wild*life

I wrote this blog back on the first day of school.  And then I was caught up in a Kindergarten tornado and got hit in the head… unrelated but true.  So I have some catching-up to do on my catching-up.  What else is new?

Wednesday, August 13, 2014 

This is it.  The day.  The BIG day.  Today we graduated from parents of preschoolers to “parents of school-aged children.”  Duhn duhn DUHN.

We’ve been talking about it for months, maybe even years.  Kindergarten.  The big time.  The big league.  The bar is raised.

But before we jump right in,  I think it’s only appropriate to wrap-up the comings and goings of the last few weeks.

Helen graduated early and Jake was separated from his first best friend.  He took it well.  He tells me, “It’s OK, we know where she lives.”  But last night he was searching the house for “girlie things” he could mail as presents to Helen and Olivia because he misses them.  We found some Frozen tattoos and princess stickers.  I had to put the kibosh on mailing our Baby Cillo dolly.

Helen did come back for graduation and my previous performance bet hit the jackpot.  Jakey sang.  Jakey danced.  And most importantly, when he had to speak his name into the microphone and walk assuredly across the stage to receive his diploma, his voice deepened two octaves and he was one of the most confident and clear speakers in his class.

Last Thursday, they let Spike the Praying Mantis go free— off into the wild of the bike yard.  Spike had grown to full size and probably only had a few weeks left to complete his lifetime bucket list.  I caught one last farewell Breakfast for Spike and felt good I could say my goodbyes and send him off well fed.

And yesterday was Jake’s last day at St. Lizzie’s with his buddies and Miss Amy.  We got Miss Amy a thank you present for her dog Milo, right up Jake’s alley.  It was a black rubber ball with a giant vaudeville mustache attached and a box of fancy iced dog cookies.  According to the reports, Milo snuck into the bag and emerged with the doggie tennis ball cookie, despite the pink bakery box and tissue paper.

A puppy after Jacob’s own heart.

My mom tells this story from my childhood about when I was two or three years old.  Apparently I would wander the house, lamenting, “It’s LAAAAAH-sted.  It’s LAHsted!”  In case you aren’t following: I’d lost something.

To this day it drives me crazy if I’ve lost something.  Bothers me to no end.   Like a nagging, running little lifetime list I keep in the far reaches of my mind.  I pride myself in being organized and being able to put my hands on exactly what I’m looking for.

During my sabbatical I organized so many closets and drawers and nooks and crannies and crossed several things off my “Lifetime Lost List.”  It was rejuvenating.  Uplifting.  Like finding twenty bucks in your coat pocket.  Or three gift cards and a bottle of Spanish honey rum.

Sometimes I do throw in the towel.  Like the orange Croc.  Jakey lost one orange Croc, or what we used to call “his Grandma shoes.”  Not because Grandma wears them (if that were the case we’d call them his Granddad shoes), but because she gave them to him when he was really little.  I kept that one orange Croc for at least a year, thinking the other one would turn-up.  I couldn’t remember a time when he could have possibly flung it out his car window on the freeway.  Finally I gave up.  I threw it in the recycling bin and said forget it.  Don’t let losing things bother you so much.  Probably two weeks later, I was going through a box of rags and what do I find?  The other orange Croc.  And some little plastic animals that someone had squirreled away in some sort of make-believe cleaning supply den.  The universe can be so cruel.

Some other things that are still bothering me include my favorite black plastic wipes case, my pearl necklace pendant and…. our glass and pewter salt cellar.  Where.  Is.  It?!  Did someone steal it?  Did it get up and walk back to Italy?  James and I regularly discuss whether we break down and buy another one… it was not cheap.  And of course I will find it the second I swipe my credit card.

Even more perplexing is Jacob’s play cupcake pan and two of the four cupcakes.  Would we have let him take a cupcake pan and wooden cupcakes to school?  Did Santa come and take it back?  Could he have flung it out his window on the freeway?

Continuing our weapons storyline, one of the things bothering Jacob most is his lost gun.  The night after he received the full-size straw-shooting gun from Uncle Geoff, Mama quickly absconded with it to the basement until the two-year-old reached an age appropriate birthday, or passed hunters safety.  We never spoke of the shooter again.

Meanwhile, last December (three years later), Jakey started asking about it again.  That child’s memory may be photographic.  “Mama, where is my gun?  You know, the one that Uncle Geoff gave me?  That shoots the straws?”  He has a special hand motion that mimics loading three-inch red plastic straws into a barrel.

“MmmHM?”  I answer noncommittally.

“Did you check the basement?”

Jake thinks everything good is in the basement.  Maaaaaybe because it is.  I still keep a child doorknob protector on the basement door, partially to keep small children from falling down the stairs into a chest freezer, and partially as the last vestige of secrecy in our lives.  Only Santa and I are allowed in the basement.

At Christmas I overheard him in Grandma’s kitchen, pumping her for clues.  “Do you have my shooter?  That shoots the straws?  That Uncle Geoff gave me?”  He’s checked every inch of our house… next stop, check Grandma’s.

A day or two after the Grandma interrogation, Jacob shot a tiny rubber cannonball directly into Uncle Geoff’s eye while trying to show him his new Christmas pirate ship.  Not two seconds after being told never to shoot anyone in the face.  And providing further proof as to why Jacob is interrogating various family members as to the location of his gun.

So a few weekends ago we decided to take a picnic to Roaring Camp and James brought-up our big wicker picnic basket from the basement.  It seems we haven’t gotten it out since Jacob was two and would spend hours making picnic messes all over the house.

James opens it up and guess what he finds?  No, not the gun.

He finds the cupcake pan, the other two cupcakes, and our felt carrot that Aunt Sara made.

A little piece of me is sleeping better now, but the salt cellar piece wants to spend all night ripping apart the basement.

Round four of our weapons series…

Two Christmases ago, Jacob and Nathaniel both got bows and arrows for Christmas from Santa.  The math is troubling me at this moment, but it does in fact appear that Santa bought Nate his first weapon at the age of almost two, which made Jake almost four.  That Santa… he must shop at the same baby boutique as Uncle Geoff.

Now the bowandarrow campaign must have started before Nate was even born because there were clearly months, if not years, of parental stalling.  Recently Jakey told me, “‘We’ll see’ always means ‘no’!” I’m sure Jack Johnson was thinking the same thing when he wrote, “It seems to me that maybe… pretty much always means no.”  And yes, I purposefully made it one word, as Jake used to think the bow was called a bowandarrow.  Nate still thinks that.

After no less than 8 hours of internet research over multiple evenings and train rides, and being drawn to customer reviews that said things like, “First off, the makers of this archery set said to themselves, ‘we just don’t want anyone to get hurt,'” Santa finally chose some homemade ones on Etsy.

Santa’s criteria included a low likelihood that anyone could shoot an eye out (theirs, a siblings’, or their vision-loving Santas’), that the arrows couldn’t realistically travel long distances (even with significant practice), and that the items wouldn’t break within two-seconds, leaving the child in a puddle of tears (though better than blood) and Santa writing angry reviews on Amazon Christmas morning.  The fact they were homemade just further enhanced the reputation of Santa’s elves.

The Etsy choice was the hands-down winner.  Soft, made from easy to replace and repair Home Depot supplies, cute variety of colors.  A huge success Christmas morning.  Jakey almost mastered his after a few days shooting at the back glass door in our Yosemite cabin.  At the time, Nate’s bow was as big as he was, but over the last two years he’s grown into it.

And now it’s the summer of 2014 and our landscape designer comes over for a consultation and brings her eight-year-old son and his latest reward: a Nerf crossbow.  And it easily shoots the length of three front yards and makes this ear-piercing whistling sound so you have fair warning right before it torpedoes you in the back of the head.  I clearly remember reading reviews on this particular weapon as it got a lot of stars for flying the distance of an entire football field.  No thanks.

Jacob and this other little boy are having a great time and fortunately Nate’s eyesight is protected by the wonders of nap time.

So the grown-ups are talking and we get on the subject of bows and arrows.  I say something to the effect of, “Ah yes.  I did a lot of research on safe archery sets for kids and found some really good ones on Etsy.  Jake and Nate both have one.”

And Jake pipes-up from across the grass, “Mom, Santa brought us these for Christmas!”

“Uh, oh yeah.  You’re right.  Santa did bring those didn’t he…  you know, I think sometimes Santa shops on Etsy, too.  You know, like how he reads my blog?  Same thing, right?”

Their attention seems to drift and I feel the spotlight slowly pan away from me.

Smooth one Mom.  Smooth.

Continuing with our weapon stories… I think I have enough for an entire series.

So, my nephew Devon is two-and-a-half and has essentially never spoken to me in his life.  I am not exaggerating.  He has barely acknowledged my existence and is pretty certain that to come into physical contact with me is quite possibly life threatening.  I call him Stone Cold Steve Devon.  He’s got quite the poker face.  A super cute one no doubt, but stone cold.

Over July fourth, during our mini-vacation in Avila, I made it my mission to break the Big D.  No more silent treatment.  No more feigned tolerance of my presence.

We.  Are.  Going.  To.  Be.  Besties.

I started by telling him I knew he couldn’t smile.  And that I was pretty sure he had no teeth.  

Yep, incapable of smiling.  No, no don’t you dare smile.  Doooooon’t do it.

Worked like a charm.  I mean really, how could he just continue ignoring charming, funny, irresistible Aunt Jaimie?  Jacob actually taught me this tactic.  When he was littler he was motivated by me telling him he couldn’t do something, “Mama, Mama, tell me I can’t put on my pajamas by myself.  Tell me I can’t do it.”

So we’re in Avila and I have successfully teased out several smiles and even some unbroken instances of eye contact.  That afternoon, I was sitting near the hot tub during a Granddad-induced squirt gun fight at the hotel pool.  All of a sudden I feel water hit me in the back.

And then I hear the very first words I’ve ever heard, directed at me, out of my dear nephew’s mouth, “I shoot Jaimie.”

And then he grinned.  A mischievous, all-knowing, I’ve been wanting to shoot you for years, grin.

Whaddaya know… the Big D does have teeth.

Sometimes I start a blog and then I’m not exactly clear where it’s going and I end up shelving it for three weeks… or three years.

I just dug-up the following, which it looks like I started back in 2011.  I said don’t judge!

Spring 2011 (Jacob, age two-and-change):

Maybe six months ago, there was a new little boy at school who taught JJ about shooting.  Out of nowhere, anytime we told Jake something he didn’t want to hear, we were in his sights.  Blocks, toys, pointer fingers… just about everything can be transformed into a weapon to point at said offending authority.

Then in January, a certain uncle gave his two-year-old nephew a life-size toy rifle that shoots straws.  I’m not sure the future of Baby Nathaniel’s eyesight was considered.  As of a week ago, he called it a shooter.

“Mama, where is my shooter?  That Uncle Geoff gave me?”  Now Mama is the Bad Guy.

As of this week, he’s learned the “g” word.  Tonight he says to me over dinner, “Mama, I love guns.”

“No, you don’t love guns.  Shooting things is not nice.”

“Yes, Mama.  I love guns and rabbits.”

“Guns and rabbits?”

“Yes, guns and rabbits.”

OK Elmer.

I’m a bit behind on the blogging front, explanation to follow.  Don’t judge.

So on July 26th, Jakey officially graduated from preschool.  That morning I had the honor of taking the kiddos to school and then coming back later to guard seats in the front row and man the iPhone video camera.

As I’m driving the boys to school in my sweats (they’re JCrew, which makes them slightly more fashionable than what you’re imagining) and a t-shirt, Jacob gives me my marching orders:

“Mom, mom.  For my graduation you need to wear a dress and dang-galy earrings and eyelashes and lipstick and high heels.”

“Really?”  Of course I was planning on dressing-up, but now I’m imagining the Max & Ruby cartoon where the girl bunnies wear lipstick and eyelashes and earrings in their tall bunny ears.

Later that morning, Granddad, Grandma, Nonna, Papa, Daddy, Nate, me and Baby Devon watched Jacob dance and sing and ascend to the next level.  As expected, one of the major highlights was the rendition of Graduate to the tune of Taio Cruz’s Dynamite (Lyrics attributed to an unknown author.). Note that the link goes to a video of some other preschool class, not JJ’s.

For posterity, here’s how it went:

Verse 1

It went so fast, fast, fast, fast, (fist explodes on each “fast”)
Let’s celebrate ’cause it won’t last, last, last, last, (one hand on hip wave finger back and forth)
I’m with all my favorite friends, friends, friends, friends, (bounce or jump)
So come on now and clap your hands, hands, hands, hands. (clap hands)

Yeah! Yeah!
We’re moving on and on and on! (fist pump)
We’re moving on and on and on! (fist pump other hand)
Yeah! (throw arms up in the air)

Chorus

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes, (wave both hands in the air)
Saying ayo, come on let’s go! (hands on mouth like a megaphone)
I wanna celebrate and graduate, (both hands point thumbs at self)
Saying ayo, come on let’s go! (hands on mouth like a megaphone)

‘Cause we will rock this school, (air guitar)
We will do it right, (air guitar)
We will graduate, (both hands point thumbs at self)
‘Cause we’re dynamite! (punch both arms up in the air, alternating)

‘Cause I told you once, (one finger out)
Now I told you twice, (two fingers out)
We will graduate, (both hands point thumbs at self)
‘Cause we’re dynamite! (punch both arms up in the air)

Verse 2

We’re saying bye, bye, bye, bye, (wave bye)
We’re moving on so don’t you cry, cry, cry, cry, (cry motion)
Look how our friendships grew, grew, grew, grew, (arms around each other)
We couldn’t do it without you, you, you, you! (point at audience)

Yeah! Yeah!
We’re moving on and on and on! (fist pump)
We’re moving on and on and on! (fist pump other hand)
Yeah! (throw arms up in the air)

Repeat Chorus

Verse 3

We’re gonna go to kindergarten, (wave goodbye)
But we’ll still miss each other. (hug yourself)
We had some good times, (give double thumbs up)
And of course we love our teachers! (hug yourself)

I-I-I believe I-I-I’ll remember it all, remember it all. (point to self then point to brain)
So come on clap your hands in the air, (clap hands over head)
Clap your hands in the air,
Clap your hands in the air, air, air, air, air, air… (wave hands over head)

Musical Break

(spirit fingers to right)
(spirit fingers to left)
(shake it down to ground)
(shake it back up)

Repeat Chorus

Yeah! (throw hands up in celebration)

And roaring applause…  the dancing during the musical break might have been the best part.

Also for the record, I did wear a dress, dangly earrings and lipstick.  I cleared my natural, mascara-coated eyelashes and flats with the boss.

He is dynamite.  And you can’t argue with that…

A couple of weeks ago James sends me this text:

Funniest story from the car today.

We were talking about how we have a big car because we have a big family.  (Compared to others with just two people that have small cars.)

And Jake and Nate started in on the “What if we had a bus?  What if we had an RV?”  And then Nate said, “Oh what if we had a minnow?!”

And Jake and I said, “A minnow?”

And Nate says, “Yeah, the super long black kind.”

Silence.

A few seconds later Jake says, “Do you mean a limo?”

And we all laughed ha ha ha.

This is Spike.  Spike is a praying mantis.  Spike is Jacob’s class pet.  Jacob’s classmate Olivia caught him at her house.  Spike eats live flies and crickets.  Spike is WAY bigger than when this picture was taken.  I find myself worrying about where Spike’s next meal will come from.

It started a few weekends ago.  A fly was buzzing around our living room and Jake assigned me a mission: Catch that fly for Spike.

We spent several hours trying to nab that fly in our plastic bug jar.  Spirited flies are much harder to catch than you’d think.  I prefer dehydrated, discouraged flies.  But not too dehydrated or discouraged.  That’s the realm of despondent. Keeping a spirited fly alive for two days is tough.  Keeping a despondent fly alive through the weekend is downright demoralizing.  And Spike doesn’t eat dead flies.

So two Sundays ago, my dehydrated fly catch didn’t make it through the night.  I had to dump him in the bushes at school.  Spike had gone days without eating.  Olivia’s mom will bring pet store crickets if things are really desperate, but why go to Petco when the world is full of free flies?  And what about the thrill of the chase?  Catching flies has become my new weekend pastime.  I’m purposefully leaving the back door open so as to let a fly into my house.

After the burial in the bushes, I left the boys at school and was working from home.  Suddenly, it was like my spidey sense activated.  What’s that sound?  Is that a fly?  My eyes darted around and then zeroed in as it buzzed the control tower.  Breakfast for Spike…

I am Mr. Miyagi.

I was so excited to get to school that afternoon and redeem myself from my Sunday night failure.  I took my prized fly to show Miss Amy.  Jacob taught me to transfer it into a plastic bag, put the plastic bag into the praying mantis enclosure, shake the fly out, remove the bag, and then quick shut the lid.

Spike is very big.  Spike is very still.  He looks a lot like a twig.  My unsuspecting fly buzzed around, desperately looking for a way out.  He flew right under the twig and then, SNAP!  Spike grabbed him with his flamingo-leg arms.  It happened so fast I whooped in surprised excitement and scared poor, unsuspecting Nate.

After this undeniable accomplishment, I caught another smaller fly.  But overnight, that fly mysteriously vanished from our Breakfast for Spike jar.  It was either a magic fairy disguised as a fly, or it squeezed through a tiny air hole so small that water droplets won’t go through, or there’s Nate.  He claims ignorance so I guess we’re going with magic fairy.  Of course after all of this skillful success, Jacob has now upped the ante and invented a new hobby for me: Catching crickets.

So far we’ve tried three versions of wikiHow cricket traps.  We tried the newspaper trap.  We tried the soda bottle trap but with an agave syrup bottle.  We tried the soda bottle trap but with a real two liter soda bottle (That trap required us to have root beer floats two nights in a row.  Maybe my favorite trap.).  We tried adding a light to the soda bottle trap.  The only traps left to try are the toilet paper roll trap, the loaf of bread trap, and the duct tape trap.  We may have to try the lighted crate trap, but that one looks like a bit of a project.

Jake is now losing faith in my cricket trapping skills and trying to sell me on the Petco trap.

But I know better than to walk into that one…

Yesterday the worst thing happened.  Nate said yellow.  And then when I asked him to say it again, just to be sure, he said yellow yellow yellow yellow yellow.

OK, maybe not the worst thing that could have happened yesterday, but still… salt in the wound.

The second to last weekend in May, we took a weekend trip down to SLO town.  That’s San Luis Obispo.  You say the ‘s’ in Luis.  This isn’t Missouri, this is the territory formerly known as Mejico.

One of my all time favorite things to do is to take the boys to play in the creek that runs through the middle of town.  Two trips ago we ended up with two boys in their skivvies, covered in mud.  I let them eat ice cream and it ran all the way down Nate’s leg into his Croc.  I remember overhearing a bystander watching from above the creek exclaim, “One of them is in diapers!”

After that we learned our lesson and this trip I just put them straight in their swimsuits, rash guards and Crocs.  The water was fairly low, but they still had a great time chasing ducks and trying to catch miniature fish.  Due to our perpetual drought, an “island” has sprung up in the middle of this small creek.  And while the boys were playing on the island, Nate saw a bird and chased after it, as he has done on countless occasions.

Suddenly, he was being dive bombed from above.  Two birds attacked out of nowhere.  I’m told the adults nearby did not come to the rescue of this three-year-old, but instead ran for cover.  Unfortunately, I missed the whole thing as I was sitting further down in the shade behind a tree.  I have had the pleasure of hearing Nate retell this story several times.  It’s a classic.  “I was chasing da biwrdie on da gwound and den one biwrdie swooped down and pecked my hand.  Da udder one pecked me on da head.”

A few weeks later, I’m flying solo with the kiddos at the kiddie pool.  I make them promise me they’ll sit on the side as I make a mad dash to the bathroom.  When I get back, Nate tells me he threw Jacob’s goggles up in the air and now they’re lost.

“So tell me what happened?”

“I trew dem in da air and now dare gone.”

“They must be around here somewhere.  Let’s look around.”

“Do you tink a biwrdie swooped down and taked dem?”

“No, probably not.”

“Yeah.  I tink I trew dem in da air and a biwrdie taked dem!”

This is Nate’s World.  In his world, this is not only the most logical explanation, it’s also highly probable.  Fortunately a little birdie told me to check under the pool chair.

So last night I’m in the bottom bunk with both boys telling them another story about my cats when I was a kid.  Nate says, “My neck is buwrning.  We didn’t put sunscream on today.  I tink my neck is buwrned.”

I look under his chin where he says it hurts, “Hmmm.  Looks like maybe something bit you.”

Wide-eyed, “An ant?”

“Uh, no.  Probably not an ant.”

And then he says, as serious as can be, “A wolf?”

In Nate’s World, a wolf could bite you on the neck and you might not notice till bedtime.