wild*life

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.

At my house we appreciate a good bad school picture.  For me it was always the “Grump Bucket” picture from Kathy Brown’s Preschool.  I remember the day well.  I was three.  It was picture day.  Pastel patterned overalls.  Cindy Brady pigtails.  We’re outside and there’s a crowd of parents cheering and smiling for every flash of the camera.  I scan the audience and it’s a sea of strangers.  My mom has clearly dropped me off and made a break for the grocery store, or Humpty Dumpty Diapers.  I.  Am.  Mad.

And thus, a piece of family history is born.

My mom couldn’t believe the sour puss picture that showed-up several weeks later.  She didn’t like it at all.  No retakes.  But then it must have started to grow on her.  And now, it’s one of our all time favorites.

A week or so ago we got Jacob’s kindergarten portrait back.  This day and age, with digital photography, our expectations have been raised.  I’m all for a good bad picture— I mean honestly, I may have to be buried with the preschool ornament of Nate laying face down under a Christmas tree.  He’s wearing the Santa hat, but otherwise completely uncooperative.

But Jakey’s kindergarten picture is just well… weird?  Or is it growing on me?  It does give me a mad case of the giggles.  Especially when Jake and I try to reenact it.

Uh… precious memories courtesy of Lifetouch.

During the first weekend of October, I set-out on a highly anticipated girls weekend in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  After almost a year of planning, the reunion of my high school besties has finally arrived.

It begins early on a Thursday morning.  It’s a fitful night’s sleep.  I wake in a panic at 1:15am and then toss and turn until I wake-up in a second panic as I’ve been sleeping with the alarm on for half an hour.  Somehow I manage to get dressed and out the door with all my required belongings in less than fifteen minutes.  Not my favorite way to start a 5am day, but I am so excited it doesn’t matter.  And a confidence-building reminder to self:  It takes exactly twenty minutes from our doorstep to check bags, get through security, and be drinking a Peet’s Americano.  #SJCLove

So Jill is on the flight with me to Albuquerque.  We’ve known each other since Junior High.  We blabbidy blab blab all the way to San Diego, and then blabbidy blab blab all the way to New Mexico.  My how the time flies when you have a friend to talk to and no little munchkins hanging off your body like darling, oversized blond bracelets.  Jill is queen o’ the hashtag and my social media idol.  #FreeToDoWhatIWantAnyOldTime

We meet up with Jenny and Melanie at the airport and after a short wait, board the shuttle to Santa Fe.  We make it to the Inn at Loretto and proceed to check-in and seek out sustenance.  Cafe Pasqual’s is our first stop.  Highly popular.  Tiniest most claustrophobic bathroom corridor in America.  I buy a buffet of cookies and a giant hunk of fudge to tide us over until we can be seated.  #CookiesForLunch

Pasqual’s is a winner.  We’re joined by Emily, Alesia and Jamie A. and wolf down four orders of mole enchiladas and pear salads with pomegranate and cheese.  The food is fresh and delicious.  The ambiance is greenhouse aviary fiesta.  We poke around some shops and then head back to the hotel to rest.  A few hours later we gather the whole crew and head out to eat again at The Shed.  Great ambiance, average food, undrinkable margarita.  We head back to the hotel for a nightcap and dessert by the fireplace and are joined by Sarah after a long and challenging day of travel.  #GabFest

The next morning we wake-up from another fitful night’s sleep and set out to eat… again.  Looking back, it seems like we ate a lot, but it was more like a roller coaster of feast and famine.  We make it to the Plaza Cafe which has a great diner vibe and a giant booth with a view onto the beautiful central plaza.  It feels like Mexico.  The food is great and we can talk as long and as loud as we want.  #HuevosDivorciados

After breakfast we head to the Georgia O’Keeffe museum.  It only has one or two of her famous flower pictures, but an enchanting painting of Macchu Picchu.  The video about her life is the best part.  Outside, I am sucked into taking a photograph for a Taiwanese trio.  After four tries with the still photo feature of their video camera, I assure them it worked and make a stealthy escape.  We peruse the many shops and declare our favorites to be Maya, Savory Spices and the middle eastern salvage yard behind Serets.  Unfortunately, I forget that James has texted me a place called Shiprock that is only open on Saturdays.  Later I find out that people have called it one of the best shops in America.  Guess I have a reason to go back.  I decide to start collecting Mexican Milagros.  And possibly garden wind sculpture.

That evening we head up Canyon Road for dinner at El Farol.  Terrific tapas, intriguing over-forty dance scene.  We head home and most of us let Jenny talk us into further exploring the Santa Fe nightlife.  We’re lured into the Skylight by Why You Gotta Be So Rude.  Jenny buys us a round of lemon drop shots.  We’re driven out by some song about bitches.  And perhaps the blind date/escort/hooker? in navajo spandex pants.  #PuebloChic

The next morning we wake-up in anticipation of our spa day outside of town at Ten Thousand Waves.  We think about grabbing a bite to eat and then coming back for two taxis out of town.  I pause and suggest we set-up the cabs before we venture out for caffeine.  At the front desk, Mike calls the cab company.

There are no taxis.
It’s the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta.
The hotel doesn’t have a house car.
There is one car service.
They will charge us $244 for a 4 mile drive.
It’s outside of pedicab territory.
Sarah thinks she might run it.
Others consider walking really fast.
I’m not going to hike for over an hour to show-up stressed, sweaty and dirty from an hour plus walk in the desert.
I urge Mike to get more creative and assure him he’s going to figure this out.
He says we can all pile into his Mini Cooper.
I graciously accept.
He quickly dismisses the idea as a joke.  Ha ha!  Eight girls in a Mini Cooper!
I notice the other front desk guy, Gabriel.
He’s been pretty quiet.
I look around at the three men running this hotel on an early Saturday morning.
“OK, so who do you know in Santa Fe?”
They looks sheepish.
Gabriel volunteers a scrap of hope: He has a truck and we’ll fit between the bed and the cab.
“Are you allowed to ride in the back of a truck in New Mexico?”  I ask.
“Well… no.”
“Perfect.  Let’s go.”
#CrisisTurnedAdventure

Gabe pulls his F150 around to the side of the hotel and we discreetly jump in.  Emily declares that all guys named Gabe are nice.  I decide that if you want to be rescued, you can count on the guy with a truck.  Sarah, Emily, Melanie and Jill get in the cab.  Alesia, Jenny, Jamie A. and me lay down in the back like four crayons in a box.  We tuck our feet under the giant built-in tool box with our heads toward the tailgate.  And we’re off.

It is freezing.  We have to snuggle.  Jenny spends the entire drive trying to get a view with her iPhone in the air.  I’m convinced a patrolman will notice her arms sticking up from the back of the truck and pull us over.  Jenny does not worry about these things…policeman’s daughter.  It feels like we’re driving forever.  At one point Gabe pulls off the road and turns around.  We decide that if he’s a desert killer we’ll overwhelm him, 8 versus 1.  Fortunately, he’s not a killer; he just took the wrong road.  We finally make it to the spa.  We give Gabe a nice tip, promise this story won’t end up on Trip Advisor, and take a souvenir photo.  #TailgateSelfie

Ten Thousand Waves is fantastic.  I sign-up for the whole body restoration and am convinced I’ve died and gone to Japan.  We eat delicious Japanese inspired morsels at the award winning restaurant.  It’s one of our best meals.  Fortunately Santa Fe’s two taxis make it back from the Balloon Fiesta and are available to take us back to town.  Our driver tells us that the spa started as a hot tub that his dope-smoking hippie buddy bought back in the seventies.  Now he’s a millionaire jet-setting spa consultant.  #SantaFeHeyHey

We spend the afternoon wandering the shops and eat nachos that night at an unremarkable family restaurant.  We return to the hotel to debate the merits of various Santa Cruz locales for our high school reunion.  The next morning we venture back up Canyon Road to The Teahouse for an oatmeal recommendation.  It’s essentially my favorite, black forbidden rice pudding.  I buy a pair of souvenir boots.  We toast the weekend.  We hug.  We shout Boston November 2015!

The weekend is so much more than shopping/strolling, spas, and the Southwest.  We share our worst fears, discuss the merits of legalizing marijuana, tell stories about our kids, laugh about “electrology,” and reach new levels of hysteria imagining a pirate-themed high school reunion at the Coconut Grove.  We trade cooking tips and eye-shadow lessons and reminisce about the time we got pulled over by the same South Carolina highway patrolman, twice.  And we go through the painful but necessary process of choosing a Sacred Weekend to protect and anticipate every year.  Because this… this is what it’s all about.

And to top it all off, Alesia tells me she read my blog and has my black Petunia Pickle Bottom wipes case, which means it’s been lost since Pasadena, June 2013.

#Perfect

The very next Wednesday, after I had written about our magical walk to the first day of school, Nate and Jake and I set-off to kindergarten.

About five minutes in, this is what happened:

I think you could hear him yelling from five blocks away.  I’m not really sure how I ended up getting him to walk the rest of the way and then back.  Probably threats under my breath.  The magic was gone.

That afternoon I went back to school to get Jake.  It was a hot, Indian summer day.  I was wearing a gray and white striped tank top.  At the last moment, I decided to throw-on my navy CAbi trench which is made of a soft, sweatshirt like material.

I get to school and Jake is wrapping-up Cooking Club.  I remember my former life when I was the one who had Cooking Club.  My friend Jill and I would whip-up gourmet weeknight dinners and watch the Bachelor.  Following in our footsteps, Jacob loves making jam and muffins and frozen yogurt.

So I pick him up that afternoon and he doesn’t want to walk home.  He wishes I drove.  He wishes I brought his scooter.  He can’t go another inch without water.  He has to pee.  He’s going to pee his pants.  Enough.

We literally stop by the exact same tree that’s in the picture above and I tell him, “Fine.  Just pee behind this tree.  I’m sure no one will see you.”  Girls would never take this as a serious option.

He seems to be considering his choices when all of a sudden he bends over with a nose bleed.  It’s everywhere.  I have the clothes on my back and a cell phone.  I consider my shirt.  I look around for a stray napkin, something… I decide to sacrifice my coat.  But meanwhile Jacob is irrational and frantic when it comes to his own blood.  Anything with blood on it cannot touch him twice, so every inch of my coat is affected.

Somehow we made it home.  I had one hand on the back of his neck and the other trying to stop his nose bleed, my coat smothering his face.  He had blood smeared all over him, forehead to chin, ear to ear.  A neighbor walking her dog did the right thing by stopping to ask if everything was all right… we were certainly a sight.

We made it home and the irrational blood fear made a shocking mess of our kitchen, the laundry room, the bathroom.  Finally, the madness stopped.

What a day.  I’m just glad I made that last minute decision to throw-on a jacket.  Would have brought new meaning to the term walk of shame.

A few weeks ago James decided to declare a weekly routine he aptly named Taco Tuesday.  He was excited about it, so I was excited about it.

It seemed to also coincide with the discovery of a miraculous new product brought to us by “Tortilla Land.”  I’m told these ingenious raw tortillas that puff up into a golden envelope of love come from Costco.  Nate eats them like buttered bed sheets.

So a week ago I come home and am greeted at the front door. Nate immediately declares, “Mama, it’s Taco Tuesday.  AGAIN!”

I’m not sure if he was reeling from the anticipation of his favorite buttered bed linens or the fact that Tuesday happens more than once.

And a new tradition is born.

Our little Nate is going through a “phase.”  He has generally been known as the agreeable one.  The generous one.  The child quick to reason, to apologize, to accept “no” as an acceptable answer and to keep on going.  If we had one remotely “flexible” child, it was Nate.

But Nate seems to be going through some sort of three-and-a-half-year-old identity crisis.  He has most certainly received a jolt of testosterone to his system.  He feels significantly more angry about not getting his way.  He says more things through gritted teeth.  He now says things like, “I’m going to break you in half in four pieces.”  And he is refusing to say he’s sorry… ever.

He’s experimenting with his own power; his independence.  He tells me he’s going to make his own “sumbarine” and a jet.  When I ask him to tell me more he proclaims, “I build it. I dwive it.”

And he has to do everything himself.  He has to fasten his car seat straps.  He has to put on his bull shirt.  He needs to read a book that Jake is reading.  He has to open the front door when I get home from work.  If his brother beats him to it, he cries and hides and demands I go all the way back to work so he can open the door for me.  If I act like I’m going back to work, he dissolves into a puddle of tears.  He hides under tables and generally goes through insane and unpredictable mood swings.  There are still hopeful signs of the old Nate.  He greets me with “a beautiful rock” almost every day.  He still likes to ‘nuggle, and he’s happiest while inventing new dance moves in the living room.  But life is a constant roller coaster.

I was describing the new Nate to Grandma and Granddad and they captured it perfectly, “Uh oh.  Nakezilla.”

Yep, Nakezilla is back.

Last weekend we were driving in the car on our way out to dinner and Nate proclaims from the back seat, “I want Drama Juice.”

“What?  We’re going out to dinner.”

“I want Drama Juice!”

“Drama Juice?  What are you saying?”

“No, no.  Jama Juice.”

You’ve had enough Drama Juice my man.  Plen-ty.