wild*life

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.”

I spent my childhood in the mountains.  Some years, we would get one group of trick-or-treaters that my dad most certainly scheduled.  I can neither confirm nor deny that my mom passed out candy collected the previous Halloween.  And to Granddad’s credit, he would load us up into the green VW camper bus and drive us around the mountains from house to house.  It took a long, long time jumping in and out of that sliding door and trooping up driveways while our neighbors foraged through their pantries looking for something suitable.

So then I grew-up and moved to town… and straight to Halloween Heaven.  We moved-in in October and fortunately, a neighbor casually came by to warn us about Halloween.  “Has anybody warned you about Halloween?”  750+ trick-or-treaters later and we were sufficiently warned…

Then we decided to act on our years and years of planning and moved… back to a mountaintop.  Jacob’s very first and possibly only objection: “What about Halloween?”

James certainly does not need a compelling reason to purchase a vintage VW van… fortunately, we heard through the grapevine that our neighborhood celebrates with an evening potluck and trick-or-treating hayride through the canyon.

We’re now recovering from three back-to-back nights of Halloween carousing… it started with a fantastic Halloween carnival at Henry and Ollie’s house, followed by an invite only evening of costume cacophony at the Country Club with Evan and Dillon, leading-up to the much anticipated hay ride driven by a dinosaur.

This year’s hay ride was apparently the largest haul of children in its thirty year history.  I tried to keep up with the tractor but finally realized I hadn’t worn the right footwear and returned to the parents-only fire pit.  Fortunately the black ninja dragon slayer and the helmet-less clone made it back alive… and did not return 12-feet up in the bucket of the tractor.

All in all, our social cup runneth over.  We may be the only house in the neighborhood with Halloween decorations, but that just makes our DANGER tape and spider webs that much more impressive.  This weekend James and I also took a daring hike around or entire property, primarily along a precipitously unofficial deer trail.  Just down from the tree house James exclaims, “What is that?”

I see some sort of tall box in the woods– is it a safe?  A telephone booth?  Let’s hope we aren’t about to solve any unsolved missing college coed cases.  James cautiously approaches the unidentified grounded object and… it is… an outhouse.  Straight out of Blair Witch.

How scarily fitting.

The Blair Witch Outhouse

I’m not sure how many waves of fashion popularity fluorescence factually claims, but at the risk of aging myself, I’m pretty sure I’ve witnessed three of the four.  In elementary school, my little brother was quite the proud porter of neon, head to toe.  At the time, I certainly appreciated the form of fluorescence, but the function?  I did not yet appreciate the true value of colors that rarely exist in nature.

But now, now we are a loud and proud Day-Glo family.  A few years ago, Jake and Nate received some brightly phosphorescent active wear which fit the then current definition of pre-kinder cool.  It didn’t take me long to realize how genius these little matching athleisure suits were.  The boys could be hundreds of yards away across a beach, a field, an amusement park and I could spot them in an instant.  No longer did I find myself welling with that bit of panic one feels when one hasn’t seen their child for a half hour within the Happy Hollow Redwood Lookout.  I had a new plan… and it was working.

Patagonia is currently running a campaign that promotes letting children learn and take risks.  I find this concept and the sentiment and history behind it fascinating to think about… that said I am not going to let my children balance along cliff ledges as they model $80 puffer jackets.  I do however, think that the resurgence of fluorescence has allowed us to give the boys longer reigns to roam.

I’ve also noticed another interesting side-effect.  Both Jake and Nate have really settled into school and filled their friendship coffers.  I’ve been especially surprised how we seem to end up on school grounds and no matter where we are, their friends appear out of the woodwork, almost knocking them down with their enthusiasm.  Meanwhile I don’t even see them coming.  One moment we’re alone, and the next moment, Nate is sheepishly under a pile of loyal fans.  And then it dawned on me.  Just like me, these little compatriots can see us coming from miles away.  Across a playground of primary colors, Jake and Nate are like two little buoys, bobbing along for their friends to literally grab hold of.

Two weekends ago we were at Nate’s soccer game– we’re the Yellow Jackets with our traditional black and gold striped uniforms.  We were playing a team sporting the latest in neon yellow jerseys.  James leans over to me conspiratorially and says, “They should call themselves the Highlighters.”  Ha!  We both laugh at his clever wit.

Tweet!  The CoachRef blows his whistle for the throw-in and yells, “Highlighters’ ball.”

When I was five my mom tricked me into playing soccer.  She told me my best friend Zoe was playing.  Apparently Zoe’s mom told her I was playing… and a few weeks later we were the only two girls on a green team called Rational Moving.

Those first games were rough— I’m told I would just hide my face as the bunch ball swarm buzzed through me.  I don’t remember not liking it.  But I don’t remember liking it either.  At some point things must have changed because I think I’ve been playing soccer ever since.

So of course I signed Jake up for soccer when he was only 18-months-old.  He liked it.  He dribbled around the house and ran around the field.  He was expected to know colors and directions and body parts.  He didn’t speak English.

Then when he was five I signed him up for a poorly organized AYSO league that combined practice and games into an hour on Saturdays.  There was no team name.  There were torrents of tears and meltdowns and all he cared about was the trophy.  The following year I signed him up for soccer again in the PAL league.  It had a weekly practice and a Saturday game with real refs and goals with goalies.  I distinctly remember many episodes of a certain someone crying irrationally and yelling “strong words” at me to the tune of, “I HATE soccer!  Why did you sign me up?  I HATE ALL sports!  I never want to play sports again for the rest of my life!”  Yes, the athlete in me died a little.

But then my friend Kristen told me heartily, “Give it until Season 3.  There’s something about when they get three seasons under their belt— it’ll change.”

I trusted her wisdom and prayed she would be right.  I mean really, what else are we going to do with two high-energy, strong-willed boys for the next 11-13 years besides scheduling them chock-a-block into various sports to exhaust them so fully that they can’t even muster a strong word that begins with “h”?

And now it’s Season 3 for Jake on the Goalbreakers (Jake’s suggestion), and Season 2 for Nate on the Yellow Jackets (he was really gunning for the Fireball Phoenixes).  When I cheer, “Go Green!” Jake corrects me, “It’s teal Mom.  We’re teal.”  Like, duh… Teal is infamously more menacing.

Jake is a changed human being.  He wants to go to practice.  He can’t wait for his games.  He plays soccer voluntarily at recess.  He asks us to take him down to the school on weekends so we can kick the ball around.  Say whuuuut?

At his first game he scored his first two goals and saved two others.  He’s transformed from the kid who never touched the ball, to the kid with a great block and a powerful kick.  Fortunately, Nate’s been a proponent since Season 1.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t do the Fred Flintstone gearing-up run that he used to do in defense as someone was coming toward him… I’m kicking myself for never capturing it on tape.

In any case, our Saturdays are so much fun now.  We’ve transitioned from Irrational Immobility… to Rational Moving.

Earlier this week, Nate and I were on our way up the hill while Jake finished-up soccer practice.  As we’re rounding the bend by the apple orchard, Nate asks from the backseat, “How come Grandma’s almost death?”

“What?!” I ask taken aback.  “Grandma’s not almost death!  Why would you say that?”

“That means her ears don’t work that well.”

“Oh.”  Grandma’s gonna love that one…

This evening I spent a good twenty minutes entering the 30 school holidays and 12 minimum days into my calendar.  After deciphering the standard cryptic school calendar… gray with dots are holidays, horizontal stripes are holidays, cross-hatches are holidays, I asked, “Jake, did they test your hearing at school last week?”

“Eh?  Eh?”

Apparently Jake’s almost death, too.

The first week we moved up to our house there was a heat wave… and boy was it hot.  We were baking.  Suffocating.  Sweating amidst our moving boxes and our PODS.  I admit, we were worried.  Had we just moved somewhere with an unbearable climate?  Would it be like this all summer?  Would we have to move back to Los Osos indefinitely?

But then it cooled down and the weather was breathtakingly perfect and we figured it was just a hot spell.  Though we now had undeniable proof that our architect’s advice against air conditioning was baloney.  Hot, sticky, melted baloney.  Plus there’s that thing called climate change.  We all need air conditioning.

Months passed and there was only one bad weekend.  We seem to have heat waves only when James’ siblings visit.

But then there was last week.  Last week made the first week in our house feel like a brisk winter’s day.  Last week was sweltering.  It was so hot James warned us all, “Grannies die in this heat.”

“OK, Gramps.”

This time the thermometers proved we weren’t just wimpy coastal transplants… on Tuesday, San Luis Obispo was the hottest place in the nation at 108 degrees.  Hotter than Las Vegas.  Hotter than Death Valley.  It was Hot Lava.

And speaking of Hot Lava, it deeply saddens me to report that the hottest day on record was also the day we found poor little Hot Lava… sleeping with the fishes.  He crawled down behind his favorite rocks and took his last little guppy breath.

Hot Lava lived a long, fulfilling life, reaching the wise old age of three.  October third would have been his third birthday.  I will miss him and all those heart-to-heart conversations we had during those early days in Los Osos.

It’s been a rough week, keep a close eye on your grannies… and your goldfish.

When my brother was little he was obsessed with wanting to learn karate.  For the record, I was not in favor of him attaining any additional ways of physically attacking me… his cowboy boots were weapon enough.  And after some interminable level of whining and begging, we dropped him off at his first karate class.

An hour or two later and he was ready to quit.  “All we do is stretch.  It’s too much stretching.”  And so his belts remained elastic.

In the last few months, Jacob has also reached “karate age.”  It appears to be a gene that activates at age 7.  He’s been talking about wanting to take karate… I’m sure the submersion in Pokémon hasn’t helped.  I admit I’ve been dragging my feet… do we really need additional instruction and encouragement in the art of punching and kicking one’s closest blood relations?

As luck would have it, our old swim club was called AVAC (pronounced A-vac) and our new swim club is called ABAC (pronounced A-back).  ABAC is actually the sister club to La Madrona, my childhood swim club.  All of this incestuous swim club context is simply to note that ABAC offers free Kempo classes twice a week.

For those of us new to the world of Mixed Martial Arts, Wikipedia describes Kempo as “a martial art characterized by the use of quick hand strikes in rapid succession taught by a red-bearded Sensei Gary.”  I’ve never met a Sensei not named Gary.

Sensei Gary runs a very disciplined barre studio turned dojo.  He is a firm believer in zero tolerance and effectively uses physical consequences as a means of mental control.  He expects a respectful and convincing, “Jacob Sir!” with the proper level of martial arts oomph.  His ability to corral 8 little boys via push-ups and mountain-climbers is impressive.

Now before the boys attended their first Kempo class, I did my best to set expectations… “Don’t be surprised if there is a lot of stretching.  You probably won’t get to kick or hit anything.  You may just do some exercises and stretching.  Remember the story I told you about when Uncle Geoff took karate?”

“Yeah, yeah Mom.  We still want to go.”

That was weeks ago.  The boys came home all hopped-up on Kempo, having had the opportunity to “spar” under Sensei’s watchful tutelage.

I ask hopefully, “How much stretching did you do?  Was there lots of stretching??”

“Uh, no.  Not really any stretching.”

I was really counting on more stretching Sensei Gary.