wild*life

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.

Nate’s second grade class seems to be deep into their trimester on poetry.  Crazy that I remember learning about poetry in second grade, too— Mr. McGuire’s class.  This week Nate decided to switch-up his format and proposed he “write a haiku.”

“Wow, OK…” was my response.  “Remind me how a haiku works again?”

And the 5-7-5 finger counting begins…

So I’ve been inspired to write my own Tuesday haiku:

Weekend hair blow out.
Fifth new boss in five quarters.
Feels like being dumped.
Just want buttered tortillas.
At least my hair’s pretty.

Last weekend we’re walking to our baseball game across the Sinsheimer parking lot; we’re on the Dodgers.  Apparently James can’t find it in himself to cheer, “Go Dodgers!”  Fortunately, I don’t suffer from this affliction…

In any case, I think I float the idea of the boys going to a week of “Cousin Camp” in Santa Cruz this summer.  I’m thinking maybe day camp or if they’re really brave, overnight camp at Kennolyn.  Nate’s all about it.  “Is it like Camp Kikiwaka?!”

“Yes, it’s totally like Camp Kikiwaka.”

“Then sure.”

Jake asks, “Do they have WiFi?”

“Mmmm, it’s really about doing other cool things like the ropes course and swimming and riding horses.”

“Nah.  Then I’ll go when pigs fly.”

And Nate says, “But that will never happen.  Pigs will never fly.  It’s just not possible.”

And so his older brother who is so learned and worldly explains this idiom that has eluded Nate for eight full years.

Today Nate uses this same expression and claims, “It’s my new favorite catch-phrase.”

Snort.

My Dearest Natesy Cakes,

No matter how hard I try to stop time, you just keep getting bigger and bigger.  You woke-up on the morning of your birthday and were certain you were taller.  I measured you and of course, you were.  In my annual tradition, it’s time for a mini memoir on Nate’s eight.  And of course this year I’m going to test out a new format, as we’re all about innovation in mommy blogging.

For some reason, never in the history of your life have I really looked at you and thought, “Oh, he’s just like me… or his dad.”  I mean you do sometimes look like your dad, only blonder, but there’s something about you that has always been just you.  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’re a big fan of tacos de carnitas and ice cream sandwiches.  You ordered both for your weekday birthday dinner.  Also like your dad, you’re very worried about being late.  You like to be on time or early.  There are certain people who claim this is a Fucillo-family trait.  Hmmmm.

Like me, we both choose sour food.  You love lemon bars and McConnell’s Eureka lemon marionberry ice cream and just lemons.  You also love pickles and pickled stuff and think sauerkraut’s pretty good.  You tell me you want to get good grades and of course, do all of the “opcional” problems.  Like seventh grade me, you’ll play any sport: basketball, soccer, baseball, flag football?  Sure.  You can sleep anywhere.  I put you in your bed and you’re immediately out.  If I lay down, I’ll be immediately out with you.

In a challenging conundrum to unravel, you’re equal parts Granddad and Nonna.  You can spend hours watching soccer games.  You’re a loyal Man City cityzen.  You spend hours playing front door soccer or indoor hamper basketball by yourself.  You’ve got Granddad’s hairy legs and more bruises than Grandma.

Like Grandma, you love a good naughty joke.  You relish the reaction.  I’m unsure if you’re panache for potty talk and pushing buttons is inspired by being the youngest, your Grandma Suzy, or your Uncle Brett.  Probably all three.  You’re a prolific laugher and find the humor in everything.

You’re an adventurous eater.  You’ll try anything.  Any kind of sushi, escargot, the insides of a fresh crab on the Avila wharf from the super friendly Vietnamese fishmonger.  You recently put in an unsolicited request for anchovies.  You must get this from Papa.  You’ve asked if when you grow-up you can live on top of a mountain with just your dog.  I’m not 100% sure, but that dog’s name is probably River…

Like Kramer, you always make an entrance.  You burst out of your room in the morning.  You’re a loud walker.  You ricochet off walls and door jambs.  You have cool hair.

For your birthday you requested three books that are all about Science Technology Engineering and Math: Rosie Revere Engineer, Ada Twist Scientist and Iggy Peck Architect.  You must get your interest in building things from your Uncle Geoff and your great grandfather, Pop.  You’re a Harry Potter Lego-building boy robot.  And like your uncle, you have a close-knit group of similarly sized, sandy-haired pals in Cruz, Kai, Reece, and Luca.

You’ve got a constant inner musical soundtrack featuring Pharrell and Los del Río.  You must get this from your Auntie Jennifer Anne.  Your interest in dancing and singing the Macarena is insatiable.  You prefer a strong latin beat and some Spanish lyrics.  You’ve also got the travel bug.  You’ve asked if we can go to Spain to eat shawarma and to Mexico for tacos.  You’re all in for sushi in Japan.  You notice all people speaking different languages and love to ask questions about far off places.  You speak Spanish, English, and Minion.  Seriously.  Every morning you greet me with, “Bellooo Mama-guena.”

And yet there are so many traits that are uniquely you.  Your golden eyes and your golden skin and your golden hair.  I catch you changing the toilet paper roll without prompting.  I mean, who does that??  You’re very careful to save your popcorn until the movie starts.  You’re ability to self-regulate is astounding.  And your generosity is unmatched.  No one in our family has ever been more willing to give away the giantist bites of their ice cream or entire peanut butter cups.  You will always volunteer to drive with me if your brother chooses his dad.

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

Love,
Mama

A few weeks ago we had our buddies Cruz and Jackson over for a fightdate.  As they were readying the foam arsenal I called out, “No shooting until you get yourselves over to the eye protection drawer!”  And Jackson asks in all sincerity, “What’s an eye protection drawer?”  Right before he lost his eye…

I’m kidding.

According to WebMD, I’m currently suffering from what is known as a cuteness deficiency.  That sounded better before I wrote it.  But, seriously.  I don’t get to pick out anything cute these days.  No cute little clothes or shoes or Easter caps.  And then I was at Michael’s and I noticed I’d never be buying the darling little pony cupcake toppers or sparkly cake glitter.  Instead I bought certain sprinkles for their miniature orange paintball qualities.

One of my last remaining vestiges of cuteness seems to be birthday party favors.  Full creative license.  So I end up on Etsy and find the cutesy fix to scratch my itch.  Personalized fabric favor bags filled with gum ball tubes that look like paintballs, and a clear homemade bar of Nerf dart soap.  And of course: eye protection.

I mean kids with eyes are cute, am I right?

Dear Birthday Targets, I mean Friends of Jake and Nate,

It’s that time of year again.  Time for Jake and Nate’s joint birth-day par-tay.  Jake’s turning 10 and Nate’s turning 8.  Our toy chest is now a war chest and we’ve got the insatiable need to shoot all our favorite little people with foam darts.

If your child hasn’t gone home in their skivvies after playing at our house, here’s your chance…  recommend bringing an extra change of clothes and wearing something you don’t mind getting wet or dirty.  The Corcoran boys tell me the Nerf course has some astroturf, so hopefully not quite as muddy as our house.  We’ll have lunch, Texas sheet cake, and a vegan treat (for Reece!).

Worried, I mean excited, about what this entails?  Here’s a link to a description of all the fun to be had.  Shooting starts at 11AM.  I put 10:45AM as the party start time to allow for waiver confirmation and eye protection selection.

Parents are welcome to hang-out or drop-off and enjoy a little alone time.  Please include your plans in your reply so we can estimate food accordingly (and note any food allergies if applicable).

Please no presents– your presence is present enough.

Hope to shoot you there!  (Just kidding… Rule #1: eye protection; Rule #2: no shooting anyone who’s unarmed.)

JJNJ

A few months ago, I presented to a large audience at work using a LEGO analogy.  Yes, that’s how I roll.  Part of my hook was a tongue-in-cheek comment about probably having more invested in a particular asset than I did in my employer’s stock.  I saw a flash of interest in the eyes of our most senior leader, curious as to what fortune I was alluding to.

At work we spend a lot of time discussing this marketing concept of “whole product.”  Basically it just means all the elements and services of a product that make it complete for the target customer.  And I’m right smack dab in the middle of LEGO’s target audience– pinned to the bullseye with an arrow straight through my credit card.

Of all the things in my life, LEGO is the most whole product I’ve found:

• Plastic bricks and “guys”: But it’s so much more.
• Visionary box: What amazing Harry Potter world might my sons build me?  My new suitcase that actually opens to reveal fantastic beasts, including a teeny tiny niffler…  pure magical genius.
• Detailed instructions; no words: Illiterate children rejoice.
• Extra pieces just in case: Man they think of everything.
• 5 9’s quality: I’m completely fascinated by their engineering and QA.  Thousands upon thousands of itsy-bitsy pieces the size of Barbie diamond earrings.  Never in the history of over 50 kits has a piece actually been missing.
• Age range: How frustrating or easy will this bad boy be?
• Easy to wrap box: Santa’s wrapping elves would agree.
• Online resources: Recycle the instruction booklets guilt-free.
• No parent “service” required: Yes I’m willing to shell out $60-$70 for quiet time.  It’s “me” time plus it’s educational, right?

LEGOs are the Lululemon of toys.  Pilates, kombucha, organic produce, cappuccinos, LEGOs.

And then I noticed my Google news feed sporting articles with headlines along the lines of: LEGO Bricks are a Better Investment than Gold Bricks

Dang, even their marketing’s good.

Nate has an uncanny knack for people’s names.  Learning them.  Recalling them.  He’s quite adept at navigating his “Russia 2018 World Cup” program, using the table of contents, to confirm what he already knows to be true: Mbappe plays for Paris Saint-Germain.  He knows most everybody’s national team and club.

He also knows everybody on Jake’s basketball team and gets frustrated with me when I confuse Blake (the good, brown-haired tall kid) from his team, with Bryce (the good, brown-haired tall kid) from his brother’s team.  The only discrepancy I’ve caught is that he’s completely convinced Rocco is named Baracko.

“It’s Baracko, Mom.  Bah-rock-o.”

Have I mentioned how I totally screwed-up?  Yep.  Completely.  Mama-llama-ding-dong.

I signed-up for basketball and flag football and baseball.  In my defense, it’s impossible to tell by their infrequently updated websites when the seasons will start and stop.  The boys have been begging to play flag football for possibly two years.  And after a year off, Jake’s ready to give baseball another crack.  Meanwhile basketball has been so much fun I can’t believe we’ve waited until now to try it.

And so it’s the calm before the storm.  I just spent an hour getting all the practices and games on my calendar.  Including the absurd 4PM start times– doesn’t anybody work in this town?!  It looks as though next week we have 4 different practices and 3 games.  Somehow the football gods shined their glory upon us and put the boys on the same team.  And it seems the gods of baseball are the same divine beings.  This past Thursday I watched from the warmth of my car and my laptop as the boys played football in the…. wait for it…. snow.

So the good news is, it appears there are only two weeks of “Mom, what did you do??” and then basketball ends.

Pray for rain.

Around Thanksgiving, Maestra Vega started socializing an upcoming fourth grade poetry assignment: Memorize and recite 25 lines of poetry in Spanish.  No cue cards.  No help.  It can be one or two poems.  Plus utilize all of your best presentation skills such as eye contact, projecting your voice, hand movements.  No um’s.

Of course we pick our favorite poem about a kid getting eaten by a giant snake.  Jake starts in with his usual woe is me business and the entire world creating impossible tasks and his old school (aka first grade) being so much easier.  Every week he has a bit of a panicky “How many more days until my poems?”  “Mom, I think it’s today.”  “Mom, I’m sure it’s tomorrow!”  (Meanwhile he hadn’t even gotten the assignment yet…)

And once the wave of crazy has passed, he buckles down.  We practice in the shower.  We practice in the car.  We learn these two poems so quickly that when el 29 de enero (January 29th) comes around, we totally forget it’s The.  Big.  Day.

I pick Jacob up that evening from school and he casually mentions, “Oh yeah, Mom.  Today was my poem day.”

“Oh sheesh.  How’d it go?”

“Great.  So easy.”

And the note from Maestra Vega confirms– an enthusiastic ¡Excelente!

Aye niño.

Boa Constrictora
Por Shel Silverstein
Traducida por Jesús y Rhonda Garcia

Me devora una boa constrictora,
Una boa constrictora
Una boa constrictora.
Me devora una boa constrictora,
Y no me agrada para nada.
Ándale pues,
Está en mis pies.
Madre mía,
Está en mi rodilla.
Qué lindura,
¿Está en mi cintura?
¿Que ha hecho?
¡Está en mi pecho!
¡Mira aquello!
¡Está en mi cuello!
¡Ay! que loco,
¡Se come mi cocoooo!

El Monstruo Grotesco
Por Shel Silverstein

¿Qué es aquello qu se ve
por la niebla aparecer?
Es el monstruo grotesco,
que anda por ahí suelto.
Si su cola tan larga es,
¿de qué tamaño puede ser
este monstruo grotesco
que anda por ahí suelto?