wild*life

Today James took the boys miniature golfing in Santa Maria.  I’m told Jacob won and they all had a great time.  Apparently there was one hole where two of their balls went into the hole and never came out.  After James jammed the end of his club into the hole with no luck, the groundskeeper came over to help.  He shoved his leaf blower into the hole and “Pop!” out came a pink ball.  And then a green ball.  And then another pink ball.  And another.  Then in one unexpected golf tidal wave, at least twenty-five golf balls came gushing out.  It was so supernatural, they all had to come home and watch Star Wars.

And speaking of supernatural, Jake and I are about half way through Book 7 of Harry Potter.  We’ve been immersed in the wizarding world all summer and it’s been our special escape— a little slice of heaven.  When it’s all over, I’m worried the withdrawals will be so bad we’re going to have to read that new play.  I mean, I generally like reading plays, but I’m concerned it won’t really be what we’re looking for… which is to keep our Harry Potter reading club going for-E-ver.

Unfortunately Nate doesn’t like Harry Potter, though he is the undefeated reigning family champion of Harry Potter Uno.  No one can beat him, not even Papa.  So while we’re reading, he usually plays Harry Potter Uno with James, or spends the time inventing new forms of goofing around.  I do know that sometimes he’s listening because he’ll unknowingly break out into a sing-song, “Potter you rotter, Potter you rotter,” imitating every Gryffindor’s least favorite ghost, Peeves.

Meanwhile Jacob spends most chapters acting out the various emotions of each character.  I lay against the pillows on our master bed reading from my iPad, while he sits up and portrays Dumbledore being pensive, or Ron acting shocked.  Tonight he was especially animated, executing a dramatic interpretation of Hagrid’s giant half-brother, Grawp, fighting Death Eaters and then, when it was all over, kissing his two fingers and saying in his deep, gravely giant voice, “Peace out!”

Broadway here we come…

This last book has gotten decidedly darker and more teenagery.  We’ve had a number of deep mother-son conversations on snogging and relationships and appreciating the finer qualities of smart girls.  Tonight we’re reading/acting our way through a particularly stressful chapter as the trio of friends is on the lam from You-Know-Who.  And I say, “Jake, what’s with all the H’s in this book?  Harry and Hermione?  Hallows… Horcruxes… Hogwarts… Hagrid!  Huh?  Huh?”

Jake gets it, of course, and immediately one-ups me, “Ha!  Ha ha ha!”

I love how we just get each other.

On Tuesday of this week, James took the boys to see the new Rogue One Star Wars movie.  And today they had to wrestle the DVD player out of storage so the three of them could watch the first Star Wars movie, which is technically the fourth?  I don’t even know.  Fortunately I was at work.

I’m a Return of the Jedi child.  I liked ewoks, and Princess Leia (Rest in Peace) and Jabba the Hutt and then I was done.  I totally failed some sort of Obi-Wan quiz tonight at dinner.  I’m not ashamed.

James started the boys’ Star Wars education years ago.  Long before I would have approved watching something with so many lasers and swords and laser swords.  I admit, the weekend after the diagnosis we went to the movies to take our mind off things.  It didn’t work so well…  The Rogue One poster had me in tears as I’m certainly not prepared to take up the Star Wars training.  It’s crazy what you worry about when under extreme duress.

I will say though, for the record, back in October I was at a party when I was challenged on my knowledge of certain Star Wars soldiers.  It was just before Halloween and the topic of costumes came up.  Jake was going to be a ninja for the second year running, and although Nate likes “Dark Vader,” he wanted to be a Clone.  Not a Storm Trooper, a Clone.  I knowingly clarified, “Clones are the good ones with blue on their faces.”

No one believed me.  They questioned whether there was even such a thing as Clones…  I was just a teeny bit incensed.  I mean really, I’d spent quite some time researching clone costumes on Amazon, aaaaaand I was the proud owner of an SUV named Harrison Ford.  Clearly I know something about Star Trek.  Ha!  I would never make that mistake… C’mon, gimme some credit people.

When I arrived home I consulted the experts.

“So, Storm Troopers are white and Clones are white but they’re totally different, right?  Storm Troopers are bad and Clones are good.  Am I right or am I right?”

Nate, “Yep.  And Clones have blue on their face.”

Case closed.

What with all this cancer business, I’ve fallen behind on my reporting of magical creatures.

Back on November 14th, Nate was beaming as he finally received his membership card into the elite, prestigious club of grown-up tooth ownership.  He came home with a teeny tiny envelope, perfectly sized for miniature dental treasures.  I asked him to recount the story of losing his first tooth.  Apparently, they were all just sitting at their kinder tables, attentive as usual and “Pop!”, out falls Nate’s little lower Tic Tac.

“And then what did you do?”
“I raised my hand and told Maestra Irion.”
“And then what did Maestra Irion do?”
“She said, ‘Un applauso, Nate!'”

And the whole class gave him a round of applause.

That evening, Nate places his little tooth in his virgin Tooth Fairy teepee pillow.  As we get ready for bed, we double check the pillow and are genuinely alarmed to find the pillow pocket empty.  So far, Nate’s lost his first tooth… twice.  Fortunately Jakey finds it under his brother’s bed and disaster is averted.  Coincidentally, Nate’s Tooth Fairy loot (some chocolate coins and a pack of Pokémon) are also found under his bed the following morning, after another brief scare that she hadn’t visited.  She really must be burning the candle at both ends… letting so much slip through the cracks.

Meanwhile, the Book Elf made a late-breaking, surreptitious drop-off the second weekend of December, also known as The Darkest Days.  Our house is a hotbed of activity for little elfin creatures.  I just pray they don’t fall in love, run off, and dump their considerable workload on me.

Jake was so excited, he momentarily ceased his Santa suspicions and we immersed ourselves in the story of Hilo, The Boy Who Crashed to Earth.  Nothing like the Book Elf and a second grade graphic novel to pull you out of the depths of despair.

Then on December 18th, we head to our community theatre’s production of A Christmas Story joined by Uncle Bob and Aunt Bobbieta.  Also known as Bryan and Erin.  I really don’t know where all this Bob business started.

Skutt Farkas completely stole the show.  Of course we had to go to Mandarin Gourmet afterward.  As we’re waiting for our fortune cookies, Nate just rips his second little bottom Tic Tac tooth right out.  The waiter calls for a round of applause in Chinese.  No, I’m kidding.

The next morning, Nate awakens to find a second pack of Pokémon cards and a sizable bag of mini Kit Kats.  We’re all sitting around, admiring his haul when he turns with a big, knowing grin on his face and exclaims, “Look how big this bag of Kit Kats is!  Now we know for sure Mommy can’t be the Tooth Fairy.”

On the 23rd we all gathered at Stanford for James’ surgery.  At lunch, Grandma Suzy, Uncle Geoff and I braved the rain and headed over to the new Poké Bowl restaurant at the mall.  Long story short, it was deelish.  A bowl full of healthy, fresh, flavorful yumminess.  Absolutely no comparison to these terrible Acai Bowls currently plaguing our small town.  A**ai Bowls is what I call ’em.

Our recent visit to the Poké Bowl place reminded me of a few additional poké anecdotes.  I mean, besides the lovely compliment, from a knowing mom at the neighborhood Halloween potluck, on my homemade “Pokémon Put Me In The Poorhouse” jean jacket.

This summer we met our neighbors up the road, the Johnsons.  They have four kids— Noah, Phoebe, Ethan and Ava.  Noah and Phoebe are middle schoolers and all four are enviably friendly and wonderfully polite with strong, respectable handshakes.  After the kids leave, Jacob says nonchalantly, “So… you think Noah babysits?”  I just gawk at him.  He’s been resisting the concept of “babysitting” for years, even though he’s always had the best babysitter ever in Miss Dulce.

“Uh, I dunno.  Why do you ask?”  And that’s when his cunning little strategy materializes…

“Do you think he has Pokémon Go?”

He’s been trying to get his hands on some Pokémon Go for months.  He wants it so bad he’s willing to be babysat.

A few weeks later, we took a day trip to Los Olivos, on a day that was hotter than Blaziken (That’s a Pokémon joke… he’s a fire type… oh never mind).  James, Jake and I haven’t been to Los Olivos since The Great James’ Santa Barbara Birthday with a Bossy Baby Fiasco of 2010.  I mostly remember him wailing uncontrollably through the streets as we dragged him away from the town chicken coop.  Jacob that is.

So we attempt to check-out Los Olivos for the second time, sweating from one darling boutique and wine tasting room to the next.  At one point, James leaves us in the tolerable shade of a cushioned teak seating arrangement and sets-out on a lunch option assessment mission.  He returns ten sweltering minutes later with a handful of options including the lowbrow deli market on the corner, the highbrow deli on the other corner, or a place serving poké and white wine.  Ding ding ding, I’ll take Door #3.  James takes the boys to the lowbrow choice while I head eagerly toward chilled Chardonnay and a bowl of beautiful Hawaiian fish, hopefully swathed in cooling, delicious asian flavors with those light, crispy wonton chips.

I breeze past the hip chalkboard sign and float into the air conditioned tasting room.  Hmmm.  There must be a kitchen in the back?  I make my way toward a pile of papers that might be menus.  They’re not.  I casually question the young man pouring wine behind the counter.

“So… we saw the poké sign out front?” I ask airily.

“Oh yeah.  We’re a Pokémon Go Stop.  The owner’s a big fan.”

And I sweatily trudge back to the highbrow market… Pokémon Go.  Stop.

Growing-up in the mountains meant we had a neighbor with hundreds of bootlegged videocassettes in a neighborhood lending library, and I’d never had pizza delivered.

Jake and Nate have spent the first, impressionable years of their lives in the ‘burbs.  They walked to school and served 700 trick-or-treaters and answered the door for Door Dash at least once a week.  Now that we’ve moved to the country, we’re still helping them to understand why you wave to everyone you pass on the road, and coaxing them to venture further into the woods without feeling scared.

I admit, there are many city luxuries I deeply miss: Our friendly Door Dash delivery service, my Tivo (bableep bableep bableep), real internet, Comcast On Demand (I know Comcast seems bad… till you don’t have it), curbside recycling, and Pasta Pomodoro.  But what I miss most of all… maybe more than good TV and sushi on my doorstep… our basement.  Our cool, spacious, private basement.  It was a haven I shared with no one other than Santa Claus himself.  Last year I creatively repurposed an old rolling laundry hamper into a holiday present sorter.  It was genius.   And now that I’m living on more than three spacious acres with two Barbie-sized closets, Santa and I are getting desperate.

A few weekends ago I hit the local toy store anniversary sale on plastic bricks that allow you to build more flying spaceships.  One never tires of building flying spacecraft.  Given my basement-free, closet-free, garage-free, attic-free existence, I turned to the back of my car and the secrecy of the “privacy” cover.

The following Saturday, my stash was still stashed.  I was super sly as I loaded-up the lawn chairs and soccer gear for the boys’ games.  After our traditional lunch at “Jakes’ Place” aka Panera, I get Nate strategically into the back seat before I carefully open the back door.  As Nate peers over the privacy screen at me, I hear a loud, gleeful voice exclaim, “Wow!  Looks like Christmas in there!”

I turn toward the voice— a fresh-faced college kid, and menacingly “Shuuuuuuush!” him, my saucer-sized eyes shooting daggers from behind my sunglasses.  Poor kid was instantly vaporized.

I’ll never forget the 2012 lead-up to the presidential election.  We were on my sabbatical up in Ashland, Oregon, half listening to the presidential debate on TV.  We didn’t think the boys were paying attention until Jake asked with sincere interest, “Are they talking about weapons again?”  What I thought would sound like grown-up Charlie Brown gibberish to a little three-year-old was clear as a bell… probably cementing his budding interest in Weapons of Minor Destruction right then and there in that VRBO living room.

Years later, Jake still finds politics and daily news riveting.  He requests it every morning on the way to school.  He knows all about Trump’s plan to build a huge wall.  He’s familiar with his grabbing of women’s private parts.  His friends have been discussing the election at length on the playground.  And he’s been firmly in “Harry Clinton’s” camp for months.

This election season has made quite an impression on the boys, even though I’ve stayed very far away from it.  I’m not sure if its been the media circus or the negative campaign ads (they’re excited not to have to hear the messages from Donald Cheese Leg anymore… aka Dawn Ortiz-Legg).  My hunch is that it was actually one kindergarten substitute teacher who convinced Nate’s entire class that, and I quote, “Donald Trump is evil.”  I’ve tried to explain that very few people are truly evil, taking a more temperate approach to addressing the sensitive and emotionally charged arena of politics.

What I can say is that I am deeply grateful that my children have witnessed an African-American man and a woman in the only two presidential elections of their lives and have seen all loving couples with the ability to marry the one they love.  Their realities of what is possible have been broadened and deepened far beyond what I observed in my childhood, and for this progress and possibility, I am thankful.

It’s a historical night tonight and as an uncanny reminder, James’ Apple watch reminded us, “It’s time to take a breath.”