wild*life

It’s soccer season.  Jake is on the Ninjas.  And Nate is on the Thunder Bears.

Fortunately or unfortunately, neither team is quite as menacing as they may sound.

The games consist almost entirely of a swarm of kids kicking the ball past an unsuspecting goalie.  Generally ours.  There are an inordinate number of stuntman-esque falls, like bowling pins.  It looks more like rugby than soccer.  Balls bounce up and kids reflexively catch them.  Our coach finally realized that he needs to begin every quarter with a very direct, physical and mentally complex exercise called: Which Way Are We Going?

Despite their aggressive, rough and tumble nature, both my sons choose to avoid the fray.  They’re generally put in defense.  Jake can turn up the speed and come at the threat sideways… kicking it away in the nick of time.  But then he’s tired from sprinting and feels compelled to stay where the coach placed him.  Nate can also gear himself up to kick the ball away from an oncoming offender… but I see him getting distracted easily.  He’s always looking at the referee or listening to the grown-ups on the sidelines.  Most of the time his back is turned to the ball.

On Saturday, Jacob’s old teacher, Miss Amy, and her husband Nick, met us at the soccer field.  James was taking them out to look at some houses.  I was describing how the game went… something to the effect of, “It’s definitely bunch ball.  A lot of running and falling and butterfly watching.  But it’s really fun and funny.”

And Nate says in support of my description, nodding importantly, “Mommy, Mommy.  I was watching a butterfly.”  Continued adamant nodding, “I was.”

Lately Nate has developed quite an affinity for apples… dipped in honey.  He tells me it’s so good.  I was having trouble understanding where this constant request had originated.

But then last Friday he came home and reported that Rabbi has hair clips.  That’s how it stays on his head.  And then he stayed home in celebration of Rosh Hashanah.  And I was reminded that Nate is learning hebwew and teaching me more about Jewish customs and traditions.

I saw on our school calendar that on Friday was the blowing of the shofar.  September has a number of important Jewish holidays and I’m ashamed to say that my Judaic education is quite lacking– a sixth grade talk on the menorah and a free dreidel.  I hope the new Common Core has righted this wrong.

So I ask about what is going to happen…

“Nate, what is the blowing of the shofar?  Is it like a candle or something?”
“No, it’s a horn.”
“A horn?  Like an instrument?”
“No, a horn.  Like Gwanddad has.”

And clearly I understand it must be some kind of animal appendage.

It turns out our friend Matt attends the same temple associated with Nate’s preschool.  James tells Matt, “Nate goes to your temple, too!”  Matt just could not understand.  The cognitive dissonance was palpable…

Maybe Matthew and Nathaniel can get together and teach me how to blow the shofar?  Followed by some apples dipped in honey.

On Friday I asked Nate how his day was at school.

“We had Shabbat today.”

“Oh neat.  Tell me about that.  What do you do at Shabbat?”

“Well, we go to the Temple House and sing songs.”

“And then what happens?”

“We ate hollow.  We ate hollow.  And Rabbi comes.”

“Mmmm.  What does the Rabbi look like?”

“I don’t know.  He has something stuck to his hair.”

“Huh.  What is it?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t get close to him.”

“I see.”

“It’s not gum, Mom.  It’s not gum.”

Saturday, the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the year of our Lord, two thousand fifteen.  A day that will forever live in our memories…

as the very first time Nate ever held hands and sang Motor Boat, Motor Boat.

Aaaaaaaah… that’s the sound of mermaids singing, streamers flying and doves taking flight.

But let’s back up.

I’m not sure the last time I reported out on Aquaman and Land Rover, but it was probably back after we’d graduated from Barnacles where Baby Nate spent the entire time crying “No under, No under” and pleading “No agua!” as we approached the Almaden Valley Aquatic Club.  And I spent the entire time wiping snot from his face and weighing the pros and cons of traumatizing my two-year-old versus teaching him to be a quitter or in the end, both.

So we took a little time off.

Enough time so that when we went back, I no longer had to don a bathing suit.  Back at that time, our new class had a teacher named Maddie.  Miss Maddie was the most darling strawberry blond with perfect freckles across her Disney-princess nose.  Never underestimate the power of a beautiful high schooler to coax an aquaphobe back into the pool.

Unfortunately, Maddie must have graduated or gotten a better gig in Anaheim and Nate’s class graduated to Miss Jenn.  Now Miss Jenn had two of the most precious dimples any swim teacher has ever possessed.  She won Nate over and even helped him to walk to the door all by himself when his name was called.  And then Miss Jenn moved on to a better job modeling for the makers of Cabbage Patch and our little class of three rambunctious boys, and Nate, was inherited by Miss Sierra.

Miss Sierra will go down in the history books as the teacher under whose tutelage, Nate blossomed.  Or transformed.  Or was bitten by a radioactive fish and donned an entirely new identity.  He “loves” swimming lessons.  He jauntily races to the door when he sees her coming.  His glides have become the most improved she’s ever seen.  And for the last three Saturdays, he held hands and SANG with his class.  Miss Sierra even recognized the gravity of this achievement, finding me in the shower room and exclaiming, “He sang!”  He was even the last one out of Nonna’s pool two weekends ago.

Jacob, of course, is still a little fish.  It is scientifically impossible for that child to remain grumpy if dipped in chlorinated water.  After years with Miss Danae, the Béla Károlyi of swim instructors, JJ is now with Miss Summer.  We were such proud parents as we watched Jakey free-style the entire length of Nonna’s pool.

This past weekend, I watched in anticipation as one teacher picked Nate up by the armpits and dumped him into the deep end, twice.  He completed both circle-swims back to the side, unassisted, earning a bright pink ribbon.  We were both so excited, I could hardly believe it.  His smile was triumphant.  Not only did he “o-fish-ally” graduate from Jellyfish to Octopus, but I’d even venture to say he’s graduated from Land Rover to King Triton.

Four-year-old Nate seems to have developed a real panache for the dramatic.  I’m not sure exactly where it came from… possibly too many cartoons, or too many Legos, or too many Lego cartoons.  He seems to fancy himself some sort of Lego man.  Things will happen to him and he will come to me completely distraught saying things like:

“Mommy, he wipped by arm off.  He wipped it wight off.”  Wipped being ripped, and he being you know who.

I had a very hard time maintaining my seriously concerned expression when he came running into the living room in tears:  “He cachinged my head off.  He cachinged it wight off.”  With a knife-like motion to his neck.

And then a couple of days ago something happened and…”Mommy, my head popped off.  It almost popped wight off.”

This morning it was, “Mommy, he laid on top of me and almost flattened me.”  “What?  Like a Nate pancake?”  Earnest nodding.

The poor kid is practically ripped limb-from-limb on a weekly basis.

This evening I’m in the kitchen and I say to James offhand, “Man, something blew into my eye today and it still hurts.”

And no joke he says, “Oh really, Nate” in this totally inappropriately sarcastic tone.  I mean really, it’s not like I exclaimed in a fit of unjust tears, “James, James.  My eye popped out at the store today.  Popped.  Wight. Out.”

Sheesh.  I wish I’d told Nate.  He would understand.

Alas, summer has already come to an end.  Jacob started first grade last Wednesday.  He’s no longer insulated in the safety of Kinderworld.  He’s now on the other side of the tracks, also known as Dana Avenue, with the rest of the big kids.

Summer vacation went by in a blur of Splash Camp and Lego Robots.  Surprisingly, when all camps were lined-up side-by-side for reflection, his week of “Baking Desserts Camp” was voted tops.  And to think I really sweated that choice.  But to be clear, his “favorite counselors were at Splash Camp, Mom.”  So Teacher Veronica maintains her place on the throne.

One of my favorite summer memories was one of the last times I picked Jake up at camp.  The counselors at the check-out table made the walkie-talkie call for Jake.  A few seconds later, a suitably manly high schooler confirms via remote walkie-talkie, “Jakey Cakes is on his way.”

It was awesome.

Given weeks of various YMCA camps and Nate’s new school, we had lots of practice making new friends and adjusting to uncomfortably new situations.  After quite a bit of implicit praise and stealth coaching, both boys feel confident that they are good at making friends.  I’ve always wanted to feel like this so likely a bit of overcompensation on my part but whatevs.

A few weeks into Splash Camp, Jake confides to me with a sheepish, knowing shrug, “Gosh I’m just so popilar.  Everyone is always calling my name when I’m leaving.”  And yes, the word popular didn’t quite come out right when he said it, but he knew what it meant.

This past week, after school has started, he says something to a similar effect.  “Mom, Mom.  I think I may be too popular.  Everybody knows me.”  Again with the “What’s a guy to do?” crinkle in the corner of his mouth.

“Too popular, huh?  Tough, that’s tough… Do you know what the word ‘humble’ means?”

“Mmmmm… no.”

Saturday night we threw a very casual going-away party for our little house on Park Avenue.  As a colleague at work called it, a “Housecooling” party.  It consisted of 15 cupcakes, several bottles of wine, four chairs, 9 adults, a pack of crazy children and a pig.  Our impromptu gathering was to celebrate the 100th birthday of our little 2 bed, 1 bath bungalow.  And to give it a proper send-off as it changes hands yet again— hopefully to an owner who will appreciate its charm and character.

2160 Park Avenue was our first house.  We called it Casa Verde, and The Lavender House, and most recently it’s been known as Baby Jacob’s House.  We reminisced about how when we bought the house, it was so disgusting our realtor would barely step through the front door.  It was missing two or three windows at the time, so James and I could easily get in and measure rooms whenever we wanted.  Back then we were told that it was the Santa Clara University Crew Team’s house.  I’m not sure if SCU even has a crew team, but it was clearly inhabited by a group of college-aged boys, likely running around wielding long oars.  I remember the side yard was overgrown with chest-high weeds, and was filled with an unimaginable number of used razor blades and empty cardboard toilet paper tubes.  The boys would just use them and toss them out the missing window.

I also remember we were properly appalled when we figured out that the shower that had been shoved into the master bedroom’s closet was just a drain that emptied directly under the house.  And the lean-to shed off the back of the kitchen, affectionately called “Ghetto Laundry Room,” had closet organizers as though some poor kid had been renting it.  Clearly he missed the video they played in my freshman dorm titled something like: Don’t Leave Here and Move Into Someone’s Garage.

We also reminisced about CLub nights, which started with Jill and me making dinners and watching reality TV.  There were some nights when our menus were so ambitious, we didn’t eat until 9pm in front of The Bachelor.  Oh the luxury of one’s twenties.  The CL in CLub stood for Cooking Light— our go-to magazine for inspiration.

Back in those days, Kristen and Jay moved into the neighborhood and I remember they would pull Baby Cooper in their wagon over to our house for dinner.  Kristen always said we would look back on those days fondly and of course, she was right.

Over the course of the night, we managed not to rehash the days of moving our mattress from room to room, as we embarked on fixing-up every single room in our spare time and watching hours of HGTV.  That was when we learned that one must have a clean, finished bathroom before moving into a house.  Those first baths, surrounded by cement board, were terrible.  We tiled and hung kitchen cabinets and scraped tar from the original wood floors.  James learned how to hang crown moulding and I once fell asleep face down on the kitchen floor after installing wood floors.  The most back breaking work I’ve ever experienced.  Even worse than high school soccer hell week.  I’m fairly certain my own drool woke me up.

We did  recollect how I would walk to and from the university when I was 9-months pregnant… the three solid years of grad school homework, and then our fat little Baby Jacob scooching backwards under the dining room table.

Saturday night was a wonderful night of friends, laughs… and a few bouts of anguished tears from Jacob and Nico, unfortunately not because they’re going to miss our little house.

It was the perfect send-off to mark the end of an era.  Thank you to the Sanders, Spaulding and Papparides families for sharing this special evening with us… and of course Winston The Pig.  Contrary to unsubstantiated rumors, Winston is not a previous member of the Santa Clara Crew Team.

One of the best Christmases of my childhood was the year I found a My Little Pony unicorn named Stardust under the tree.  She was gold and sparkly and I poked a little hole in the wrapping paper so I could peer through it in anticipation every day.  I loved My Little Ponies.  LOVED.  That very same Christmas I think I also got the My Little Pony barn that came with tiny jumping hurdles and saddles.  My collection even included little baby ponies with teeny white velcro diapers and itty bitty baby bottles.  Horse diapers?  Little girl heaven.

I had this first grader fantasy where I was going to keep all my My Little Ponies until I grew-up so I could pass them on to my own kids.  I would get some shelves and hang them on the wall and line my ponies up in rows so they would stay nice.  Maybe I could even have little plaques with their names?  These are totally the things I would think about when I was six.

And then I blink and I’m all grown-up and I have two little boys and no My Little Ponies.  Instead, Jacob comes home a few days ago and teaches Nate this little rhyme… which I’ve now heard skeighty-eight times.  Nate thinks it’s the new funniest thing ever.  He just can’t get enough.  His brain is stuck on replay:

My Little Pony

Ate some bologna

Went to the circus

Farted on purpose

Climbed up a tree

To pee on a bee.

(Emphasis added by Nate.)

This really wasn’t part of the dream.

I vividly remember getting in trouble the summer before third grade.  My mom overheard me praying on my younger brother’s pre-kindergarten anxieties:

“Geoff, kindergarten is so hard…”

He looks up at me, blinking his big, blue, Bambi eyes.

“… they make you add one hundred plus one hundred.”

He was totally freaked.

Yesterday I overheard Jacob talking to four-year-old Nate… in much the same conspiratorial tone.

“Oh yeah, Nate.  What’s ten times ten?”

Without missing a beat, “One hundred.  That’s so easy.”

See Geoff?  I wasn’t that bad— I never even mentioned multiplication.

It all started with Grandma.

What started with Grandma?

We call it “Family Speak.”  She read an article about it many years ago.  Finally, a verifiable piece of journalism documenting the bizarre dialect of my childhood household that was fundamentally English, but in many ways more an amalgamation of Pennsylvania Dutch, German, Polish and toddler mispronunciations collected from my youth and that of my cousins.

It’s a bit of an interesting quirk about my family that I didn’t really notice until I got married and joined another family and found out no one regularly uses baby vocabulary… except babies.  Yes, the Fucillo Family has “kai-kai” which means fall and must be derived from Portugese, as I know “to fall” in Spanish is caer (pronounced kai-air).  Looks like “to fall” in Portuguese is in fact cair.  And they say “beaucoup bucks.”  Other than that, I’m not sure the rest of the vocab James has brought to the party, such as “greenhorns” and “oakies,” qualifies?  When I google them, I mostly get the Urban Dictionary.  And Atwater is definitely not urban…

Possibly the most interesting quirk is that James learned how to speak my family’s language in very short order.  He’s completely fluent.  In almost no time he was making ossie and fetching my gritchel and eating grum and nanvees.  (That would be making coffee and fetching my purse and eating bean skabetty (as Nate calls it) and bananas.)  My cousin Bryan knows less about what he used to say as a toddler than my very own husband.  How weird is that?  I’m going to have to make a concerted effort to get some sort of dictionary going– adding our many new vocabulary words such as Neckflix and sunscream.

Tonight the boys and I negotiated some sort of rare TV show swap in place of story time.  In my usual fashion I declared, “And when this ONE show is over, you’re going to turn it off and go brush your teeth, right?  No complaining or crying or imploring me for one more?”  And Nate says, “Pinky square, Mom.  Pinky square.”  We shake pinkies to lock-in very important promises.

One of my favorites was on Wednesday on our way home from school.  The boys and I were talking about twins because one of our most favorite teachers, Miss Amy, is pregnant with twins.  I was explaining the difference between fraternal twins and identical twins and the boys were excitedly thinking about the possibility of a boy and a girl twin.  We talked about how you have to have two different eggs for fraternal twins versus one egg that splits into two for identical twins.  As we’re discussing Miss Amy and what she might have, I say, “She could have two boys or two girls, or maybe a boy and a girl.”

And Nate says, “I hope it’s a boy and a girl.  But that’s not a tentacle.”

He was following perfectly… Nate’s no greenhorn.