wild*life

In the not so distant past, I remember spending many a weekend lamenting my new hobby I called “clothes management.”  It was the perpetual task of sorting and piling and checking miniature tags and realizing there were no tags because someone had been whining and pulling at the back of their neck and crying, “The flag, the flag is owie!” And so we cut ’em all off.

There were bins for later and bins for winter and bins for my-heart-is-breaking-at-the-thought-of-parting-with-this-little-bit-of-cloth-covered-in-drool-and-bark-chips.  I would sort and stack and fold and label and bag.  And then it seemed like I had to do it all again just eight weeks later.

Maybe two years ago I shipped a giant box to the Netherlands and had the most artistic quilts made out of all those precious baby clothes.  Seriously.  I went through 22+ pages of listings on Etsy.  (You’ll never find the time to make the quilt yourself.  Ship them to Holland, stat.)  They’re really the only material object I plan to grab in the event, heaven forbid, of a forest fire.

Then in the blink of an eye we went from the preschool crowd to underclassmen.  Clothes began to fit for six, even twelve months at a time and seasons became irrelevant.  Small people developed strong opinions and my taste in fashion was relegated to three times a year when I get to choose what is worn for exactly half a day: school picture day, family picture day, and Easter Sunday.  Also known as “Mom, does that mean I have to wear a pocket shirt?” days.

For the record, pocket shirts are generally collarless, soft t-shirts in fibers and colors found in nature.

At one point I had the ingenious idea to get rid of all of our patterned socks and just buy white.  That was back when our socks were all in a jumbled drawer in a closet without electricity.  Saved me hours of time and frustration.  Till it backfired.  And the boys would only wear mismatched socks covered in various cartoon characters or stripes.

Last weekend, I embarked on an afternoon of clothes management.  I’d gotten a little rusty, but it seems it’s just like riding a bike.  The boys’ closet consists of mostly neon athleisurewear, Pokémon and Minecraft shirts, and kneeless jeans.  I sorted and bagged our various free walk-a-thon t’s, summer tie-dye projects (this year I got smart and had them re-tie-dye last year’s project), and all the things with pulls, rips, and holes.  I bagged-up thirty pairs of little briefs that nobody fits into anymore (we’ve graduated to boxers), twenty pairs of uncomfortable black crew socks, and our Texan “Keep Austin Weird” t-shirts because they just incite bickering with San Luis Obispo Austin’s big sister, Taylor.

Part way through this project I decide to google “how many clothes does a kid need.”  This is great fun if you’re looking for a good chuckle.  “Choose a color palette?”  Ha!  Does fluorescent count?  I found all these mommy blogs written on kid “capsule wardrobes.”

Now I’m totally an aspiring capsule wardrober.  My Pinterest feed has all kinds of inspiration for paring back and mixing and matching classic, effortlessly chic pieces.  But the kid “capsule wardrobe” posts??  Crazy town. I don’t know who has spawned these opinionless kids who like khakis and button downs, but it sure isn’t me.  Capsule wardrobe connotes a sophistication rarely observed in the second grade… we’re aiming for more of a “diminished drawer” outcome.

What I did take away after about six minutes of realizing these mommy blogs were getting me nowhere was this: little people need a maximum of 14 shirts and 14 bottoms.  Two weeks.  That’s it.  Save money.  Do less laundry.  Wear your jeans more than once.  The rest of us do.

So, I decided to create my own Real World Boys’ Capsule Wardrobe (ages 7-9).  These clothes do not necessarily mix and match.  Your kids are not going to win a “best dressed” award.  The concept of “they’ll wear the clothes you buy them” is pointless.  We’re raising independent boys who are able to make good choices and practice sound judgment.  Their friends shop at Target.  They’ve been to Target.  Choose your battles.  And know that someday there will be crushes whose offhanded comments will send them back to you for some actual fashion consulting.

In the meantime, you come to this mommy blog for unvarnished, practical advice you can use… here goes:

• 4 pairs Lands End Iron Knee Jeans (dark wash makes it look like you’re trying)
• 7-10 athleisure shorts— various shades of gray are most versatile and tone down the “crazy” going on up top
• 7 athleisure shirts— generally any mix of fluorescent or brightly colored Adidas, Under Armour, Puma and Nike
• 7-9 character t-shirts (choice of Pokémon, Minecraft, Star Wars, Harry Potter, etc.)
• 1 t-shirt supporting your elementary school
• 1 t-shirt from a university (as a reminder that college is a given)
• 1 collared shirt for the third grade Baila Folclórico or your cousin’s baptism
• 2 pocket shirts or Henleys for two picture days and holidays
• 1 pair of tennis shoes (Keens if you’re smart and like to get out the door quickly; PF Flyers if your kids insist on developing “life skills” like tying shoelaces (mommy eye roll))
• 1 pair camo Crocks
• 2 bright swimsuits with swim shirts (preferably long sleeve to reduce the amount of sun scream that needs applying– no, that’s not a typo)
• 14 pairs various Star Wars, Minecraft, other little boy boxers
• 10 pairs “no-complaining” socks (trademark pending)
• 4 pairs of pajamas
• 1 Minecraft hoodie
• 1 fluorescent puffer jacket

Organic?  Sustainable?  Fashionable?  No.  Realistic and “cool”?  No doubt.

This town seems to have a lot of identical twins.  Everybody loves twins, right?  There’s just something so mysterious and intriguing about two people that look exactly the same.  We have our twin neighbors who are straight out of Sweet Valley High, even though they’re still just eight.  One of my team members is a twin.  And two friends from work both have twin sons.

Our darling neighbors first gave me the tip that one has shorter hair than the other.  Which is not particularly easy to compare what with ponytails and those hair thingmajigs my sons don’t know the names of.  Then I got the tip on the teeny tiny freckle above one’s lip and that was the secret code I needed to unlocking the mysteries of twin identification.

Last summer at camp is when Nate met his first twins.  I ask him, “So, how do you tell them apart?”  And he says, “One has a booger in his nose.”

Not exactly the most trusty tip.

This summer he meets a new pair of twins at “SLO Parks and Recs” camp and he tells me they’re named Merick and Herick.  Of course this is definitely something I can remember.  Then the age old question, “So how do you tell them apart?”

And he says, “Herick has a pimple here, on his cheek.”

For the record, I don’t think he really grasps the meaning of pimple… he probably means mole.  But, even if he’s right, at least it’s better than the booger method?

It’s been awhile since I’ve provided an update on the puppies… or the poopies as I like to call them.  Several stories come to mind, but I can hardly remember them as I’m still recovering from Friday’s sleep deprivation.

It started Friday morning as all sicknesses, mysterious rashes and injuries are want to do at our house.  Maladies always appear on Friday mornings when you have to gamble on whether it will resolve itself by the afternoon, or create an issue where decent medical care is inaccessible until Monday.  Friday morning we realize something is seriously wrong with Piper.  Her neck is swollen like a grapefruit.

Long story short, there are some terse texts that afternoon, James loses and embarks on an adventure getting Piper into the crate and the car and out of the car and saves her with a stranger’s help in the Trader Joe’s parking lot and the vet knocks her out, performs some kind of surgery, and sends her home in a big plastic cone.

Now Pipes is already kind of goofy.  She got her mother, Gigi’s, goof genes.  I can’t really put my finger on it, but it’s in stark contrast to Lightning’s strong physique, perfect point and amber eyes.

Lightning and Piper have to be separated, which is highly antithetical to the Fucillo Family mantra: Brothers Stick Together.  In this case: Sisters Stick Together.  But it’s doctor’s orders so that no one bites her stitches out.  The vet determined that fighting and wrestling may have been what caused the trauma in the first place.  So James decides to put Lightning in the crate on the front porch and leaves Piper in the dog pen.

We all go to bed.

At 1:32 in the morning I hear a whine on the right side of the house.  Then a bark on the left.  Then a bark on the right.  Then an empathetic return bark on the left.  It crescendo’s into an all out cacophony of Doggie Dolby Surround Sound ala “What?  The puppies are missing?  99 puppies are missing!  Where did you see the puppies??  A fat man and a skinny man have them in a big truck!  A pointy, ugly lady in a yellow coat is coming!  Rrrufff woof WOOOOOOOOF!”

It was a nightmare.  One dog is literally next to the boys’ bedroom window.  I can’t escape it because all the cousins are sleeping soundly in the barn.  There is nowhere to hide.  The terse texts of the previous afternoon are re-exchanged in person.  James loses again.  He leaves in a huff and never comes back to bed.  Believe me, I can’t ask.

I’m not entirely sure, but I might have heard a big red car with black fenders peeling out in the driveway.

I’m certain I’ve mentioned the amount of quizzing that takes place around this place, but I’m not entirely sure people really appreciate how much I’m constantly being tested.  Not just my patience, but primarily my knowledge of weird animal facts, planets, my ability to add and multiply long strings of random digits, and my command of super hero facts.  Jacob agrees the math quizzes are relentless.

Last weekend we were walking past my favorite town art cow… Hulk Cow… when I found myself immediately eyeball deep in a superhero pop quiz.

“Mom.  Mom.  Can you name all the Avengers?”
“Thor!”
“Yes…” they all say, anticipating my epic fail.
“Odin!”
“Noooooo, Mooooom.”  Eyeballs rolling and shoulders ughing.
“Ha ha.  I’m just messing with you.  Iron Man?”

And of course the rest of my guesses are entirely wrong and I decide to throw-out any and all superhero names I can even remotely recall.  Captain Underpants!  Frozone!  Extra exasperation points.

I’ve decided to do some quick research and create a Mama Cheat Sheet to be accessed covertly on my phone as I pretend to search my backpack for my blank Scantron and #2 pencil:

Justice League: Aquaman, Batman, Flash, Green Lantern, Superman, Wonder Woman, and Martian Manhunter.  I’ve got this one.  Solid.  These are clearly the A-list superheroes, though that last one never caught on, right?  Either that, or aliens sucked him out of all mainstream marketing.

Avengers: Black Panther, Black Widow, Captain America, Ms. Marvel, Hawkeye, Hulk, Iron Man, Scarlet Witch, Spider-Woman, Thor, and some randoms that I don’t even think should count including Falcon, Hank Pym (huh?), Luke Cage (who are these superheros with 1970’s guy names?), Quicksilver, Vision, Wasp and Wonder Man.  There appear to be a number of power couples in the Avengers world.  Spiderman appears to be some kind of lone wolf spider.

X-Men: I don’t recognize a single X man, X woman or X child.  Except maybe Wolverine and Storm?  This cheat sheet is beginning to peter out…  Peter is Spiderman.  I know that much.

Google and Wikipedia have surfaced no less than one hundred and fifty superhero teams.  My confidence to cram and ace the next unannounced test is waning faster than a speeding bullet.  I am feeling exceptionally confident that I’ve got Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Violet, Dash and Jack-Jack stone cold memorized.

Yesterday I give Jake a little taste of is own medicine.

“Hey Jake.  What’s a barrette?”
“Uh… I think it’s a kind of food?”

Hand Mr. Martian Manhunter a baguette.  My work is done here.

A few weeks ago we were leaving Target at the same time as a man and his two daughters.  The guy turns to me as we cross the parking lot and comments appreciatively as my children both center-splits hurdle the enormous red spheres in front of every Targét.  His girls seemed to walk right past without even the slightest impulse to conquer this manmade physical challenge.

He hadn’t even seen our walk in where they leapt onto the chest-high brick walls and then had to clear the pruned hedges of many small villages… sorry about that, I’m currently writing and watching the Sweden/Mexico World Cup game and am inspired by the accents of the best fútbol announcers on Fox.

The daughter father and I had a lovely little parking lot repartee on the differences between sons and daughters.  What I used to call princess explosion versus choo choo explosion.  At this age, it’s more like beautifully accessorized soccer game hairstyles versus “Did my son just jump through that brick window opening on the ground floor of this parking garage?”

This weekend we’re riding in the car and Nate says, “Mama, what’s that in your hair?”  When it comes to car rides, his view mostly includes the back of my head.

And I say, “What?  My barrette?”
“What’s a barrette?”
“Uh, it’s something girls use to clip their hair.”
And Nate replies, “Ewwww” and makes a grossed-out face.

I’m undecided on whether I’m more concerned that A) I’ve raised a child that is seven (and for the record, nine) and has never heard of barrettes, or B) hair clips are considered gross to this hurdler of giant red Target balls.

They may have left me with no choice… Commence Operation Princess Explosion.

This year we had two perfect parental party days.  Mother’s Day was likely the bathtub store’s most profitable day on record.  The shop girls recognized the entrance of three quarters of my family as sales jackpot material.  The boys departed with a giant floral box stuffed with all kinds of awesomeness.  After I enjoyed my breakfast in bed and opened my present, the boys read about each handmade luxury product and then meticulously planned their next six weeks of $6 bathing opportunities…  Then we did the Bob Jones trail, coffee and sustenance at Kraken, lunch at the new Creamery, and a beautiful dinner at Coach’s restaurant.  The whole day was just dreamy.

For Father’s Day, we made James breakfast in bed and then embarked on a stunning day trip to Hearst’s Castle.  The boys were unbelievably museum-worthy on the tour of the upstairs rooms and during the big screen movie.  It was the first time I remember liking the tour… I call the tower room!  The boys were especially intrigued by the indoor pool with real gold mosaics.

We stopped for lunch in San Simeon and left Nate in front of a sign promising an espresso and a kitty to unaccompanied children.  He left disappointed, decaffeinated and empty-handed.  We visited the elephant seals, spotted the field of zebras for the first time, and then made a quick stop for outrageously priced brown butter cookies.  An outstanding day celebrating an outstanding dad.

Later that afternoon, Nate made sure I knew how much he liked what we’d served his “Dady” for breakfast in bed.  He says to me, “Maybe when I’m a grown-up, my husband can make me that for breakfast in bed?”

And Jake chimes-in, “Your wife, Nate.  When you grow-up you’ll have a wife.”  (Nate is seven and girls are gross.  But he agrees to his brother’s forceful socialization.  I’m pretty sure he still might be holding-out hope that marrying your big brother is not, in fact, a faux pas.)

“Mama, Mama.  Do you think when I’m a dad my wife can make me that for my breakfast in bed?”

And I promise him that I’ll make a note for his future spouse.

Dearest Future Nate Spouse,

Since his first bite at the age of two, Nate has been a furtive fan of breakfast in bed.  He’s really looking forward to the day when he’s a grown-up and you serve him on a tray with a hot beverage and flowers and most importantly, a big Papa Bear-sized bowl of forbidden black rice pudding, garnished with mango and pomegranate seeds.  I’ve been asked by seven-year-old Nate to make sure you have this recipe… and this reminder.

We sure love our Nate and know you do, too.  He’s a serious catch.  You can’t go wrong with this recipe, a package of Lush bath bombs, and the loudest singing musical animal card you can find.

xoxo

My dear, dear JJ,

Please forgive the delay… I seem to be running about one year behind on just about everything.  Luckily this blog isn’t quite that delayed.  You’re nine and a quarter… which means I’m still well ahead of your Platform 9 3/4 t-shirt.

It just completely blows my mind that you’ve gone from that chubby-cheeked nonstop Baby Boss to the big kid you are now.  In my annual tradition, here’s a little glimpse into nine-year-old Jacob.

If Nate is our Sporty Spice, you’re our Spicy Spice.  Over the past year or so you’ve declared your love for Daddy’s tacos, and a generous helping of Cholula.  Your newfound love for tacos and sushi have saved our culinary lives.  Though sushi is a double-edged sword.  While my stomach appreciates you’ll eat just about anything, my wallet votes for grilled cheese.

And speaking of differences, this year has mostly been about you and Ron and Hermione.  I mean you and Otto and Veronica.  It seemed you were all getting along swimmingly until the last few months of the year where you and Veronica turned into oil and water.  Mr. Mayfield said he has never felt more like a marriage counselor– you on one side of the couch with your arms crossed, and V on the other with her hand tucked under her chin.  Hopefully summer’s temporary separation  helps to build each other up, instead of knocking each other down.

When it comes to building and creating and imagining what could be, you take the cake.  You spend every waking moment planning how you’re going to build an entire town with a zoo and a high school and office space.  You design your own comic books and graphic novels and illustrated Minecraft newspapers, including sponsored advertising.  You love to spend hours with me drawing and designing our perfect tree house, our ideal future house, a new dog pen, or where we should put things in the barn.  This afternoon you came up with a plan for the Halloween party we should throw seven months from now, including crafts and games and a costume contest.  Your Bean-Boozled prize idea was genius– a trick and a treat all in one.

You design and manufacture your own Pokémon cards and characters.  You whipped-up your own Plants versus Zombies board game one afternoon.  Another time you created an entire bakery out of construction paper.  All of your businesses are most definitely for profit.  You have an innate knack for business– continuously peppering me with questions on profitability and wages and supply chain logistics.  My mental math is constantly being tested and quizzed and challenged.  Today you figured out the business reasons behind the discrepancies in pricing between proprietary games like the Xbox versus the open platform that is the Apple App Store.  These things make intuitive sense to you.

And when it comes to intuition, strategy, and planning, you’re ten steps ahead.  You love chess and you say things in an ominous voiceover like, “It’s a game of strategy.  And sacrifice.”  A few weeks ago I asked you to be more gentle with the chess pieces and you carefully laid a trap.  You’re convinced you’re smarter than me, which may in fact prove true.  But oh contraire mon frère, the sweet ingenue replies, “Why how would I know the value of this hand-painted chess set?  There is only one man who knows.  And that man is… (dun dun dun) Santa Claus.”

You’re known for adding a well-timed dun dun dun.

Speaking of traps, years ago you mastered the art of “cutie eyes.”  You use them in real life and in illustrated “persuasive letters” written specifically to me and left on my pillow.

On the topic of persuasion, you start every single thing you say with, “Mama?”  And then I respond.  And then you tell me something bizarre or strange or hard to believe.  Today it was a fact about blue flames melting glass in less than a minute.  I’m never entirely sure.  Since the moment you could form sentences, you’ve possessed the knack to utter just about anything with such authority and confidence that seventy-year-old women always believe you.  Especially Grandma.

This year you decided not to play baseball and instead became the big brother of all the little baseball brothers.  You took them to the playgrounds and taught them to climb trees.  They marched behind you with sticks held high.  You taught them to scale the forbidden roofs of CL Smith storage sheds and provided endless piggy back rides.  You’re generous with my gum and snacks and earned yourself a well-deserved following.  You’ve decided you’d like to be a camp counselor and recognize the lack of gender diversity in camp counseling.

Therapeutically speaking, you’re intent on things that are cool.  You dab.  You floss.  You have a Minecraft backpack and people know you as “Creeper Bob.”  You’re fiercely protective of your unstructured leisure time.  You want access to coding and Legos and robots.

You’re motivated by Lego robots and challenges.  You’re intent on having your own money.  You like to be on time or early.  You made it across the ninja line after numerous attempts, but mostly to win a pack of Pokémon.  For Mother’s Day, you mapped the entire breakfast in bed tray including labels and checkboxes to track the process.  You know every word to all of the songs on the radio– it’s impressive.  We still read together every morning and most nights.  Of course you could read them yourself but we like our time together.

I love watching you grow and learn and become exactly who you already are.  I love you Jakey Cakes.  Every little funny, stubborn bit of you.  We’re so proud of you and are doing our best to savor every single second.

Love,
Mama

This weekend we had a bit of an “incident” in our front yard… but let’s take a step back.  Or a hop back if you will.

When I was a kid there was a time when we had bunnies.  My brother and I spent hours in the barn whipping-up Top Chef worthy bunny bites at our hipster eatery: Rabbit Restaurant.  At some point, our bunnies procreated, as they’re known to do, and we had our own fluffle.

One cold foggy morning it was my job to feed the farm and all I know is that I unwittingly stumbled upon a decapitated baby bunny lying several feet from the hutch.  We’ll never know exactly what happened, but my dad surmised a hole in the bottom of the hutch plus a heavy nesting box equaled the most disturbing image burned into my baby bunny brain for life.  For-e-ver.

So that’s my traumatic childhood baby bunny story.  And of course James has a story like this, too.

I’m sorry you now have an inkling of where this tale is headed.  Fast forward to this past Sunday.  We let the dogs out and they’re racing over the hill and through the wood.  All of a sudden Jacob is yelling– Piper has trapped a wild baby bunny in the lower meadow.  He’s running down the rocky embankment, screaming at a pair of hunting dogs.  The bunny is squeaking in distress.  And before he can get there, Piper scoops up her catch and makes a run for it.

Jacob grabs her at the top of the hill and makes the most heroic and valiant attempt.   It’s heartbreaking.  She won’t drop it.  James intervenes.  And, please excuse the traumatically graphic nature of this entire story– she swallows her marshmallow whole.  One little cotton ball down the hatch.

Poor Jakey is sobbing and angry and stalks into the house to grieve.  “Don’t feed her” he proclaims through gritted teeth, “She.  Already.  Ate.”

Sometimes nature is just too much.

Later that afternoon at the grocery store, everywhere I turn I’m faced with bunny fruit snacks and cheddar bunnies and bunny grahams.  A Whole Foods House of Horrors, Annie.

It’s been several days and I still can’t look Piper in the eye.  Jakey also needs more time.

Traumatic childhood baby bunny story?  Check.

Our very first autumn in San Luis, we played soccer, of course.  I’ll admit, I’m kind of in love with the plAYSOccer logo for AYSO.  Genius.  That was our first introduction to many of our current Pacheco parent friends.  It’s kind of funny to think back on those early sideline days.

One of my favorite memories was when Kai got a brand new baby sister.  I remember asking five-year-old Nate about it.

“So Nate… does Kai have a new baby sister yet?”
“Yep.”
“Oh how exciting!  What’s her name?  Do you know?”
And he replies, in all seriousness, “I think it’s uh… Princess Leia?”

She is now forever Princess Leia to me.

That same season is when we met little SloDoCo with the happiest, cutest grin ever.  He has a real name, but his donut shirt is forever etched in my memory.

That’s also the season when we met Kai’s little brother.  He had the coolest blond bangs that he was constantly adjusting via his professional surfer head snap.  My first memory is of three-year-old Jackson marching up and down Middle School hills with a big stick, and a flock of older followers behind him.  Make no mistake, he’s the leader of the pack.

Then last year on Nate’s baseball team, this little boy just started chatting me up like nobody’s business.  He had the two cutest dimples any person has ever possessed and wild blond hair.  Fast-forward another year and we’re back together again in the stands.  I have the biggest snack bag so I have an advantage in making friends with all the little siblings in the bleachers.  My buddy and his irresistible dimples find me with a fresh container of these little pieces of gum that come in cubes.  He asks me for some gum and then hesitates.

“What flavor is it?”
“Mmm, mint.”
“Thpythee mint?”
“Well, not too spicy.  But maybe?”
“Hmmm, I don’t like thpythee mint.”  And he scampers off.

Oh thpythee mint.