wild*life

As I’ve written in the past, Nate used to be quite open to all things that could be considered “girlie” to a more discerning three-year-old.  This was quite refreshing in a male-dominated household as Boobooboos, our female Beta fish, is not particularly vocal.

Nate has always been quite taken with his tin of “licksticks” which was a holiday stocking stuffer received two Christmases ago.  He loves to apply layers of mint on top of cherry on top of strawberry and then pucker that perfect little kisser of his so I can smell his flavored lips.  He also still finds my morning routine endlessly fascinating and begs to get his hands on any form of make-up or applicator.  I’ve been talked into applying mascara to the tips of his lashes and he can’t be satiated until he’s gotten an opportunity to dip my “photo finish” brush into some powder and paint it on his face.  Unfortunately he’s not that interested in doing his hair.

He also used to tell me on a fairly regular basis about when he grew-up and what he was going to do as a Mommy.

When Nate used to drink his morning sippy-cups of milk, he required that his favorite blanket be perfectly raised above him like a parachute and then laid expertly so as to be as flat and pristine as possible.  If you did it even remotely wrong he would disdainfully protest, “Not like that!”  One day as I was fluffing his blanket for the umpteenth time, I bowed dramatically and with a wave of my hand asked, “Is this to your liking Princess?”

He immediately retorted, “I’m not a princess.  I’m a prince!”

This was the first sign that our girl-bonding days were numbered.  Now he says to me, “When I grow-up and I’m a daddy…  I can’t be a mommy when I grow-up ’cause I’m not a lady.”

“Well, technically…”  But I don’t go any further.  I’m still trying to dig myself out of the philosophical hole involving the scientific theory of evolution and monkeys evolving into humans.

A couple of weekends ago, James and I were playfully comparing our current household workloads as couples often do, even despite almost eighteen years of labor division— one can always renegotiate their contract.  James is going on and on about all the laundry he’s washed and the dinners he’s cooked and ends his dissertation with a rhetorical question.

And Jacob turns to me and says, “Yeah, Mom.  What do you think?  Daddy’s your maiden or something?”

We could use another maiden around here.

There’ve been many milestones worth celebrating that have slipped past us during these days of work, school, brush teeth, and ‘nuggling.  Like the fact that the boys now sleep until the 7 o’clock hour.  It wasn’t that long ago when I was happy the hour on the clock began with a 5, not a 4.  Another example was when we were packing for Yosemite just after Christmas and Nate wore his final pull-up.  The next morning we woke-up and we were a diaper-free home.  A Diaper-Free Home.  When was the party?  The celebration?  The champagne?  Truly, a missed opportunity.

Just this week I realized that Jake finally draws people with complete bodies, and Nate’s drawings are recognizable as more than scribbles.  He can even write NATE.  Though he likes to go overboard adding numerous horizontal lines to the E until it turns into “a monster.”  I’ll have to plan a toast for tomorrow night— maybe I’ll go a little crazy and break out the Martinelli’s.

And speaking of missed celebrations, we’re on the verge of graduating again.  This time from a double-stroller family to a walking family. No more double-wide kid cart for us.  We’re hoofin’ it.  And now I have to carry all the snacks.

BoB has truly been a member of the family for the past four years.  He comes with us everywhere.  He’s been there for every trip to Happy Hollow, neighborhood walk to “Pasta Peet’s” and out-of-town adventure.  BoB is our trusty double-wide orange jogging stroller.

Just last May I was carrying Jake on my back down the humid sidewalks of Lahaina as he couldn’t bear to walk another step.  And I was missing BoB every single sweaty step.  Yesterday we went to the San Francisco Zoo and traipsed almost the entire three hours on foot.  I only had to give Jake a piggy-back ride for about 100 yards to the lemurs… a little respite and he made it to the car.

Getting rid of BoB is like saying goodbye to a fifth member of our family.

Last week we went to Jake’s Open House at school.  We got to see their many projects and pictures.  We also got a new collection of books “written and illustrated by Jake”  (escrito e ilustrado por Jake).  One of my favorites is a family picture, including Hot Lava and Boobooboos (our two fish).

Funny thing… he didn’t include BoB.

Drop-off: 

This morning I’m driving Jake and Nate to school and Jacob says from the back seat, “Mom, Mom.  I have goose pox.  I’m so cold.”

Chicken pox, goose bumps, bird flu… it’s no wonder a six-year-old could confuse the many human poultry maladies.

After dropping Jake off, Nate and I get back in the car to drive to his school.  We’re listening to the radio and Nate ask, “Mama, why San Francisco has a meat house?”

It took me a second, but then I realized we had just listened to a commercial for the House of Prime Rib.  Can you imagine what he was thinking?  A cottage made of steak?

Pick-up:

On our way home after picking-up both boys, Jacob says to me, “Mom, Mom.  There’s a lady bug on your head… April Fools!”

And then Nate says, “Mama, there’s a bug on your head… April Shoes!”

For a couple of weeks now, Jakey’s been playing tee ball on the Rockhounds.  His best friend Stuart is on the Iron Pigs.  You’d think these were just apt names chosen for kindergartners, but in fact, these are actual names of minor league baseball teams.  This Saturday we’re up against the Lugnuts.

What I love about tee ball, besides the team names, is that there are frequent pile-ups in the infield when four or five fielders go for the ball.  And during our first game many of our batters took less than direct routes to first base.  Sometimes our players still go straight from third base to the dugout.  It’s easy to get distracted as you’re running to home plate.

What I probably like least about tee ball is Snack Shack Duty: my latest part time job.

So this past Saturday I reported to my first of four mandatory shifts.  I had no idea what to expect.  Was there training?  How would I know what costs what?  Do I have to work a cash register?  What if I was overwhelmed by impatient junk food eating baseball players and handfuls of change?

I got about five minutes of training from the lady on the shift before me: Blue Icees and Red Icees.  Tickets are worth $2.  Kids can get a drink and a pretzel or hot dog or an Icee but not both.  Don’t let them trick you.  I gleaned that umpires could have complimentary anything.  Stir the nacho cheese.  Punch cards are worth money.  Squirt water on pretzels, salt, nuke for 40 seconds.  Meal Deal.  Plastic glove.  Square for credit card purchases.  There are lots of little laminated signs posted… everywhere.

Then my Snack Shack shift buddy showed-up and fortunately, he’d done this before.  We spent two-and-a-half hours selling all manner of food-like items.  Little leaguers, grandparents, teenage Dodger fan hecklers, and an ex-flight attendant requested things like “blue Gatorade” and I would ask, “Light blue or dark blue?”  Light blue is Glacier Freeze and dark blue is Cascade Crash.  I found out Snack Shack food comes in colors not flavors.  It’s more like deodorant or shaving cream.

Corn nuts come in multiple colors.  Sunflower seeds, too.  Even Skittles and M&M’s come in three or four package colors.  We sold cheeseburgers and hotdogs and sausages.  We sold pretzels with varying amounts of requested salt.  We sold nachos with cheese and jalapeños, soda, water, chocolate milk, ice cream novelties, ring pops, bubble gum, Snickers bars, Fritos, Lay’s, and Cheetos.  At one point a kid ordered an “Airhead.”  Contrary to my first instinct, they came in different colors, and none of them were blond.

Every time I turned around, I found out we sold something else I didn’t know we had.

Pizza? Yep.
Chili?  Sure.
Cotton Candy?  Comes in a bag.
One little boy came up, looked me straight in the eye and ordered soup.  Soup?  Turns out we sell Cup ‘O Noodles.  He didn’t get our “No soup for you” Snack Shack employee joke.
Root beer floats?  Hold on a minute while I find an ice cream scoop.
Soft pretzels with nacho cheese?  That’s a thing?  Yessiree.

I also found out people believe that if you’re in the Snack Shack, you have power.

Dismiss the grill shift guy?  We decide.
Bathrooms are locked and need someone to complain to?  That’s what we’re here for.
Trash bags?  We’ve got ’em.

Colton from Jake’s class stared at me awestruck.  I’m sure there was a crown of light behind me as I handed him his bottled water.

The trade off is to work ten hours in the Snack Shack or to pay $250.  I forgot to mention you get one complimentary drink while you’re in the Snack Shack.  But I recommend saving it for later as the bathrooms are no longer open due to vandals— now there’s just one over-utilized port-a-potty.

By the end, I was a Snack Shack Pro.  Wheeling and dealing, punching cards, swiping credit cards, advising small gap-toothed children on how to maximize $2.  I bought three pouches of grape Big League Chew for the road.  I love me some Big League Chew.

Hold the nacho cheese.

Use: Immediate: TFN (Till Further Notice)
Time: 90 seconds
Agency: No-It-All Moms
Title: “Warning: Kindergarten is a Project”

It’s more than half way through the school year and no one warned you.  No one mentioned it.  No one pulled you aside to make sure you were mentally, physically, emotionally prepared for what I am about to tell you:

Kindergarten.  Is a project.

Today’s schools will send a Tyvex envelope home with at least five actionable flyers… nightly.  Many, if not all, of these flyers will have due dates that have already passed.  Additional paperwork will include every worksheet and art project your child has ever touched.  Process these quickly or they will swallow your dining room table.

Speaking of paperwork, brace yourself for homework.  And flash cards.  Set a goal early and keep on schedule.  Delegate responsibility to your freshly minted school-aged child to remember due dates and turn things in.  You have enough to remember.  Make it their responsibility now or you will find yourself stuck in this particular dead-end job years, possibly decades, from now.

And remember how preschool fed your child two wholesome meals and snacks a day?  The time for gratitude has passed.  You can ponder your ungratefulness as you spend your weekends filling little baggies with uninspired nutritional snacks.  Or as you drive across town for two pick-ups and drop-offs.  Hopefully you’ve raised your child to naturally question school lunch offerings titled “Bean and Cheese Chimi Nada.”

If you’ve decided to support your local public school and reverse the decline of diversity in our educational system, expect your kids to rarely be at school.  It’s a system built for an agrarian society, even though the kids are not coming home each day to tend the farmstead.  They will be out of school for at least a week a quarter and most Fridays.  They will start school at 8:30, giving you exactly negative 30 minutes to make that 9am meeting. Get a conference call number and a mute button… you’re going to need it.

Last but not least, you’ve been promoted to chief sales manager.  “The Man” now goes by See’s.  Your job consists of overseeing Walk-a-Thon sign-ups, candy sales and box top collecting.  Scrape together a charitable donation fund.  Check your company match program— assuming you’re still gainfully employed given all those interrupted con calls… Give away your money and then stick it to The Man, guilt free.

This has been a public service announcement.  Kindergarten is a project.

This is your life.

This is your life on kindergarten.

Any questions?

###

Back when we were new parents, we did our best to live a life of quality over quantity.  We were genuine products of our eco-generation.

James was an especially vocal enthusiast of planet-friendly toys.  Preferably the kind made of sustainably grown hard wood and non-toxic, water-based, VOC-free paint.  I know, stop rolling your eyes…

Plastic was the enemy, unless it was recycled and made from milk containers and came in recycled, corrugated boxes.  And our first toys were undeniably beautiful.  Sturdy.  Natural.  Well-crafted.  Unlike plastic, they could theoretically be fixed with regular tools and passed down as family “heirlooms.”  We collected beautiful, imaginative toys made by companies like Melissa & Doug, Plan Toys, Green Toys, HABA, and Hape.  I can’t wait to see my grandkids’ faces when I present them with our “family heirloom wooden cheese collection.”

We did our best to aim for biodegradable and organic.  We borrowed baby swings and bought second-hand items on Craig’s List and wore mostly hand-me-downs.  We realized one of the least expensive and earth-friendly things one could do, without trying, was to have a child of the same gender in the same season.  If a piece of clothing survived its first owner, it was on to the next.

However, within the first few months, our resolve began to slip.  It takes a lot of effort to fend off mountains of kid stuff.  One might say Herculean… as I write this, our new two foot long realistic plastic birthday alligator is staring at me from across the living room floor.

Our first digression was in the arena of diapers.  We tried the organic, reusable diaper service.  But after having to change our baby’s clothes during every diaper change, we gave in to disposable.  At least they were “greener” disposables.  The same color as those recycled, corrugated boxes.  But, there is an undeniable reason why disposable diapers have skyrocketed in popularity when it comes to the latest in diapering technologies.  As my cousin living in the ecomecca of Berkeley put it, “Why shouldn’t we be the ones to fill-up the landfill?”  Don’t answer that.

Our second digression probably began with Jacob’s third birthday.  He discovered toys like monster trucks and little animals and guys and cars and helicopters.  To the best of my knowledge, Melissa and Doug haven’t come out with any convincing monster trucks.  By this point we were struggling with fending off the toys, period.  Between annual visits from Santa and birthdays, it was clearly a losing battle.

And now we find ourselves, six years later, with a collection of earth-friendly and earth-hostile toys.  James’ younger brother loves to poke fun at him as he gazes across the plastic landscape of our living room rug.

Jake’s latest thing is to tell me, every day, what he’s going to be when he grows up.  It evolves daily, though one profession has remained constant over the last few weeks:

“Mom, mom.  When I grow up, I’m going to be a plastic maker.  I’m going to make everything out of plastic!  All the toys in the world.”

Looks like our grand plan has backfired.  Serves us right I’m sure.

Over the last few years, James and I have really gotten used to sleeping in our own bed, just the two of us.  Gone are the nights of flailing people kicking us in the back…  There is no more crying in the middle of the night, or showing up unannounced, or uninvited.

So when we do get a surprise visitor we are completely unprepared.  We’ve lost the highly refined skill of preventing people from climbing into our beds.  Of diverting them back toward the darkness from which they emerged.  We no longer jump into action at the sound of a door or unexpected footsteps.  Our brains and eyes and bodies no longer work under the cover of night.  We are defenseless.

So on Saturday morning when I woke-up after a horrible night’s sleep to find myself barely holding on to the sliver of bed that was mine, I was even more surprised to find James was gone and had been split into two smaller versions of himself.

At breakfast I confront the perpetrators:

“I had a horrible night’s sleep last night, I’m so tired.  How ’bout you?”

Nate replies, “Not me.  I was so warm and cozy.”

I turn to Jake, “What happened last night?”

“I had a nightmare.  Freaky zombies trying to eat my brains,” replies the kindergartner.

“Freaky zombies?”

“No freaky zombies.”

“Freaky zombies?”

“No.  Freakin‘ zombies!”

“Freakin’ zombies?  You’re not allowed to say ‘freakin’!”

And now I’m the freakin’ zombie…

My dearest Nate,

Yesterday was your birthday,  and in my annual tradition, here is a glimpse into the life of the freshly minted Nate 4.0!:

We celebrated with a special day at the Monterey Bay “Akarium.”  But first, we had an adventure trying to drop my car back off at Oller Brothers due to faulty breaks.  You and Jake and Daddy were following me in Lufthansa.  And every turn I took was a dead end into some kind of Rose Garden marathon.  When Daddy pulled the car up next to mine and rolled down the window you yelled authoritatively, “Take Bascom Mom, Bascom!”

We had a perfect outing in Monterey on the most crystal clear day in recent memory.  Nonna and Papa and Grandma and Granddad all came to celebrate.  You ordered grilled cheese with multiple servings of ketchup.  After lunch you sat quietly and watched the boats.  Grandma and I reminisced about when you were little and too scared to go into the dark rooms of the aquarium.  You would cry, “I too ‘cary, I too ‘cary!”

You’ve traded in Superman for Transformers.  You’ve had one Transformers t-shirt hand-me-down that replaced the Superman “black and blue one.”  After wanting to wear it every day, Daddy somehow talked you into preserving it so it “doesn’t get dirty.”  Now you just like to look at it in your drawer.  When you opened a new Transformer t-shirt for your birthday, you were so excited but didn’t want it to get dirty.  Eat on the fine china, son.  You glowed like “Octimus Prime.”

You ordered macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake for your birthday dinner.  You also ordered a Bumble Bee Twansfowmer wit a wemote contwol.  You were so excited when you opened it.

In recent news, you’ve completely turned around your reputation at swimming.  You readily join Miss Jenn and have even warmed up to her male assistant.  You are working to roll over from your back to your front to get the next ribbon.  You tell me you’re ready for soccer.

You still say things like blueblerries and Neckflix and “Mommy, clock it.  Clock it” as you hand me your Nerf gun.  Sometimes you call the microwave a microphone.  This weekend while watching Pocahontas, you asked me why they were singing “Samiches… Samiches.”  It was a song about savages.

You call yourself Natesy and lately, you’ve been experimenting with angry eyebrows.  When you’re mad, you glare at us with piercing eyes and angry eyebrows to emphasize your point.  You are convinced “the polices” will come at your beck and call to enforce your perspective.

Around October of last year you started speaking up and standing up for yourself.  You’ve got opinions.  You are no longer content to just do what your brother plans for you.  This has introduced fighting into our lives, but I’m sure it’s just part of an important developmental grand plan.

You know lots of letters, including all the letters in NATE.  You like doing Jacob’s Spanish flash cards better than he does.  Your best friend is Lucas (you pronounce it Lou-kahs) and you’ve both outgrown your class and are ready to move up to bigger and better things.

You love impromptu dance parties and turning the back of the bathtub into a forbidden water slide.  You still sleep with five puppies but you no longer have to bring them to school.  Your propensity for potty talk has not waned.

And you are still edible.  Our dentist, Dr. Wehle, even noticed.  I could see her looking at you and noticing what an edible little buttered biscuit you are.  Even Miss Chethi called you precious in our last parent teacher conference.  You sure know how to charm with your cleaning-up and your good listening and that boyish grin.

I love you kiddo.  You are everything that is important to me and I can’t wait to see the adventures this year will bring.

xoxo,

Mommy

When we moved into our neighborhood, almost six years ago, I immediately made a connection with the gal three doors down.  Her name is Stephanie and her boyfriend is Stephen.  Then we met our octogenarian neighbors Martha and Mario.  It was like we’d moved into some alternative matching name world built just for Jaimie and James.

And then Jennifer and Jamie, moved in across the street.  And Nate bought the house a couple of doors down.  And just last month, we completed the perfect “J” trifecta when Justine and Josh moved into Martha and Mario’s house.

Since moving to this street, we’ve always lived next door to a lovely retired couple named Pat and Clarence.

Tonight our Nate casually referred to them as Clat and Plarence.  And then Cat and Plarence.  Jacob has always called them Plat and Clarence.

Last weekend Jakey says to me in a surprisingly appropriate whisper, “Mom, which one is Plat?  I never can remember.”

Maybe we should just call her Claire?

Years ago when James and I lived in Mountain View, we went to the movies almost every weekend.  James loves the movies.  I’ll never forget the time he talked me into going to see The Lord of the Rings.

There was a line to get in.  And I do not want to stereotype, but that line made a significant impression on me.  It was almost entirely made up of overweight, white males with long, scraggly ponytails and bushy beards.  I remember shorts.  Glasses.  Flip flops.  Cell phone holsters.  A lot of in-line snuggling with the one or two other girls in the queue.

After watching what felt like two hours of cinematic decapitations in a forest, I vowed to stay away from this bit of subculture… until I unwittingly stepped right back into it.

Over the last few months, as I’ve mentioned, Jacob has been telling me he loves Star Wars.  And I just could not figure out how they had gotten to him?  Now I know there are essentially two infallible marketing machines for things like this: Classmates and…

Disney.

A few weeks ago I took Jacob to a birthday party for a girl in his class named Juliet.  Once we arrived, we found out he was the only boy invited from school.  I was sitting at a kids table making small talk when I overheard two little girls.

Little girl #1:  “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

Little Girl #2: “OK.”

Little girl #1:  “No, really.  You can’t tell anybody.”

Little Girl #2: “OK.  I won’t tell anybody.”

Little Girl #1: (whispering). “I really like Star Wars.  But don’t tell anybody!  No one can know.”

I got up and left the table.  I’m kidding.

So Star Wars is hot in kindergarten right now.

Since the day after Christmas, Jake has spent most waking moments telling me what he wants for his birthday.  And he has not wavered from “Star Wars Legos.”  Specifically he’s been saying he needs “the bad guy with the white face with red on it.”

So I’ve googled “Star Wars bad guy with white face.”  I’ve shown him Google images on my iPad.  Are you talking about Darth Maul?  No?  We’ve been researching this for weeks and my Internet research powers have failed us.

Until this weekend when I decided to go on a lone mission to the mall to visit the Lego store.  It was a gorgeous day, possibly as nice as The Perfect Day the day before.  And yet, the Lego store was crawling with people like ants on a cupcake.

I park myself in front of the Star Wars Lego display segment and use my Princess Leia powers to discern which box is close to age appropriate, “cool,” and costs less than $80.  I find one that meets my robust ranking system.  But it doesn’t appear to include a “bad guy with a white face with red on it.”  I pick-up other boxes and scan the guys.  Finally I find a box that comes with three Chewbacca guys, but also has a deceptive picture of a bad guy with a white face with red on it.  Jackpot!  That’s my man.  Now what alarming amount of money do you have to shell out to get this guy?

I get out my phone but still come up short.  Now I need two Lego guys.  Do I strike up a conversation with the little boys swarming this area or do I put myself in contact, likely with a Lord of the Rings fan?  A young man in a bright yellow apron is coming my way.  No ponytail, just a giant beard made of Legos hanging down to his belly button.  Kidding again.

I show him the back of the box and ask, in possibly the most five-year-old sentence to leave my mouth toward a stranger, “Who’s this guy ‘n how do I get ’em?”

“I think he’s from the Star Wars Rebels cartoon.  Sorry, we don’t have those yet.”

And I’m back in the game.

I spend the next day on the train back to my Star Wars bad guy research.  I find myself carelessly pouring over a site called Wookieepedia.  I repeat, Wookiepedia.  I figure out that this Star Wars Rebels cartoon plays on a Disney channel (I knew it).  And somehow I find the bad guy is named… The Inquisitor.

That night I am giddy with excitement.  Jake is in bathtime and I pull out my iPad and hold it at a safe distance.  And he confirms: I’ve finally found “the bad guy with a white face with red on it.”

“Only at the end do you realize the power of the Dark Side.”