protein snacks and luring them into multiple practices a day via kettle chip.  Apparently Kristen’s husband, Jay, calls himself Jyft.  Naturally, I’ve called dibs on Juber.

I am a master of backseat wardrobe changes.  Seriously, I could work the back room at New York Fashion Week.  Shoving my kids’ (still) square feet into long skinny shoes.  Mastering the art of layers, cleats, mouth guards, gloves, mitts, belts, hats, helmets, jerseys, water bottles, pocket-free pants, hoodies, backpacks and sunscream. And that’s just my wardrobe change.  I’m kidding… I prefer a post-work change into wool socks, ski boots, double-layer ski jacket, knit cap and my Woolrich glittens.  I call the fields Damon Garciantarctica.  I don’t actually call them that, but I should.

A couple of weeks ago, the Dodgers had a game at Sinsheimer.  We get all the way there and realize Nate was goofing around with his mitt and left it at home.  Fortunately, he’s the flexible one and he gratefully proceeds with my fifth grade Gals Softball glove.

I don’t remember a lot from that game except that Nate caught two fly balls and a line drive.  He was floating on cloud 9.  Man, who did all this baseball genius come from??

Juber’s golden glove, that’s who.