wild*life

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.”

Love is in the air.  Pink trees are in bloom.  Love-struck squirrels are chasing each other through the tree tops.  And tomorrow is Valentime’s Day.  That’s what Nate still calls it.  He also calls it a Pubic’s Cube (Rubik’s Cube), a dong (gong), and his “nibbles” (nipples), but who’s keeping track?

Me, that’s who.

The impending celebration of love reminded me of last December, over a year ago, when we were invited to Helen’s sixth birthday party.  Jakey was the only boy invited and Helen had explained to her mother in all sincerity, that Jacob was her boyfriend.  I think they’d been “dating” for at least six months and as one might expect, Jacob didn’t even know it.

This year for Valentine’s Day, we took a family outing to Targét and I made a hasty executive decision to purchase four boxes of Star Wars valentines.  Each one came with a glow stick “light saver”— of course that’s what sold me, especially when I found no sign of Pokémon valentines.  I didn’t realize until we opened the package that the “light savers” were sized for a battle between Barbie and Ken.

It did, however, bring me back to the days of Happy Valley when we would make little heart covered boxes and bags and then spend the afternoon milling about the classroom, delivering our valentines to each classmate.  I would meticulously pick each card, deciding which canned saying sent just the right message.  One had to be careful that certain boys didn’t get the wrong idea, while others received the perfect disclosure, communicating just the right level of coy subtlety with sayings like, “I can’t ‘bear’ to be without you!” or “You’re cool!” When I’d get home I’d review each individual valentine, reading into every saying and daydreaming as we hold hands and disappear into the roller rink’s couples skate.

These days our schools send home flyers about “Friendship Day” and instruct us not to address each valentine because it takes too much time to pass them out.  Where’s the romance in that?

Speaking of romance, on Wednesday night we set-up a Start Wars valentine assembly line:
Rip along the perforated lines,
Sign your name,
Stuff the envelopes,
Add heart stickers to close,
Add tape to close when the heart stickers don’t stick,
Repeat 64 times.

The manufacturing process is about to begin— Nate has a marker in his hand and his dad directs him to start signing.

Nate: “What do I write?”

Dad: “Uh… Herman.”

Nate: “How do I write Herman?”

I’m not sure he ever caught on to the joke, but he did finally begin writing his name.  In the end, we knocked out our valentine quota just before bedtime.  The boys didn’t even read the messages or thoughtfully consider the potential communication implications of “Crush the Resistance My Valentine!” or “The First Order, My Valentine!”… I’m not exactly sure what either of these mean, which can be a good strategy when blindly signing and gifting valentines.

Last night, Nate brought his valentimes home and spent a respectable amount of time enjoying each one and reading aloud who they were from.  He received such loving notes as: “U R 1 in a Minion” and a hologram cheetah concluding, “You’re Purrfect!”

Jake, on the other hand, brought his bag of valentines home and immediately separated the wheat from the chaff, or the cards from the candy as it were.  He then unceremoniously dumped the cards into the recycling bin without a second glance.  Not even noticing the receipt of two identical, and quite cynical valentines for the first grade, depicting a grumpy cat with the saying, “One Valentine’s Day is ONE TOO MANY.”  Both Cat and Colton’s parents are clearly fans of “Friendship Day.”

In any case, I hate to break it to you ladies… they say boys only have on thing on their minds and they may be right…

It’s candy.

As I was contemplating the No It All Gift Guide of 2015, I briefly flashed back to a day early on in Jacob’s first year of kindergarten.

He came home and, without warning, declared, “No.  More.  Sandwiches.”

I averted my gaze, curtsied and replied, “May I fetch your Lordship something more to his liking?”  Then scurried off to the kitchen to alert the staff, while silently calculating the number of packed lunches he would eat before he could be sent off to University— a kingdom where he could reign freely and feast upon spaghetti thrice daily.

Now to be fair, I do remember making a similar declaration to my parents, possibly in Junior High School.  And even more likely the afternoon after I had opened up a salmon sandwich during the most sensitive and criticism-attracting era known as the seventh grade.  But until that point, I had endured years of things sandwiched between two pieces of bread.

And so after Jacob’s declaration, we got creative.  We discovered mini bagels or “bagelettes,” and lox.  Peanut butter was out due to the crisis that is the growing peanut allergy epidemic.  Jelly had already fallen to a similar ban several months prior.  Then I stumbled upon the idea of a short wide-mouthed thermos for random leftovers.

Just think of the possibilities!  Leftover spaghetti, bits of steak, tomato soup.  Sliders and pizza bites and potstickers.  Sausages, mini corn dogs, meatballs.  As we had hoped, a whole new world of anti-sandwich possibilities was laid before us.

Around this same time is when the trailer for the latest Alvin and the Chipmunks movie started stalking us everywhere we went.  This one is chock-full of one-liners, one of which is a well-timed, “Nailed it!” from Theodore.  Who, for the record, is still my favorite.  Jake likes Alvin and Nate likes Simon.  We’re an equal opportunity squirrel loving family.  In any case, Nate has been mishearing this classic line and so without warning, but perfectly timed, he’ll exclaim, “Mailed it!”  This is my new favorite thing.

Meanwhile on the lunch front, Jake has a brilliant idea: pigs in a blanket.  Though he calls them something more along the lines of “those little hot dogs we made with Grandma.”  So one morning I wake-up early and in 15 minutes I’ve concocted a bunch of little organic pigs in a blanket.  Yes, the Whole Paycheck sells Pillsbury crescent roll knock-offs.

That night I check in with My Lord…

“So, what’d you think of your lunch today?”

And in his most royal decree, he shines his majestic smile upon me and proclaims, “Awesome.”

Mailed it.

Nate’s first school best friends were Lucas and Logan.  Make that: Loo-kas and Logan.  They palled around together for several years at Saint Lizzie’s.  Then Bennett came along.  Nate spends so much time with Bennett that I’ve caught him, on more than one occasion, absentmindedly referring to me as Bennett… Fortunately, after the great preschool closure debacle of 2014, Bennett joined us at our new school and thus, all was right with the world.

Now you must know, Bennett is darling.  He’s got curly hair and big brown eyes and is always smiling.  He has a similar high energy level to Nate’s older brother and coincidentally, his favorite color is also green.  Bennett loves dinosaurs and has the great fortune of having a talented chef of a mother whose picture we get to see every time we visit our local Whole Foods.  He is also an only child, which means Nate is probably guilty of being the “bad influence” when it comes to his panache for potty talk and as a transmitter of the “cool” things big boys are into.

Yesterday James took Nate to school and as he was leaving, he ran into both Charlotte and Bennett.  Charlotte has a special place in her heart for James.  She’s essentially our adopted older sister, though she’s younger than Jake.  Meanwhile Bennett comes out of the office with his dad.  As soon as he sees James he starts growling like a dinosaur and apparently grabs onto James’ leg.  James has risen to Big Man On Campus around these parts.  So James says, “Hey Bennett, is that a dinosaur on your shirt?”  And Bennett smiles.  And then after the usual chit chat and repartee, James extends his arm and proffers his closed fist, “Bump it, Buddy!”

Bennett pauses.  He looks left, then right, then bonks his head against James’ closed fist.

Now who’s the bad influence?

Screen time— it’s a modern day parenting fixation.  How to strike that perfect balance between not raising miniature zombie couch potatoes and utter survival?  Research shows the magical number is two… as in no more than two hours a day.

Which at our house generally translates into two shows.  Shows are 23 minutes, which makes me feel slightly overachieving and less guilty when a game on my phone is the last remaining thread connecting us to household sanity.

Over the years we’ve covered a bit about the latest television phenomenon ’round these parts.  There were the days of Handy Manny and Max and Ruby.  The good ‘ole days.  And there was a fairly long obsession with the educational nature of Wild Kratts.  But these days everything has turned into a blur of ninjas and Rangers and battles and “light-savers” and karate.

James has attempted to balance the physical violence-inducing shows with a fair measure of caring story lines involving emotional dilemmas and morally strong characters.  It’s slow going.

One day after school James tried to get Jake to choose a “loving” show over a “fighting” show.  Jacob misheard “loving” as “lovely” and so now, as we’re waiting the one hundred hours for Netflix to load, he routinely asks me, “Mom, do we have to watch a lovely show?”

Lovely shows are not just the yin to the Fighting shows’ yang.  They’re veggies versus treats.  Pocket shirts versus cool shirts.

James and I have also been bouncing back and forth between Lovely shows and the Antithesis of Lovely shows.  There was Narcos, the true story of Colombian drug kingpin, Pablo Escobar.  If you weren’t sure, that’s a Fighting show.  We followed it with a really heart-warming and uplifting run of Parenthood, a family drama in Berkeley.  *sigh* We still miss its lovelinees.  But then we watched a documentary called Making a Murderer, which left me feeling sad and disturbed by the criminal justice system.  We caught-up on a few episodes of Top Chef— lovely— but then finished a series last night called Happy Valley.

Two minutes of Google research from the couch had identified Happy Valley as a Netflix British thriller with outstanding acting.  Plus it was called Happy Valley, which as a native Happy Valleyian I could not dismiss in good conscience.

On the third to last episode I was pretzeled-up on the couch with my ears plugged and my eyes covered and an infinitesimal peephole through my fingers.

“James, is it over?”  …silence…

“Are you sure we finished the entire six seasons of Parenthood?  I don’t remember what happened to Joel and Julia… James?  Hello?”

Happy Valley was more gripping than the first True Detective, which is saying something.  The bad guy was too believable.  Overall an impressive show, but it may take me months, possibly years, to recover.

Lovely.

(Now say it again, but with a British accent.  OK, now I feel slightly better.)

There are certain pictures of both Jake and Nate that just melt my heart… a phrase that seems particularly overused in the female social media sphere.  I’ve never seen a guy I know post a comment like, “Oh, my heart melts.”  I bet Jerry Seinfeld could do miraculous things with that little observation.  In any case, the metaphor is just so apt.

And when I spend a lot of time with my boys, I just can’t help but attempt to cradle them with their long, gangly limbs and their sharp knees and elbows.  If I touch foreheads with Jakey, I get the perfect view of his face that takes him back to his two-year-old self.  It’s like when I put hats on them both.  Something about covering-up their hair that transports their faces back to when they were bald, pint-sized pipsqueaks.

Recently Nate’s been trying to comfort me in my inevitable and cliché realization that they’re growing-up too fast.  He consoles me by saying, “Mommy, I’m always Baby Nate.  I am Baby Nate because I’m Nate.”

And I say, “Yes, I know.”

And then he says, “And you’ll always be Baby Mama…”

“MmmHmmm…”

“…and Daddy is always Baby Daddy.”

What I still see when we touch foreheads…

Back when Jake had just turned three and Nate was semi-walking/crawling/eating anything he could get his fat little fists on, I remember a specific morning at Santana Row.  We were sitting on a bench as the boys explored and climbed and fortunately, it was quite early, so they weren’t cutting-off every available pedestrian as is their typical weekend hobby.

All of a sudden little Jake turns to us and says, “That’s in my name!  That’s in my name!”  He was pointing to the signage on the window of the ted bAKEr store. And more specifically, the AKE.

“Yay!” our inexperienced parenting brains thought.  “Maybe he’ll be an early reader?”  That was when he was really excited about letters and signs and would exclaim excitedly, “Numbers!” everywhere we went.

We forgot to factor in his relentless negotiating skills and preference for pampering.

Years passed and he loved being read to.  He dabbled in writing early on, but his interest waxed and waned.  I felt slightly ill at the first kindergarten parent night when Maestra Patiño explained that our kids would be expected to write “opinion pieces”… in Spanish.  James and I looked at each other and telepathically communicated, “Uh oh.”

At that point he had kind of mastered ‘Jacob.’  But he would frequently ask where the ‘p’ was— he’s always thought his name was ‘Jaycup.’

Kindergarten homework hit us like a ton of bricks.  The thought of reading or writing an entire sentence was akin to asking Jake to transcribe the Bible by hand.  He would flop and cry and lament, try one letter… and then flop and cry and lament some more.

So I let it go.  If there is one thing to know about Jacob, it’s that he will do what you want him to do only when he is good and ready.  No amount of pressure or bribes or threats or positive reinforcement or tricky psychological tactics will make him budge.  Trust me.

And so we waited for the veritable reading “switch to flip” as many of his friends’ parents had described.  Which is why I was gobsmacked when the week before Christmas I overheard him reading his Pokémon Handbook aloud on the couch.

Jacob can read??  Not just sounding out his Spanish schoolwork or reading stop signs, but entire sentences devoted to the intricacies of battles.  Which is probably why I’ve decided to embrace the Pokélife— I am forever indebted to the one thing that finally flipped his “interest in reading” switch.  We even got a stack of schoolwork where he had actually written entire paragraphs and the papers had no signs of dramatic tear stains or flopping around on top of them.

Nate is certainly ahead of the game as his preschool is leading the preliteracy motorcade.  But then again, he’s always been the one who wanted to do Jake’s flash cards with me.  That said, I’ve noted that he can confidently spell and write exactly two words unassisted:

N-A-T-E and …

B-U-T-T.

So proud.

In a previous post I’ve mentioned the phenomenon of SportsCenter— a short ESPN TV show that allows you to catch-up on the latest sports highlights without having to binge watch athletic events all weekend and thus protecting your ability to “hang.”  Apparently it airs up to twelve times per day.  In any case, I keep referring back to SportsCenter as a worthy analog for many of life’s quandaries… one of which is Pokémon.

I recently visited one of my best friend’s in LA and she offhandedly mentioned that she doesn’t “get” Pokémon.  Her son tells her about it, but all she hears is Charlie Brown-style, “waaah-waa-waah-Damage waah-wa-Mega-wah-wah-E.X., Mom.”  And so I’ve decided to create a Pokémon Cheat Sheet; the Cliff Notes of Pokémon; the SportsCenter of first grade Japanese card collecting for all parents beginning their journey, or perhaps who’ve been proud Pokémon owners for some time but just tune-out when they hear anything involving damage and evolving.

Now I must warn you up front— PokéCenter will NOT teach you how to play the Pokémon card game.  My assessment is that it’s almost unlearnable unless you follow the step-by-step instructions of a “trainer” deck, which is most definitely rigged.  Personally, I’d recommend saving the learning of the real game as something you may do, should you find yourself unwittingly locked in prison with a couple of years to kill.

So the purpose of this PokéCenter is to provide you with the bare basics— The Executive Summary of Pokémon with just enough facts and questions so as to sincerely show enough interest in Pokémon that you can have intelligent conversations with your grade schooler and thus support your ability to “hang.”  If you finish the primer and are ready for more advanced vocabulary, I’d recommend starting with my first foray into Pokémon.

For those Pokémon diehards that stumble across this page— I have not meticulously fact checked everything in this post and have relied almost solely on the knowledge of a four and six-year-old supplemented by the Pokémon Deluxe Essential Handbook, Wikipedia skimming, and random Google searches.  If you’ve come across this page, you are certainly not the target audience and are probably looking for something more like this blog that writes a daily, I repeat daily, Pokémon card review and chronicles rare Pokémon cards published since the beginning of time… or 1996.

PokéCenter— A Pokémon Primer for Parents

Pokémon Premise:  The card game centers around fictional creatures called “Pokémon,” which humans capture and train to fight each other for sport (source: Wikipedia).  Possibly… a bit like bloodless cockfighting for kids?  But I digress…

The Basics: Pokémon is a media franchise with an animated TV show, movies, video games, comic books, toys and trading card games.  It’s second only to the Super Mario franchise.  If your kids have started talking about Pokémon, they’re most likely referring to the trading cards featuring different Pokémon creatures.

Pokémon “Guys”: I’ve used the term “guy” figuratively in this instance.  There are both male and female Pokémon characters.  There are gender neutral Pokémon as well as several that evolve into a male or female form, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  Pokémon guys are usually a new version of a somewhat familiar animal, insect or life-like organism (i.e. plasma).  Some notable Pokémon creatures to know include the most famous Pokémon, Pikachu (The Mickey Mouse of Pokémon) and some less known, more creative Pokémon like Mega Slowbro (Hermit Crab Pokémon), Pineco (Pinecone Pokémon), Spritzee (Perfume Pokémon), and Vanillish (Vanilla Ice Cream Cone Pokémon).

Key Pokémon Vocab: There are less than ten key words you need to learn to intelligently participate in Pokémon conversations.  If your confidence wanes and you need to fall back to a protective position, I recommend asking questions.  That said, if all else fails, just pepper your conversation with a lot of “Megas.”

• Health or Health Points (HP): The big number in the top right corner of the card which measures how “alive” or strong your Pokémon is.
• Damage: The little numbers in the bottom third of the card which measure how strong your “attacks” are on other guys.
• Attack(s): The descriptions in front of the damage numbers that tell you what kind of attack moves the guy does when he is battling another Pokémon.
• Strategy: A generously used term uttered by the “trainers” (aka humans) in all Pokémon television episodes.  Beware— after just one episode, you’ll find yourself uttering in your most Alvin-the-Chipmunk-esque voice, “Whoooo’s that PokéMON?!”
• Types: There are 18 types.  Bug, Ice, Dark, Dragon, Electric, Fairy, Fighting, Fire, Flying, Ghost, Grass, Ground, Normal, Poison, Psychic, Rock, Steel, Water.  You don’t need to know anything except the word “type.”  I like to mess with them by asking about Umbrella types and Princess types.  I’ve noticed Jake and Nate are calling Psychic, “Sidekick.”
• E.X. and Legendary: E.X.’s are pretty rare and are stronger than normal Pokémon.  They usually have fancy holographic pictures which just further advertises their specialness.  Legendary are very rare, stronger and harder to catch.  Jacob has only ever seen one Legendary in his entire life, and of course, Truman, our Pokémon sensei has it.  I have never been so lucky.
• Evolution: All guys start out as Basic before they evolve.  Most guys can evolve at least once, sometimes up to four times in stages.  My favorite Pokémon, Horsea, evolves from Horsea to Seadra to Kingdra.
• Mega: Used to describe a very strong Pokémon.

5 Questions to Ask: The most effective approach to bonding with your child on Pokémon is the Socratic method, also known as asking questions.  Believe me, this blog was the most collaborative family project we’ve completed in quite some time.  I’ve amassed my impressive Pokémon knowledge via simple questions and good ol’ fashioned listening.  Here are a few ice-breakers to get you started:
1) What’s your favorite Pokémon?  What type is it?
2) How much health do they have?
3) How much damage can they do?
4) How do they evolve?
5) How cool are they?  What makes them cool?
Bonus Question: Have you ever seen a Legendary?

Final Advice: Take a look through your child’s deck and pick a most favorite and a least favorite Pokémon.  This helps you to limit the number of guys you need to learn the names of and provides an anchor you can always rely on.  Now, I’ve gone the stereo-typical girlie route where my favorite Pokémon is Horsea because he’s soOoOo cute.  Nate really wants me to like Meloetta (Musical Pokémon) because she has long green hair and I think she’s supposed to be pretty.  “Mom, she is really rare and can use the power of 1000 E.X.’s!”  I just can’t do it.

I’ve decided my least favorite Pokémon is  Lickitung (Licking Pokémon).  It was a tough choice given Combusken is an unreasonably psychotic-looking, sharp-clawed chicken, Goomy is a “Soft Tissue” Pokémon, and Cubchoo has a foot-long frozen snotsicle hanging from his nose.  Although I will forever love Horsea, my go-to impersonation is Smoochum and her Sweet Kiss attack.

Your kiddos love Pokémon, you love them, the equation is simple.  You now have the tools and knowledge you need to hold your own on the playground.

And now I leave you with an inspirational quote from Alder (Per Jake, “a Pokémon battling champion”):

“even if we don’t understand each other, that’s not a reason to reject each other.  There are two sides to any argument.  Is there one point of view that has all the answers?  Give it some thought.”

Deep, right?

Yesterday I caught-up on some long overdue clothes management.  Nate’s drawers have been overflowing with shirts that “aren’t cool.”  While Jake has almost nothing to wear except school uniforms and “pocket shirts.”

Pocket shirts also fall squarely in the crosshairs of the “not cool” target.  I would describe them as high quality, graphic striped t-shirts that stylish boys and JCrew models would choose, should their fanged snake and wolf shirts all be in the wash.  Pocket shirts are what mom buys twice a year for Easter and holiday pictures.  James recently picked one out for Nate to wear and he sincerely asked, “Is it picture day?”  Clearly not cool…

Another one of my brilliant ideas came to me this past May.  I tossed all of their socks and filled their drawer with piles of identical white athletic socks.  It was brilliant.  I had wasted hours of my life rooting around in their dark closet looking for matching socks.  One helicopter sock.  Oh, here’s one shark sock.  Here’s one with a red toe and, oh wait, nope, this is orange.  It had grown to become my #1 crazy-making pet peeve.  I am much too talented to waste my gifts on sock hunting.  And for $24 and the click of a mouse, the problem was erased.  What could not be erased was the fact that I had let this nonsense go on for as long as it had, given it could be fixed with $24.

Children could no longer complain about socks hurting them via invisible owie things or aggressive seams or that the heals reached their ankles or the heals reached their arches— brilliance in the home economics of stocking administration. But I made the mistake of keeping three sets of striped socks.  They didn’t seem that old.  They had this magical quality of actually being easy to find in the abyss.  And the boys began rooting around just for these exclusive socks.  The “cool” socks.

One day we were in downtown Santa Cruz at the specialty sock store and Nate hoodwinked me into buying him a pair of dragon socks.  They’re black with red dragons breathing fire.  Really, they go with everything. The other day he finds them in the drawer— they’re so easy to see in the $24 sea of white.  Anyway, he dons the new socks and proclaims as he leaps as though propelled by flames:

“I am the dragon MASTER… of SOCKS!”

Brilliant.