wild*life

My dearest JJ,

On Friday the 14th we celebrated your fifth birthday… fifth!  It is somewhat incomprehensible to me that my first baby boy is such a kid.

We celebrated both your birthday and Nate’s birthday with a pirate-themed pool party at AVAC.  I’m not sure you’ve ever looked happier than swimming with your best friend, Helen.  Then you gobbled up two slices of cake… and a slice every night for the following week.  You still like being called Jakey Cakes.  Cake is your favorite, despite being born on Pi Day.

On Friday morning you woke-up and told me all the things you still wanted for your birthday.  You are always keeping lists.  You said you wanted a puppy like Nate, and a watch.  Fortunately I had gotten you Pepper, the American Girl puppy, plus dog bath accessories.  Coincidentally, it was sharing day at school for the letter “P.”  Pepper the puppy fit the bill perfectly.

And so, I thought I’d take a moment to try and capture 5-year-old Jacob at this moment in time.  You are always changing, but some things remain the same.

You are insanely creative.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been around someone as imaginative, original and determined to get what they want.  On Sunday you wanted some kind of penguin zoo toy you saw.  When I wouldn’t buy it for you, you spent two hours building yourself an entire zoo… it was a masterpiece.  Tonight you asked Daddy to add words to a book you wrote.  You directed him to write the names of “the author and the illustrator.”

All weekend you wanted to build a trap to “catch a leprechaun.”  You negotiated with your dad to take all sorts of things to school in order to build it.  I overheard you say something about needing a crane.  He said if you could carry it by yourself, you could take it, but that you guys were not taking the pick-up truck… though you negotiated hard.  You were the only kid at school building a trap.  It involved a potato for bait, a box, plus countless unknown booby traps,  and glue for the leprechaun to step in.  Your teacher sent me a text that read:

Hey FYI, your son has been amazing and super smart and creative with the leprechaun trap.  But he is really pissed he didn’t catch one.  So he put his trap away in his cubby…

You came home with a green note from a shifty little gnome that read:

Dear Jacob,

Oh you are a smart one!  Trying to catch me all day!  But I’m small, fast and sneaky and I got away.  I admire your effort and planning in all that you do.  Until next year, I will leave this treasure for you.  Great job!  Maybe next time!

With sincere admiration,

Lucky Leprechaun.

You felt a little bit better.

You love swimming and riding bikes and running as fast as you can.  You delight in the wonder that is your body running at top speed.  When I think you will be exhausted from a long, active day, you still run circles around the living room, or jump like a kangaroo for two more hours.

Speaking of active, you have always been “busy.”  Busy building things, busy cooking things, busy drawing things.  You are a boy of many projects.  As someone with six extracurricular projects of my own currently in progress, I’m afraid I may be to blame.

You get an idea in your head and you are determined to make it happen.  You’ll decide that we should go into the backyard and build a treehouse.  Now.  Your projects never lack for ambition.

When you grow-up you want to be a cook and a race car driver and a farmer.   I think you got the Purnell-family animal lover gene.  You fantasize about the day when you can have a house and a farm and whatever animals you want.  We talk a lot about my allergies and how much you want a cat.  We’re still working through the details.

You are a loving big brother.  Nate is your best friend, strongest ally, and most loyal audience.  You ask me why Nate was born saying naughty words.  You claim zero responsibility.

I love you, Jacob James.  I love every single thing about you.  Happy birthday big boy.

xoxo,

Mama

On Sunday night, it was the season finale of the latest HBO television phenomenon, True Detective.  If you’ve found that, recently, you’re having trouble following the normal office banter or morning radio show repartee, it’s time to get with the program.

If you are really far behind, start with Breaking Bad.  Then you can graduate to Orange is the New Black.  I’d also recommend The Americans.  Though not as well known, putting this suggestion out there may get you back on the offensive.   If you never saw The Sopranos, there’s probably no hope for you.

Let me be clear— these shows are not for the faint-hearted.  My trick is to cover my ears during the intense/scary/I-don’t-need-that-in-my-brain parts.  It’s amazing how much less disturbing things are without the soundtrack.

So, once you’ve been fairly desensitized to violence and the most cringe-worthy elements of human society, you can now enjoy True Detective starring Woody from Cheers and the newly appreciated character acting skills of Matthew McConahottie.  I’m told the cast will change next season.  I don’t yet know how I feel about that.

For those of you who are still watching network television, I will be careful not to spoil this for you.  But, I do want to set your expectations appropriately.  In summary, it’s a crime show.  I guess maybe you got that from the title.  But, here’s what makes it different— they’ve taken pieces of all the other good shows and movies and mixed them up into 8 episodes of binge-worthy viewing pleasure.

Here’s the formula, though this series is not formulaic:

A dynamic Castle detective cop duo + a Sons of Anarchy motorcycle gang + The Wire drug gang + a Breaking Bad meth cook + corrupt government House of Cards-esque officials + the supernatural gifts of The Sixth Sense + my worst Hoarders nightmare of a house + piles of filthy Chucky dolls + mysterious pagan symbolism à la The Davinci Code + those incredibly disturbing sticks from The Blair Witch Project + the creepy music from Lost + the cinematography of a movie = the show everybody is talking about.

It’s hard to tell, but I really do like this series.  It’s really good.  The only thing that would’ve made it better is if they had added colorful yarn to their evidence wall.  You know, when they take string and use it to show the relationship between all their clues?  I love that.

When the finale was finally over and my neck was aching from cringing through an hour of intense crime drama and action, I was not ready or able to hit the hay.  I needed something to erase the images that had been burned into my brain.  What to do… What to do…

“Hey James, want to watch an episode of Max and Ruby?”

Max and Ruby; photo courtesy of Milk and Cuddles.

Just over one week ago, on Nate’s third birthday, James decided to move Nathaniel’s crib into “the big boy room.”  That’s code for James reclaiming Nate’s room as his home office and personal eBay distribution center.

The first night went fairly well.  As usual, Jake left his room 200 times under the guise of various ruses.  At one point we heard Nate responsibly yell from his crib, “Jacob, go to sleep!”

Unfortunately, the second night Nate got scared and in a panic, extended his reach too far.  Instead of getting the light switch, he toppled head first out of his crib into a wooden crate filled with the dagger-like spines of children’s books.  His poor little black and blue face now matches his black and blue Superman shirt.

And of course the daylight saving time change is not helping the situation.  I hear them back there playing and goofing around and prolonging our ability to relax and watch good TV.  Nate’s mature influence was short-lived.  Now he’s out here asking questions about whether Jacob can punch monsters in the face and looking for a flashlight and his water and first class tickets to Crazy Town.

A couple of nights ago I was reading How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night?

I got to the end where the dinosaur crawls into bed, gives a big kiss and turns out the light.  The book reads, “They tuck in their tails.  They whisper, ‘Good night!’  They give a big hug, then give one kiss more.  Good night.  Good night, little dinosaur.”

Nate asks me, “Why I can’t do dat?”

“I’ve been asking myself that for a week… Why can’t you do that?”

He smiles cunningly, “I don’t have a tail.”

When I was little, I was the reigning champion of the card game Memory.  No one could beat me… and by no one I mean my little brother and my grandma.  Over the years, it’s a skill that has served me well… until it was passed on to my eldest offspring.

Around Christmas we were watching Chicken Little on demand and Jake says, “Oh yeah, I’ve seen this before.  We watched it before we had Nate.  Look, look— he’s going to strap a bottle to his back and fly and then his paper underpants will fill up with water and fall off.”  And of course that’s exactly what  proceeded to happen.  I really do think he saw this movie “before we had Nate.”  I may have to see how far Comcast bill history is kept online.

In any case, this is just one of dozens of examples.  Dr. Antsy says he’ll forget all these things in a few years, but I’m not so sure.

My second case in point is what I call The Mystery of the Jeep.  If you’ve been with me for awhile, you’ll know that I’ve been writing about Jake’s request for a green Jeep… for over three years.  There have been no less than four posts on this topic.  First we thought he wanted a toy Jeep.  He got two toy Jeeps, but neither of them were right.  Then he told us he wanted to drive it.  And finally, Jake and Nate did in fact use their organic egg selling proceeds to buy a previously-owned, drivable, child-size Jeep, in red, from Granddad’s neighbor.  Which they love to crash into flower beds and run over each others’ limbs with.

So the other day we’re driving the boys to school and randomly, out of the blue, Jake exclaims, “This is where I saw the kid driving the green Jeep I want.”  He was referring to the sidewalk that goes past the front of our preschool.  The sidewalk we drive past twice daily.  I silently pondered this new piece of evidence… three years after this interminable topic first appeared.

“Really?  Right here is where you saw a kid with a green, drivable Jeep that you’ve wanted all this time?”  I’m sure my sarcastic disbelief was much more subtle in the moment.

A week or two later, we’re pulling out of the school parking lot at the end of the day and Jakey cries out, “Mom, Mom!  There’s the green Jeep, there it is!”

And wouldn’t you know…  two little boys are merrily driving a convertible, grass green, Tonka-esque Jeep along the sidewalk, on their way to the park.  It’s exactly how this child has been describing the mythical Jeep since he was two years old.  Exactly.

There is a boy that looks to be about Jake’s age, as well as a littler boy riding along side him.

“It used to be just one kid.  He must have gotten that other kid later.”

And knowing Jakey, he’s probably right.

Mystery solved.

My dearest Nate,

It’s so hard to believe that my darling baby boy turned 3 on Saturday… 3!  You really are such a big boy.

To celebrate, we took a ride on “Mama’s choo-choo,” also known as Caltrain.  The ride to Palo Alto for lunch and cupcakes made me view my daily commute with entirely new eyes.  If only I could muster that kind of excitement on a daily basis.  Our adventure on a rainy afternoon took most of the day, but you powered through.  At 4pm you finally fell asleep, face down, on the couch.  I was right beside you.

And to commemorate your birthday, I thought I’d try to capture this fleeting moment in time… a little bit of what you’re like at the ripe old age of 3.

You still wear your “black and blue one” Superman shirt daily.  And you couldn’t hide your disappointment that you didn’t get a new one on Saturday, even though you own seven.  You’re becoming a bit more fashion flexible, but generally prefer drawstring pants and are disdainful of all outerwear.  The characters on your pajamas must possess the ability to fly.  You like your new light-up Captain America shoes.  In contrast to your “good guy” exterior, paradoxically, you request “bad guy” underpants.

You’re a fan of chile and lemon pistachios and “skabetty”… that’s spaghetti.  You also love chockit, but unfortunately have started calling it chocolate.  Your favorite Girl Scout cookies are Samoas and you prefer red and green gummy bears.  You also like Mini Wheat “twins,” but ultimately, your favorite thing is to eat ketchup with your hands.

As of today, you weigh 36 pounds.  You’re a small brick wall and generally survive run-ins unscathed.  Other kids aren’t so lucky.  You can peddle your bike to the playground, but always have to be pushed home.  Daddy calls you Pokey.  I think you’ve earned it.

You travel with a large contingent of security personnel including Puppy-o, Doggie-o (or Super Puppy) and your new American Girl pet puppy, Meatloaf.  Yes, I bought you an American Girl pet.  It looks like it’s the only thing I’ll be buying at that little girl paradise of a shoppe.  You still love your baybit.

And you love to ‘nuggle.  You rub noses with me and say “You so cute and I so cute.”  You are an exceptional hugger and generous with your kisses.

You are also a lover of nature.  Last week, when faced with a mine field of worms on the rainy school sidewalk, you became visibly panicked about how to get across without killing anyone.  Every single dog we pass you audibly proclaim, “I want to buy dat dog fowr Cwismas.”

You are a natural reader of people.  You’re always asking “Why he goes like this with his face?”  When Jake is digging in his heels, you will run to his rescue with relevant advice, “Say sorry Jacob!”  You have known this since you were born.

You are smart.  In more ways than I can count.  You know colors and numbers and shapes and everything your brother knows.  You are brimming with questions and surprises.

And you still love music.  When you hear the Frozen song, Let It Go, you just can’t help but dance.  You also have an unwavering proclivity for potty talk.

Plus, you are so unbelievably adorable that I would not be the least bit surprised if one day we went to preschool to pick you up and they handed us over a dirty, navy blue Superman shirt, some sweatpants, and light-up shoes.  “Our apologies.  He was so cute, we just had to eat him up.  This is all that’s left.”  I wouldn’t blame them one bit.

I love you, Nathaniel James.  I love every single thing about you.  Happy birthday big boy.

xoxo,

Mama

The last time Nate was 3… months.

This past Sunday I got to sneak out to breakfast with two of my girlfriends from grad school.  One of them shares the former distinguished title of “that pregnant girl walking around a Jesuit college campus”… fun times.

So my friend recounted her recent and traumatizing run-in with elementary school lice.  She has two daughters with beautiful thick, dark hair… and countless stuffed animals.  I really do think that disinfecting her entire house may have permanently scarred her.

Afterward I was telling James about our breakfast conversation and mentioned the whole lice saga.

Jake pipes-up from the backseat, “What’d they have in their hair, Mom?  Mice?”

Wow… that would have been so much worse.

A few months back I wrote about one of my favorite new books, The Chicken Problem.  Low and behold, we found it debuted in October of 2013 as a PBS cartoon called Peg + Cat that is completely true to the original.  My Christmas project has actually put me on the cutting edge of something?  Of course it’s preschool literature, but I’ll take what I can get.

So, Peg + Cat is always about a problem.  Or a “ploblem” as Nate would say.  The Pirate Ploblem,  The Baby Ploblem, The Doohickey Ploblem.  It’s a good opportunity to talk about what is actually a big problem, and what is just a slight problem that is being blown out of proportion for the sake of a cartoon plot line.  There is always one part where Peg shrieks, “Big problem!  I am totally freaking out!”.  Then she counts backward from five to calm down.

Which leads me to one of our latest and very real problems— The Queen Bed Problem.

Now before I go into this— a quick story.

Back when Nate was two-and-a-half, I remember taking him and Jakey to the library park.  Nate disappeared behind the wall of the play structure recommended for 5-12 year olds.  He’d grown bored with the age appropriate jungle gym.

A minute later, he popped-up at the top of the 12 foot high playground.  Turned out that he had no problem navigating the climbing wall hand and foot holds.  I made a mental note.

Fast forward five months to about three weeks ago.  James was resting while the boys were taking a nap.  Well, while Nate was taking a nap.  Jake mostly just “plays quietly.”

So Nate was in his crib and then, BING! Nate is silently standing next to our bed.  Like a magical, preschool apparition.

James failed to mention this to me until the next morning when, there he is, BING! standing next to my side of the bed.  Ruh roh.

When did Nate learn how to escape from his crib?!

Jacob never did learn how to get out of his crib unassisted.  First, I attribute it to the ingeniuos design of tall bars and a modern, slippery aesthetic… no good spots for chubby hands or toes to get a good grip.  One must wait until one’s legs are long enough to completely straddle the top bar and still reach the mattress from both sides.  Second, I kept him hobbled in sleep sacks for as long as possible.  I also may have offhandedly mentioned that it looked like a really far drop if one were to jump for it.

Of course Nate figured out how to get his zip-up blanket off at least a year ago.  And jumping from high places has never been much of a deterent.

Now we have… the Queen Bed Problem.  Which frankly we’ve had for quite awhile because the big one shows up unannounced on a somewhat regular basis.  The good news is that he’s been waiting till about 5am of late.  But now you add another Kicky Kickerson who has to snuggle up to me and I might as well make myself a nap mat on the floor.  There is just not enough room for four people in our bed, even if we all lay on our backs with our arms at our sides.  If you’ve never seen the Baby Sleep Positions diagram, you have got to follow this link.  I think maybe I’ll request an updated diagram with 2 full-size preschoolers.

So it looks like our one socially acceptable form of baby jail is toast.  Big problem.  I am totally freaking out!  Well, not really… but still.

I’m really quite disappointed in myself.  I still remember watching my very first Olympic figure skating in 1984.  Thirty years later and I still cannot tell the difference between a double toe loop, a double axle or a Salchow.  Until just now, I thought it was a Sow-Cow.

I blame Scott Hamilton.

Coincidentally, it seems we have an affinity for Super Bowl weekend when it comes to the BIG GAME.

The BIG GAME for an almost 3-year-old exclusively revolves around one and only one subject: The Super Bowl.  The Fiesta Bowl.  The Sugar Bowl if you will.  Yes, I know I’m crossing my collegiate and professional metaphors but seriously, the gummy bears are adding up.

I’m talking about potty training people.  It’s Day 6 of this tournament and I’m pleased to announce the current stats: Nate is up 5-1.  The latter number representing days with accidents.  Tuesday’s 2 fumbles really messed-up our record.

But we’re not in this for the short-term, it’s the end game we care about… Seahawks versus the Bronco.

As the lead hawk, I spend a lot of time circling the field.  Constantly cawing and questioning every quiet pause, every imperceptible shiver, every pounding of completely full sippy cups.  I’m constantly on edge.  As every Seahawk knows, a Bronco can rarely be trusted.  Especially when it comes to public places with lots of spectators.

And he is a bucking bronco.  He’s gone from saying he’s a baby and doesn’t want to wear underpants, to insisting he has to wear underpants to bed and bucking like a crazed stallion at the mere thought of a Buzz Lightyear Pull-up.  He can stand for nothing less than Robin underwear… who’d have thought?  But I am not interested in graduating straight to changing bed sheets in the dark.  That feels more like something we should tackle during Super Bowl XLIX.  On a side note— anyone who can form complete and complex sentences regarding undergarment preferences should have been a starter in this game quite some time ago.  No more cushy bench warming Sport.  It’s game time.

Paradoxically, last night Coach Daddy somehow tricked him into his Pull-ups so that I didn’t have to try and wriggle him into one after he’d fallen asleep in his crib.  Yep, crib.  The next big playoff.

Fortunately, the Seahawks are up and it doesn’t look like the Bronco has a chance.  Hopefully we can turn off this game early.