wild*life

A few weeks back, Jakey and I were laying in my bed discussing the events of the day.  I’m pretty sure it was the night after we were rescued by the surly black tie movers.  Somehow we start talking about jobs I could never do…

“I always thought long-distance truck driver was possibly the worst job for me— I’d have to quit after three hours, that’s my max.”

“What about garbage?”

“Hmmm, yes.  Wouldn’t be my favorite job.  I have a long history of disinterest in waste management… but now I’ve decided mover.  Mover might possibly be the worst job ever for me.  I’d be grumpy all the time.”

“Oh yeah, Mom?  What about… (dramatic pause)… the Snack Shack?  Imagine if that was your job?!”

That Jacob… sharper than a can opener intended for a super-sized can of nacho cheese.

I always thought there were five stages of grief, though a quick search reveals they’ve upped it to seven.  I subscribe to the art of simplification so I guess I’m slightly partial to the traditional five: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance… assuming one can favor one model of grief over another?

Having spent the last two weeks attempting to pack-up all of our earthly possessions into a POD, I am deeply attuned to the five stages of moving:

Stage 1: Gung Ho
A novice mover might perhaps look at two straight weeks stretched out before them and be under the overconfident illusion that one can pack-up seven years’ worth of belongings and cram them into a garage-sized mobile box with time to spare for necessary purging and a well-deserved pedicure.  During this stage, the French branding of UHaul moving products is quaint and charming— Oh look at zees… zee “cushion foam,” eet ees called “mousse coussinee,” how clehver!

This phase may last approximately two days and/or the time it takes to empty 50% of a modest basement.

Stage 2: Realization
Reality sets-in.  As does exhaustion.  It’s only Day 3 and mental recalculations begin.  Pedicures are canceled.  Piles are moved from one room to another.  All boxes one comes across appear to have been filled years before as follows: Dump office drawers into box.  Repeat.

The number of boxes filled with bits of office detritus is deeply troubling.  They’re reproducing like bunnies.

Stage 3: The Grumps
An attempt to move a large, heavy bookcase through a doorway busts up the trim, bashes the hall, and is aborted.  The novice movers’ husband is trapped in the office behind the bookcase… creating sufficient motivation for him to unearth the land line and call emergency professional help. The home mover wakes-up on Day 4 with a severe case of the grumps and a deep hatred for all possessions.  Home design pictures on Pinterest bring only negative thoughts and a concerted vow to the worship of minimalism.

Two professionals with Russian accents, dressed in short-sleeved tuxedo printed t-shirts, red camouflage board shorts and neon shoes come to the rescue.  They also have a severe case of the grumps.  Who can blame them?  Stupeed mousse coussinee.

Stage 4: Despair
Five days in and a novice mover may find themselves deep in despair.  They may contemplate calling the entire idea off.  They may entertain thoughts of begging for their job back and claiming insanity due to the inhalation of garage filth and denim dust bunnies.

Stage 5: Submission
Ten days have passed.  A corner has finally been turned.  The backs of closets are visible.  Piles dissipate.  Signs of progress finally appear.  One large POD is carried off while the mover is away at Little League and a mini celebration breaks-out.  Carloads and carloads have been driven to the Salvation Army.  The mover is now familiar with the highly well-run San Jose haz mat facility, and the lovely employees of 1-800-GOT-JUNK.  The naive urge to purge has been beaten back.  80% has been sifted, appraised, assessed and dispositioned.  It’s down to the final 20%…

Dump office drawers into box.  Repeat.

So if you’ve been keeping up with me, you know I have one non-denominational son, and one Jewish son.  Well, he identifies himself as Jewish, not sure if he’s cleared it with Rabbi?

In any case, we got a friendly little Yahoo groups reminder last Sunday that Nathaniel was expected to bring only kosher lunches for the entire week to his preschool.  Somehow we hadn’t noticed the flyer outlining all the details and suggested kosher for Passover preschool lunches for dummies, so James began doing some hurried internet research… sending me off to Whole Foods on a wing and a prayer.  And a long string of text messages.

It turns out we adhere to Sephardic kashrut and not the Ashkenazi tradition, which allows for legumes, peanuts, corn and rice…thank goodness.  It turns out the brown rice pasta we always eat is certified kosher, allowing for a nice big helping of Pesach kasurut mac and cheese.  Who knew… ketchup is always kosher.

James told me to look for the special “Kosher for Passover” logo.  He specifically sent me texts directing me to look for Kosher for Passover Ranch dressing.  Hard boiled eggs and hamburger patties are OK.  Get lots of fruit.  No grains, leavened or otherwise.

I was under the misunderstanding that must have been perpetuated by the airline industry in the 80’s that kosher food was specially blessed… apparently not true.  Or not generally true— James did the majority of the research.  It appears kosher for Passover is actually the true source of gluten-free— no wheat, barley, oats, spelt or rye.

So I set off for Whole Foods expecting to find a big, bright display of special kosher for Passover abundance and easy to see logos.  What I find is two little aisle “end caps” with what amounts to ten different forms of matzah.  I get a box of matzah, some “potato crisps” and some panko.  I look everywhere and don’t see one single “Kosher for Passover” logo.  Instead I find foods labeled paleo friendly, gluten free, dairy free, soy free, and grain free.  Our go-to chicken tenders are certified Halal.

Fortunately Nate is totally comfortable and casual about matzah and peanut butter… eats it all the time.  Plus he’s a fruitarian, which completely qualifies.  I just re-read the flyer and see that he is never allowed to have any pork or shellfish in his lunches… good thing we’ve avoided packing him any shrimp, crab or lobster… though I may need to double check the ingredients on those mini corn dogs that fit so perfectly in our Christmas thermoses.

The good news is, we made it through the week.  James basically had us all eating kosher… or some version of Internet kosher.  The one thing I do know?

Snack Shack nacho cheese: not kosher.

James has been coaching Nate’s tee ball team, the River Dogs, this season.  It has been a season full of laughs, a bit of chaos, and innovation in tee ball drills… we’ve trademarked the “Not in My Yard” drill.  The only downside was that, as the life partner of Coach James, I somehow inherited the role of Team Parent, when all the other parents became intensely interested in the passing clouds and gopher holes beneath their feet.

And as Team Parent, I’ve followed James’ lead and brought innovation and creativity to the role.  New improvements like, “Bring your own snack!” and e-mail subject lines titled, “A Message from the Snack Shack Police.”  The good news is, any complaining gets you immediately promoted to Team Parent!

One of the primary roles of Team Parent this year is to open the Snack Shack every day for an entire week.  Nothing like needing to report for duty at 4:45PM on a weeknight when the entire world has relocated to Cupertino.

This week truly shone a light on the giant hole in my education that is the competency of food service.

I reported to duty on Wednesday night and began diligently following my checklist.

Soda Machine: I had no idea that the ice that comes out of a soda machine gets in there by dumping giant buckets of cubes into the top while precariously perched on a step ladder.  I’m kind of bummed they don’t trust us to refill the syrup.

Icee Machine: Two “on” buttons.  Why two?  I wish I knew.

Hot Dog Machine: Now this, this was a wake-up call.  I came upon the hot dog steamer and someone had dutifully disassembled it and washed every piece.  Now the Shack is filled with myriad laminated little signs that are infinitely prescriptive and almost dummy-proof.  But there were no signs explaining how to reassemble the hot dog machine and as Coach James would attest, I did not inherit “the Pop gene”… my auto mechanic grandfather.  I poured hot water into the bottom reservoir, directly onto the heating coils… I deduced (and prayed) this was correct given the hard water stains in the bottom of the machine.  But now I had three metal parts and two glass door-like pieces without hinges.  I was not really in the mood for an intelligence puzzle when the Shack needed to be open and ready for business asap.  When all else fails… I turn to Google.  A quick search on my trusty phone for “The Dog Hut” and I find an image of the very conundrum I’m faced with.  A few adjustments and my Cal Poly “Learn by Doing” approach, and I’ve conquered The Hut— I’m filled with pure Shack power.

Pretzel prep is easy, hot water for Cup O’ Noodles and instant coffee and hot chocolate— Piece O’ Cake.  Restocking candy, snacks, straws, cups, napkins, trays, plates— effortless.

But Cheese Nachos: They still haunt me from last season.  This morning I opened the Shack at 9:15AM.  I slopped cups and cups of orange into the enormous Pyrex pitcher to be warmed in the microwave.  I admit, when a lady showed-up and asked me how she could help, I delegated plastic cheese warming without a corn nut of guilt… even when it splattered a little onto her shirt.

9:15AM on a Sunday is way to early for nacho cheese.

Dear Jakey,

You’ll notice your birthday letter is a bit delayed… well, technically you won’t notice but still…

In March you turned 7— it blows my mind.  I look at you and I can just hardly believe how fast you are growing-up.  I think you woke-up on your birthday and had me measure you, convinced you would be taller.

So in my annual tradition, a few observations on our newly minted seven-year-old Jacob.

You are the reigning Connect Four champion of our entire house.  I honestly have to concentrate so hard to try and win.  You beat me most of the time, fair and square.  You are a master trap-setter.  Somehow you must have hit the 10,000 hours mark last summer at Y camp.

Speaking of traps, you continue to negotiate Every.  Single.  Thing.  You certainly have a future in deal-making.  You drive a hard bargain, but are finally beginning to accept “no” for an answer much more frequently and graciously than in years past.  Your latest negotiation whims have zeroed-in on Minecraft.

And on the topic of gracious, I continue to see amazing glimpses of your growing maturity.  At Easter you decided to re-hide the eggs so Devon and Bryan could look for them.  I can always find you with your arm wrapped around the shoulder of your little cousins, gently steering and coaching them in the right direction.  And last week at Nate’s tee-ball game, you pinched-hit as the second coach’s assistant.  Daddy was on his own and as I herded cats on the bench, you helped to find them batting helmets and picked their gloves and hats up out of the dirt.  You even leaned over the third base line and high-fived every kid as they headed to home plate.  You’re a natural coach and helper and will likely be promoted to Assistant Coach before me.

I mentioned dirt… and you are covered in it.  Dad tells me it has to do with the blacktop at school, but you generally join the dinner table looking a bit like a hungry orphan.  Earlier this year, you and your friends had a recess hole digging project at school.

And did I say something about food?  Last August I finally put two and two together and figured out you have very volatile blood sugar and what is called sugar sensitivity.  This discovery has changed our life.  I see you making better food choices and seeing how the food you eat affects your emotional highs and lows.  You also sleep better and are eager to climb in bed now that we focus on keeping you fed on time.  Boy can you eat.  You love sliders and pigs in a blanket and spaghetti with ground buffalo.  You still enjoy Brussels sprouts, apples and seaweed chips.  But you get sick of things easily and if I let you, would just eat bread dipped in ketchup.

Speaking of ketchup, for your birthday party with Nate, we went to Bass Pro Shop’s Uncle Buck’s Fishbowl and Grill.  You and Helen fell right into step and there just weren’t enough spots for all your best friends to sit directly next to you.  Uncle Buck’s included bowling where the ball is spit out by a giant octopus and shark.  We overdid it on chocolate cake… again.  And then we all went to watch the trout and climb on motor boats for an hour.  It might have been our best birthday party yet.

And on the subject of motor boats, our little motor mouth has started spontaneously speaking Spanish at home.  Your vocabulary is tremendous and you still love being read to, but are now reading to us.

Speaking of us, when you grow-up you’ve told me you’re going to make me a teleporter.  You have all sorts of useful, imaginative, lucrative invention plans.  I am really looking forward to the teleporter.  Seriously.  I can hardly wait.

I love you Jakey Cakes.  You are the most wonderful blessing a parent could ever hope for.  I am so excited to watch you learn and grow into the unbelievable person that you are.

Love,
Mommy

Earlier this week, Jacob had a weekday baseball game in addition to our two practices… which means we either eat pizza three days a week, or we go to “Pasta Peet’s,” where Nate can eat pizza.  (Nate still seems confused between Pasta P and Peet’s Coffee…).

So we get in the car to head home and James starts surfing radio stations.  Nate is very particular about songs and immediately directs his dad to return back to the traditional Mexican station.  As we enjoy the accordions, trumpets and Spanish lyrics, James begins backing out of the parking spot… and Nate exclaims, “I like Chinese!”

It was crazy.

Meanwhile we get home and Jake’s chatting me up and tells me again how he’s going to learn all the languages.  Every.  Single.  One.  It’s great that he has a real fondness for learning about other people and cultures and places.  So he says, “Yeah Mom.  First I’ll learn English and Spanish, and then Gibberish and Chinese.”

Twelve days ago, the flu hit our house like a freight train.  It started with Jacob— he tends to be the epicenter of unwanted household maladies.  He complained of a really bad headache and then lost his lunch all over the couch.  You always know when Jake isn’t feeling well because he is calm and flexible and doesn’t resist a nap.  The poor child practically subsisted on air and Gatorade for a week straight.  Then last Saturday, Nate came down with a 103 degree fever.  I didn’t realize it and took him to the mall— he was totally himself until about lunch time when he told me he couldn’t walk anymore.  Poor baby.

Jacob wouldn’t take any medicine— he adamantly affirmed that it “Tasted yucky.”  In fact, his taste buds made everything taste yucky including 7Up, Squirt, ice cream, pudding.  This year’s flu is some new tongue attack strain… how Pokémonesque.

Then this past Thursday, James went down for the count.  All three boys spent several days sleeping and then opening their blank eyes and then going back to sleep.  They all looked white as sheets… Nate has never looked so skinny.  Fortunately I’ve had a stockpile of employer-provided preventative flu medicine and so I broke into it the day James began feeling questionable.  I’ve also been sleeping on the couch for four days in my college sleeping bag with an exact copy of the travel alarm clock I had in Spain— it’s been like a Moroccan hostel.

Jake recovered fastest and Nate seemed like he was better, but his fever came back.  Seems to have been better today, though all three took a three hour nap again after we went to see Zootopia (highly recommend).  Lunch was the first meal Nate has had in days.  Every day he’s repeated the same mantra as Jacob, though slightly different,

“My taste bugs are still yucky.  They’we woo-ind.”

Dear Natesy,

On March first my baby boy turned 5.  5!  In your words, it was your “whole” birthday.  No longer are you four-and-three-quarters.

Leading up to it you would ask, “Is it my birthday tomorrow?”  And I would tell you no.  And you would ask, “Is it my birthday the tomorrow after tomorrow?”  And I would have to tell you it was in two more weeks, or ten days, or after the weekend.  Finally on the morning of your birthday, you come stumbling into the kitchen in your usual Kramer-esque fashion.

Daddy and I greet you, “Happy Birthday Big Boy!”
And you ask bewildered, “Today’s my birthday?”
“Yes.”
You sigh with your entire body, “Oooh… I’ve been waiting for sooo looong.”

In my annual tradition, this post is meant to capture a glimmering, fleeting moment of five-year-old Nate.

We joke that you’re a fruitarian.  Sometimes it seems like you subsist on air and oranges.  Most nights you sit down at the kitchen table, take a look at what’s for dinner, and then make an unsanctioned trip to the fruit drawer in the fridge.  In addition to oranges, you like cheese pizza, and grilled cheese.  It appears your go-to foods are primarily orange.

And speaking of orange, you tell me you don’t have a favorite color because “you like all of the colors, even the girl colors.”  You also don’t have a favorite animal because “you like all the animals.”  You like liking everything.  You’re very expansive and inclusive in that way.

Speaking of expansive, you are the most prolific artist I know.  Every day you bring me home “beautiful art” and walk me through each piece.  If you find one trace of your art in the paper recycling bag you are baffled and offended.  You tell me your most favorite thing to do is art.

Speaking of orange-eating artists in need of a back-up plan, you can write your entire name, you know all your letters, and you can count to 100 by ones and by tens.  You are curious and observant and love to try new things including your Dance and Spanish and Science and Cooking classes.  You were recently crowned the undefeated champion of the Bounce and Boogie for Boys Freeze Dance Tournament.  Your closed-eye strategy, to avoid disqualification via blinking, led you to victory.

Speaking of victory, you have conquered your fear of swimming.  What fear of swimming?  You stride boldly to greet Coach Leo each Saturday morning.  You’re learning free-style and can dive to the bottom of the pool.

And speaking of water types, you’ve caught the Pokémon fever.  You spend your time studying and sorting and admiring your collection.  You are infinitely unselfish and generous.  On the morning of your birthday you received a special Picachu EX set.  Not only did you let your big brother help you open your presents, but ten minutes later Daddy was reclaiming all of the cards you had selflessly given away to your brother.

And speaking of your other half, you and Jakey are inseparable.  I find you watching cartoons huddled together in the same one-person chair, or in the same corner of the couch.  The other weekend, you cuddled up in my bed and were admiring my wedding ring.  You asked, “Can daddy people have this kind of ring?”  I told you, you can pick-out whatever you like.  A bit later Jacob joined us and was talking about when he grows-up and that he wants to have a girl and a boy or maybe two boys.  When I asked you what you wanted you said, “Well of course I’m going to have the same as Jake ’cause we’ll be married.”  It broke my heart when you found out that you can’t marry Jake.  You hid under the covers as you processed the news.

Speaking of faith, a few weeks back I was telling Daddy a story about how I found out your best friend Bennett is half Jewish and celebrates both Chanukah and Christmas.  In the middle of my story you interrupted me emphasizing, “I’m Jewish Mom.  I’m Jewish.”  You can also snap really well— first you told me Rabbi taught you and then you told me you taught yourself.

And speaking of teaching, you teach me every day that attention is love.  You stop me with unexpected hugs and you gently hold my face.  You tell me that I’m special and that you love me.  You are helpful and flexible and super excited about baseball, I mean tee ball— you correct me regularly.

I love you Natesy Cakes.  You are the most wonderful blessing a parent could ever hope for.  I am so excited to watch you learn and grow into the unbelievable person that you are.

Love,
Mommy

I’m still catching-up on my holiday blogging. Unfortunately, I think I needed a little distance to gain some perspective on Christmas 2015, also known as “Barforama.” Stories for another day.

In the meantime, I’ve noted that my husband, the one that I’ve been hanging out with for many, many years, uses a particular phrase with noticeable regularity.  I’ve never noticed this, so I’m unsure if it’s new or if I was just oblivious or if maybe he’s started hanging out with his childhood youth leader, Father Rod?  Now I’m sure you can just hardly contain yourself to know what this phrase is. And even if you don’t really care, keep reading…

So on Christmas Day, each of the boys received their very own drone. Now I must describe these drones because once we showed them to Nonna, it completely changed her mental picture of how “menacing” this gift was to society.

Imagine a teeny, tiny clover shaped helicopter about the size of your palm.  Or just click this link to see a picture. Stepping on it would be like squishing a bee… That’s why it’s called a Nano. In the ’80’s we’d have called it a remote controlled helicopter.  It has no camera or assassination capabilities… and the precision with which you can fly it is, well… what’s the opposite of precision?

So on a bright, sunny Christmas Day afternoon, Auntie Anlala, Uncle Geoff, Granddad, Devon, a barefoot Baby Brian, Jake, Nate, and I meander to the giant soccer/baseball fields at Lincoln High.

It’s a bit breezy, so we find a location in the middle of the field without any nearby trees or power lines. It’s our virgin voyage, our maiden flight, and I volunteer to test out how easy or hard it is to control one of the drones.  We place it on the grass… all systems go.  We have liftoff!

But it goes pretty fast, and shockingly high, and in a bit of a panic as it’s approaching the fence, it plummets from a remarkably high altitude back to Earth.  Jake runs into the distance to grab it and bring it back.  One second I see him holding it like he’s holding a bee by its wing, the next second he is screaming at me, “It’s gone!  It’s gone to Kingdom Come!  To Kingdom Come!”

I approach him as he’s freaking out, arms flailing, eyebrows sky high… and clearly whatever bad thing has happened is my fault.  The pilot goes down with the ship, I mean the drone. In an exasperated voice he tells us that he had it, but then it started buzzing his finger and he let go of it, and then it flew up into the air, over the fence and the trees and the power lines and into the great beyond, otherwise known as Kingdom Come.

Of course at this point I feel terrible.  I’ve just lost the drone on its very first flight.  We realize the problem is that the left control sticks in the up position and that cutting the power is the only fail-safe way of grounding our aircraft.  But this learning is too little too late.  Our new Nano is likely entering protected airspace, or stuck on someone’s roof, or crash-landed in a neighbor’s backyard, never to be seen again.

Fortunately, Uncle Geoff has his wits about him and silences us all with his hands outstretched.

“Shhhhhhh.  Listen carefully.  Maybe we can hear it.”

We’re quiet for a moment and then we hear something.  The sound of a buzzing miniature drone in the front yard of a house across the street.  There it is!  Hallelujah, praise the Lord!  We’re saved!  Or maybe I’m saved.

Geoff scales the eight-foot chain link fence in his flip-flops, crosses the street, gingerly picks-up our baby ‘copter, and returns to a crowd of cheering disciples.  Fortunately, there were no other close calls after that brush with death… or Kingdom Come.

Amen.

Jacob: “Dad, would you rather be eaten by a tiger or a lemon shark?”

Dad: “Um, neither.”

Me: “I choose tiger.  I think it would be over faster.”

Nate: “Would you rather be eaten by a boa constrictor or a great white shark?”

Me: “Boa constrictor.  How about you?”

Nate: “Uh, camel.”

Me: “What?  A camel?  Camel’s don’t even eat people.”

Nate: “Oh.  OK, I choose armadillo.”