wild*life

One of my mom’s favorite stories to tell is about the day I came home from kindergarten and announced, “Pointing with your middle finger is against the school rules.”

Most moms would probably reply, “Good to know!  It certainly should be.”  But my mom, my mom is not like most moms.  My mom asks, “Why do you think that is, Jaimie?”

I grimace matter-of-factly, and with a knowing shake of my head reply, “I don’t know, it just is.”

Of course I did in fact find out the origin of this rule despite my secluded existence as a Child of the Redwoods.  Probably not long after that conversation, I was sitting in the car on a rainy day in Scotts Valley, reciting various words to the tune of a catchy song I’d learned.  It went: Truck Truck Bo Buck, Banana Fana Fo… you get the gist.  That was when I found out about the F word.  My mom told me it meant, and I quote: Making love in a bad way.

A few years later I have a German au-pair that tells us we can point with our middle fingers, as long as we only point at the ground.  This is fun and takes the thrill out of it being banned entirely.

Then years go by and now my own son is in kindergarten.

On Halloween, Papa and I are happily reminiscing about last year and the kid who showed-up on our doorstep dressed as a giant middle finger.  It was a fairly high quality costume (at least he hadn’t dressed-up “as himself”).  If memory serves, I may have shouted Middle Finger off our porch and thrown a piece of candy or two as he escaped with his finger between his legs.  I mean, c’mon, there are little kids here.  

Of course this story then prompts Jake to ask the question, “Why was he dressed as a middle finger?”  And now I’ve walked right into introducing him to school rules I’m sure he just hasn’t heard of yet.

Then a week passes by and the boys are in the tub.  Jake asks, “Mom, what’s the F word?”

“Uh, where did you hear that?”

“Some big kids at school were talking about it.”

“Well, it’s pretty much the naughtiest word you can say so… I can’t really say it to you.”  And your brother relishes saying everything he knows he’s not allowed to say which is a genetic deficiency I am positive he has inherited from Grandma.

“Well, can you tell me the next letter after F?”

“It’s U.”

Now he just looks puzzled.  And as someone who’s last name starts with F-U-C… I have a feeling we’ll be revisiting this conversation shortly.

I’m a girl of many projects.  It’s really the theme of my entire existence.  It appears it’s genetic, as my dad seems to have a similar propensity.  And I think I’ve passed it down to Jacob.

This week James asks, “Hey Jake, wanna play Little League?”

And Jake answers, “Yes!”  A few moments pass…

“What’s Little League?”

Later this week I’ll write about THE GREAT PICTURE PROJECT… which may end me.  Or propel me to new heights of project confidence.

In the meantime, I’ve been spending hours on the internet researching children’s literature.  Again.  Or should I say, I’ve been helping the Book Elf with his research.

Last year the Book Elf embarked on a totally absurd tradition of bringing us a new book every morning leading up to Christmas.  Twenty four books… the Book Elf takes Christmas Eve off as he has other toy wrapping job responsibilities.  Last year the Book Elf started by wrapping each book, and then quickly came to his environmental senses and began sneaking in and refilling a reusable cloth bag he may have found on Etsy.

I was delusional enough to think that I was going to try and write twenty four book reviews thanks to this stealthy elf.  The evidence shows I wrote fifteen— way better than I would have guessed.

And this year I’ve teamed-up with the Book Elf, yet again.  I know… what?!  I even shared some of last year’s reviews on Amazon.  Someone “liked” my review for the Day the Crayons Quit and now I’ve gotten myself sucked into yet another project.

Thanks Dad.

Last year we were into super heroes.  But this year, this year we’re into dragons.

OK, we’re still into super heroes, but maybe only if they’re training dragons.

Around August, in a quiet moment, Nate took the opportunistic silence to declare, “I want to be a Twansfowmewr for Halloween.”

“A Transformer?  Got it.”  Meanwhile I wait until about two weeks before Halloween to plan any costumes as I know this is just the opening bid.

But this year we went almost straight to dragons, thanks to the movie How to Train Your Dragon 2.  Nate was up for “dragon” because they fly.  And flying is pretty much the only criterion by which he makes decisions.  We only like super heroes that fly.  And clothing with characters that fly… and pajamas.  And underpants.  So Nate dressed as Toothless the dragon in possibly one of the cutest Halloween costumes to date, rivaling even the Year of the Sock Monkey.  I bought the hat and “wings” from two different Etsy artists and thus ponder how I might make a living by becoming an artisanal purveyor of dragon capes.

Jake requested a “dragon paraglider costume because I ride dragons and fly,” which after a little research was less alarming than it initially sounded.  It easily translated into a character named Hiccup with billowing velour “wings” and an armor-like mask.  Now: Make sure they don’t really believe they can fly, ride or paraglide.

And since I like my family to match, I whipped-up a scheme for James to dress as the big, red-bearded dad Viking and for me to dress-up as the Plain Jane mom Viking (which I’m sure if I watched the entire movie I’d find out is a tough, fire-breathing Viking @ss kicker.)

James’ costume may have been the best.  1) Because I found an online purveyor of plastic Viking hats that are sold via J. Peterman-esque illustrations.  Two uses of the word purveyor in one blog?  I believe the only former purveyor I know would approve.

So, the Viking hat was possibly some of the best Amazon reviews I’ve ever read.  One guy said he wears his helmet while mowing his lawn and his wife doesn’t worry about infidelity.  That clinched the sale.  2) In a Halloween night moment of creative ingeniuty, James paired his costume with a brown velour and faux-shearling nap time blanket.  He got many a look from small children scurrying out of his path as he strode around the neighborhood.

Halloween was as fun as ever.  Nonna and Papa joined us and helped hold down the fort while we went Trick-or-Treating.  Unfortunately, the rain chased away more candy-crazed visitors than I would have expected.  As we trooped around from house to house,  Jake maintained his discerning aim only toward “spooky houses.”

Nate declared, “Look, I’m not scared anymore!  I’m not scared of anything.”

I finally fulfilled my dream of visiting the Rosecrutian house and saw the life-size coffin in person.  But the boys wanted to head home and pass out candy.  They were crazy candy hander-outers.  They liked to jump around and yell into the dark and try to throw candy into bags like a carnival game.  The highlight of the evening was many a trick-or-treater recognizing Jake and being shocked that he lived in our very house.  The shock was mutual as Jake recognized many a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle from his very own kindergarten class.  It was like he had changed out of his Hiccup costume and straight into his Rock Star costume.  I believe we saw Phoebe, Jair, Christo, Sebastian and his brother David.  Nate got so crazy and overstimulated that he crashed in tears.  I’m sure he has no regrets.

Then last week we were driving in the car and we pass the Mummy Museum.  James says, “So Nate, are you ready to go back and visit the Mummy Hole?”

“No, I’m too scared.”

And I ask, “Wait, what?  You told me you’re not scared of anything anymore?!”

“Nooo (Silly Mama).  I’m not scared only if I get tweats.”

Dear Santa,

I’ve been having good behavior these past few days.  How are you doing?  Have you been fattening up this year?  Ha ha ha!  About that… I wanted you to give me for Christmas this projector of Spiderman that I saw at Toys R Us and I want you to see my brother’s letter.

Love,
Jake

Dear Santa,

Gimme the Spiderman thing that squirts out water.

Love,
Nate

On the eve of my newest nephew’s birthday, I’ve been struck by an undeniably clear life-truth: Aunts and uncles are the source of all evil.

Maybe that didn’t come out right… what I meant to say is that kids get all of their contraband from the siblings of their moms and dads.  All the things they want and no one will let them have.

In my case, I got my first electric razor to shave my legs from my Aunt Rox.  Followed by my first mascara and blush and lipstick from my Aunt Sara.  I still remember it perfectly.  They came in a little silver bag with a lucite brush.  They were sleek and silver and introduced brand loyalty that lasted for decades.  (Note to Clinique— market teenage make-up to aunts not tweens.  Plus aunts have way more money.)

For boys, it’s uncles.  Uncles are the bestowers of bebe guns and Nerf guns and heaven forbid, potato guns.

And while boys are receiving various weaponry when their mothers’ guards are down, dads are busy pushing the “growing-up” agenda.  James is always the pusher of big boy food and big boy chairs and big boy cups and big boy beds and big boy underpants.  He plays an important role in weening the boys from their “baby” habits.

Two weekends ago I woke-up early Saturday morning and Nate was sandwiched in the middle.  A rare occurrence as he’s been weened from our bed for a long time now.  I cuddled up to him and realized he didn’t have a shirt on… and he was wearing his bathing suit.

The bad news?  Nate had wet his bed.

The good news?  We can count on him to get up, change his own clothes and crawl silently into our bed.  The big one used to just yell from his room until you came to save him from his own bodily fluids.

My weekend away in Santa Fe is when Daddy decided to ween Nate from his nighttime Pull-ups.  The remaining vestige of diapers gone, cold turkey.  Strategically planned for my absence, of course.

I’ve started calling James the Diaper Weener.

He really doesn’t like it.

One of Nate’s favorite games is to make me a bed on the living room floor.  He invented it— I’m just an innocent participant.

First he gets me a pillow to lay my head on.  Then he gets a “baybit” and covers me like a large, perfectly fanned wedding train.  Once my comfort has been established, he works on “entertainment.”  First I need water.  Then I need a trio of puppies to ‘nuggle.  Once I have Super Dog, Super Puppy, and Meatloaf he usually climbs in next to me.

I can generally draw this game out for a significant amount of time if I complain about my feet sticking out at the bottom of my blanket.  As soon as he covers them up again, I’ll roll over and get comfortable and of course, my feet stick out again.  Both Nate and Jake find my cold feet endlessly hilarious.

Tonight we’re playing “Cold Feet” and I say, “Hey Nate, Devon’s baby brother will be here in exactly one week!”  He agrees and tells me Baby Devon isn’t in Angela’s tummy anymore.  There’s some additional baby chit chat and then I ask, “So, what do you think we should call Devon’s new brother?”

And Nate answers pensively, “How ’bout… Baby What’shisface?”

Mmmmm… let’s suggest that to Auntie Angela.

I’m music illiterate.  Honestly.  I learned about Gangnam Style from kids on Jake’s preschool playground.  I kept asking, “What are they saying?”

Well, technically I can read music… many years of piano lessons and I was first chair flute in eighth grade.  Ask me to tell you the story about my music teacher sometime— it’s a good one.

When I say illiterate, I mean, as in I have zero idea who sings what.  Unless you count Lionel Richie and Shakira songs.  But only Lionel… The Commodores?  Who?

Growing-up, my dad listened almost exclusively to classical music.  My mom liked Grover Washington, Jr., Sade, and Kenny G.  I once missed the high school party of the year to attend a Kenny G concert with the fam.  And I vividly remember going to the mall and having to ask the sales lady if they had the CD, Between the Sheets by Fourplay.  My mom requested it for her birthday.

As previously described, I lived in the boondocks.  I don’t remember getting a lot of radio stations, though I do remember Casey Kasem and Love Songs with Delilah.  How old is that lady?  My first cassette tapes came from my grade school best friend, Zoe.  She introduced me to Whitney Houston, Huey Lewis and James Taylor.  In fourth grade, my best friend, Nealy, introduced me to reggae.  But mostly I remember the music our body-builder au pair, Kevin, listened to on our way home from school.  It was actually really great to have a male babysitter.  He taught us to play chess and video games and the importance of physical fitness.  On the music front, I specifically remember the lyrics of two songs he liked, She’s a Maneater and Get your money for nothin’, get your chicks for free.  Good stuff.

In college, my roommate had control of the stereo and ultimately, what it played.  One day I made a conscious decision to stop resisting country music and embrace it.  I mean, I was at Cal Poly.  It was Alan Jackson’s “Little Bitty” that finally turned me.  “A big yellow bus and little bitty books?”  I love everything miniature, how could I not like it?

And speaking of country, when Jake was three I started paying attention to the musical selections on our radio.  As clear as a bell, one day he sang from the back of the car, “Got a little drunk last night.”  OK, country music is not nearly as family friendly as those red states would have you believe.

Nate’s favorite new song is Meghan Trainor’s, All About That Bass.  He sings it “Baba Base, Baba Base.  No trouble.”  I’m pretty sure he thinks it’s about milk sippy cups.

And then tonight at dinner Jake sings, “‘Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase… And all the right junk in all the right places.”

Hey Mom, can I borrow some Kenny G?

Both Jakey and Natesy like to tell me stories at night in the bunk beds.  Nate’s always go exactly like this…

In a quiet, secretive whisper:

Once upon a time, there were two Jake’s.

One was Nate.  And one was Jake.

They went to the park.

And then they heard A SOUND.

And it was….

(volume increases dramatically) Doo-dee-da-da, Doo-dee-da-da!

Followed by a fit of giggles. 

Back when I lived in Spain… a lifetime ago, I remember sitting across the dining room table from my roommate Pilar.  Pili, as we called her, liked to practice her english with me.  Which I was more than willing to do as every evening I was so mentally exhausted from constantly concentrating to communicate.  Early on, I acquired an addiction to CNN, the only english-language channel on our tele.

So Pili and I would talk about very basic things during our “intercambios.”  I remember one particular conversation around the word “girl.”

She would say “ghoul.”
And I would say, “no, giRL.”
And she would say “glll.”
And I would say “guRL”
And she would say, “ghOOl.”
And I would say, “g-iRL.”
On and on it would go until she would utter this strangled, stiff sounding “grrrl.”

Great!  (Close enough.)

I really hadn’t ever considered the challenge of this most basic childhood vocabulary word.  Then little Jakey was learning to talk and we were having the exact same pronunciation battle, only this time it was across the coffee table.

A few months ago, Jake and Nate and I were doing whatever it is that we do, maybe brushing teeth?  I think we might have been talking about our newest cousin on the way.  At the time, we weren’t sure if it would be a boy or a girl.

And Jake exclaims, “I said it!  Girl!”

“Wait, wait.  Say it again?  Ga-wol?”

“No Mom, listen.  I can say girl.”  He is beaming that charming, self-satisfied smile.

“Me, too.  Me, too!”  Pipes-up Nate.

“What?  You, too?  Nooooo!”

“I can say it, too.  Ga-wol!”  Nate replies.

Phew.