wild*life

Today happens to be Natesy’s half birthday.  I forgot it was the first and so I’ve completely failed on the cupcake front… but the child did have donut holes, a hot dog, Doritos, ice cream and two cookies today.  That’s what happens when you wake up at your grandparents’ house, climb around old airplanes at a retired base in the Central Valley, and then make potty training history, all in the same day.

So, we’re halfway through the terrible two’s and someone has finally clued in our little Nake.  He is a rebel, with a cause.  Well, several causes.  His version of breaking bad primarily consists of: television, treats, toilet talk and toddling.

Now before I get into the details, we should pause and consider that Jacob went into the terrible two’s at 18 months and really just resurfaced at three-and-a-half.  And, Nate is still the most generous person in my entire family.  He will give you big hunks of cookie and hand over bites of chocolate without batting an eye.  He really has been a good influence on Jacob.  And James.  And me.

But, now he has opinions on everything.  And before when he heard “no” he’d pout for two seconds and then get over it and move on.  But now.  Now, things are different.

Television

Last Saturday I had to endure at least twenty minutes of crying and imploring to the tune of “Teebee Mommy.  Teebee.  Teebee Mommy.  Teebee.  Teebee Mooooommeeeeeee.  Teebeeeeeeeeeee.”  You’d think he was suffering from tuberculosis or something.

Treats

Nathaniel is starving all the time, except at dinner.  That’s when he’s most interested in goofing around and using his fork as a blunt object and then waiting for the conversation to die down before declaring, “Cookies?”  He’s lost his mind.  He thinks eating twenty grapes and not making eye contact with his salad constitutes a meal.  When we tell him to eat his food, he consistently tries the ol’ “You eat it.  You eat it, Mama.”  Completely missing the point.

One night he pulled a full-on premeditated bait and switch on me.  I was holding strong in the negotiation.  No treat until four bites of lettuce and one bite of pork chop have been eaten.  I’m not budging.  Nate “mistakenly” loses a blueberry on the floor.  I bend down to retrieve it, poke my head back up above the table and the meat is gone.  “Great job Nate!  You have to eat some dinner if you want to get a treat.  We don’t just eat cookies for dinner.”

James passes by the table as he’s cleaning up the dishes, “Hey.  Isn’t that the bite he was supposed to be eating?”  And there it is.  In the split second when I was under the table, Nate’s flung the meat onto someone else’s plate so as to avoid detection.  He almost pulled one over on me, big time.

Toilet Talk

I think I’ve mentioned, Nate is very musical.  As Miss Letti would say, “he’s got music in his soul.”  And so he likes to make up songs and sing them, especially at the dinner table when he’s pretending to ingest healthy comestibles.  His funny bone is unfailingly tickled by potty mouth songs that always go something like, “Peanut butter and jelly.  Mama bottom.  Mama BOTTOM.”  Everything that’s funny ends in “bottom.”  Especially if you’re singing it.  Plus, my kids aren’t allowed to say “butt.”  Look, I’m hoping to stave off the inevitable buttface and worse… for as long as possible.  So if I have to be the bottom of his two-year-old jokes, so be it.  Honestly, his giggles are so contagious that I have trouble keeping a straight face.

Toddling

When I tell Natesy how cute he is he tells me, “No, I BIG Boy.”  Apparently big boys are not cute.  And before when he used to just give me a kiss, turn over and lights out… now, he’s learning the fine art of the sleepy time stall.  His big bro is the master.  “Where my agua go?”  And then I get his agua.  “Where my Superman go?”  And I get his hard plastic Captain America.  “Where my piece?”  No, our little Hell’s Angel doesn’t sleep with a gun.  Or even a pretend gun.  His “piece” is Captain America’s shield.  But his latest thing is for me to cuddle with him in his darkened room and then to lay him in his crib and kiss him goodnight.

I bury my face deep in his warm blond curls and feel his breathing on my chest.  We hold hands and sit quietly and I would give just about anything to stop time.  Forever.

Our little rebel.

It appears I make rash, questionable decisions early in the morning.  Specifically in the 6:00 hour.  And maybe more specifically when it comes to The Facebook.

You may remember I joined the social network almost exactly three months ago, with the sole purpose of helping my dad create a group of people that he can invite to Happy Valley’s 150th birthday party… planned for 2015?  I’m not entirely sure.  Like I said, it was really early.

So I get on the FB and I need to get used to it before I do advanced, fancy things like making groups or pages or contacting people from the fourth grade, right?  I look around and can’t seem to find “the wall” I’ve heard everyone talking about.  Plus it wants me to put movies I’ve watched under my profile… A) I grew up in BFE, miles away from any Blockbuster and B) Now I only get to watch Tivo’ed versions of old Pixar movies.  This would not be a good use of time.  More importantly, it would just further bolster James’ case of my pop culture ignorance.  Back-off Buddy.  I may have missed Footloose, but I’m a child of the forest and I know how to make a mean lizard noose out of rattlesnake grass.

So I’m kind of wading around in the shallow end of the Facebook pool.  I’m cool with my water wings and my timeline and my sprinkling of friends.  It appears many of my closest friends are also technology late adopters/laggards/Instagrannies.  This is probably an entirely different post requiring further analysis…

So I’m wading around and then I see this 20 foot high dive platform at the other end of the pool and I’m like, “Yes.  It’s 6am and I think I’ll start a group for my high school class reunion a year and a half from now.  And what the heck… while I’m at it, I’ll start the group for Happy Valley since that’s the whole reason I’m looking at this website at 6:22am on a Tuesday.”  But instead of just jumping off the platform, I’d say yesterday was more like that movie, Wild Hearts Can’t be Broken.  I jump off that high dive.  On a horse.  Aiming for a bucket of water.

And the high school group reaches 75 members in a day and it seems like magic.  But of course my technology laggard friends have all sorts of statistics and benchmarks that bring out my competitive nature.  The class four years before us got 166 people to join their reunion group.  And our graduating class had 247 (how does she know this?).  Alas, I did not make my goal of 100 in a single day, but I got pretty close.  If this was swimming lessons, I might even get an O-fish-al Seahorse ribbon for effort, or most improved.  No one really wants the most improved award though, do they?

I have to say, all of this swimming around on Facebook makes me feel a little bit dirty.  I don’t know why— is that strange?  If you’ll excuse me, I think I need a shower.  Which reminds me of one of my favorite Halloween costumes of all time— Karate Kid, anyone?

See James.  I also do an impressive crane kick… Pashaw.

No, that’s not the title of our latest discipline program— that’s the reason I’ve become an erratic blogger.  Though it seems in the last two weeks someone has clued Nate into the whole concept of the terrible two’s and so perhaps… this theme will continue.

But let’s get back to the point.  Every night I think… should I blog about the latest goings-on of this pack of preschoolers, or, should I veg out on musical meth montages?  Clearly I’ve been choosing door number two.

I began watching the series for work.  I kid you not!  My boss and every other person I work with was constantly referencing this show about a high school chemistry teacher who gets cancer and goes into methamphetamine production to pay for his medical bills and then inflates his ego in the process and is now a full-blown megalomaniac.  I mean, my friend Toni posted something on Facebook that said Tighty Walter Whiteys and I actually knew what she meant.  Me.  New user of The Facebook.  In any case, it falls into the realm of my job in that 1) it involves oncology and 2) it’s a classic example of the failures of the managed healthcare market and the challenges of the uninsured.  So, it’s totally research for work.  Totally.

There are just two problems with this new evening pastime, besides that it’s affecting my blogging:

First, I have to man the remote control on high alert.  I’m constantly turning down the volume and then turning it up and then muting it and then hoping it’s safe and then turning it up again.  This violent series is going to ruin the volume button for sure.  Jacob can quote “hear everything” from the back of the house and lord knows, we don’t need any additional inspiration for “shooting” or new unsavory vocabulary from little ears that may still be listening because, “I don’t sleep.”

Second, ever since I started watching this series I see drug addicts everywhere.  True, I spent a bit of time on the streets of downtown Portland recently.  But, dude.  Now they’re on the platform at CalTrain and spending too much time in that handicap stall in that public restroom.  Honestly, I can’t wait for it to be over so I can get back to my safe and sparkly Project Runway and Top Chef.  I’d much rather see fashionistas and tattoo’d foodies everywhere.

Fortunately, the latest advertising claims, “All bad things must come to an end.”  Someone better let Nate know there will not be a Season 6.  Seriously.

Back in the summer of 2007 BK (before kids), we took a one night roadtrip to Portland.  And we fell in love.  With Portland that is.  We were already in love.

It’s like an east coast city on the west coast.  I’m surprised my parents didn’t land there as it feels like Pennsylvania with mountains and forests and rivers with actual water.  It has beautiful architecture— adorably maintained old bungalows and yards without fences and brick buildings that have been renovated to capture that exact balance of industrial, lofty chic.  And some of the best old house fixtures and lighting available in the US of A.  All that good east coast stuff PLUS all the great hippy dippy offerings of my beloved Santa Cruz: farm to table restaurants, locally produced gourmet eats, that give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses atmosphere.  And did I mention a major fixation on good beer and good coffee?  Right up our alley.  And yes, we’ve only been there during the sunny season.

So, when my job took me to Portland last week, we extended our weekend and stepped blindly off the James’-first-solo-flight-with-two-preschoolers cliff.  To be fair, I did pack all their stuff and bring it with me, book the flights, rent the stroller, plan the vacation, and screw-up the car rental with car seats.  Four out of five ain’t bad.

I’m told the boys received an A+ rating on their flight out.  I’d give Nate a C for the ride home.  In any case, a play-by-play of our Portlandia adventure:

Friday PM: Early evening arrivals of Team Testosterone.  Pile into the rented stroller and hike up the street to a restaurant I’d scouted early that morning on my hunt for ever obscure donut flavors.  Found an artisanal pasta restaurant with a stack of exceptionally tall high chairs.  The boys devoured their handcrafted spaghetti and meatballs like nobody’s business.  James had spaghetti carbonara and I had a salad (given Thursday night’s dinner, more on that later, and my donut dining early that morn).  The restaurant, Grassa, is located just across the street from a below-average parking garage named after my maternal grandmother: Rosenbaum Plaza.  The Rosenbaum part, not the Plaza part.  Unfortunately the restaurant’s name becomes more important later in this story.

Saturday, 2AM: James is gripped by some kind of food poisoning plague.  La Grassa.

Saturday, 8Am: The little boys and I wake-up and make a pilgrimage back to donut heaven, Blue Star.  I kind of pretend that I wasn’t there yesterday.  I pick out salted caramel, Jacob orders Valrhona chocolate crunch, and Nate points to the blueberry bourbon basil which I had the day before.  Bourbon for my two-year-old?  Sure thing.  Especially if alcohol evaporation is a myth.

The day before I also tried the passion fruit with cocoa nibs.  I did restrain myself by eating half of two donuts and donating the rest to a hungry man on the sidewalk.  That said, managing the eating of donuts with two kids perched on tall stools in a really hot, yet hip, bakery was a new skill I’ve perhaps, not yet mastered.  Nate took one look at the choice he made and gobbled up my caramel delight.  It was phenomenal.  I always pick the best stuff.  It’s just a fact, James.  I mostly had blueberry again.  Still good but a little light on the bourbon.  I don’t know what Valrhona crunch is, but Jake made me wipe it all off so he could just lick the chocolate.

We then walk to a coffee shop I’ve heard is good called Case Study.  Highly recommend.  Then I push my pushy cargo around town looking for a park.

Thanks to my trusty iPhone, we head to a playground in the middle of… Homelessville.  Is that PC?  After navigating through piles of litter and plein air campers, we made it to the “off-limits” playground part of the North Park Blocks.  It seems sleeping on slides is frowned upon.  There, we met a nice family from Berkeley and a set of grandparents visiting from Connecticut.  The boys played for almost two hours.  Jacob can now swing from monkey bar to monkey bar, who knew?  Nate can do just about everything Jake can do, but at half the speed.

Saturday, 11AM: We return to our hotel, three hours after we’d left and Daddy proclaims he has just taken two Tylenol PMs, turns over, and ignores us.  He has succumbed to La Grassa.

We put on baby bathing suits, get back into the four-wheeled rickshaw and I cart them across town to my favorite fountain in the world.  Aptly located in Jamison Square.  Aptly named?  Tell me more…

Back in the BK, James and I stumbled upon this square… and a hundred kids swimming in its fountain.  In their underpants, in their diapers, in their clothes.  It’s so cool.  The park is built like a big bowl-shaped pond with blocks of rocks at one end that act like little water falls.  Over the course of five or ten minutes the water rushes down the rocks, filling up the chlorinated “pond” while kids splash and swim around in maybe 18 inches of water.  Then the water slowly drains out until it’s empty and starts all over again.  Last time we were there we thought that if we had kids we would definitely bring them back to play in this fountain.  And the boys loved it, just as I’d hoped… Jaimie’sSons.

Then we spent one of our prized eating opportunities at a place called Hot Lips Pizza.  A Portland Pizza My Heart if you will.  Surprisingly good, despite the name and weird 80’s lipstick logo.  The boys devoured giant, floppy slices the size of their faces.

Then back across town for nap time in the dark room of carbonara death.  Must have been the undercooked egg?

Saturday PM: We rally James to get some fresh air, pile into the rental SUV and make our way to Washington Park, up in the hills.  I had gone on a run on Wildwood Trail with some work colleagues and seen a promising looking playground.  This park is empty during the week, and a mad-house on the weekend.  I take the boys to the playground while James meditates in the car.  We see the same Connecticut grandparents and their granddaughter from Homelessville.  We’ve already made friends in Portland!

Saturday PM: Everyone is too tired to leave the room.  Jake and I set out on a food truck expedition.  I’ve already eaten one of the best sandwiches of my life earlier in the week and decide, why mess with a good thing?  Jacob is so tired he can barely walk three blocks and has to sit on the sidewalk by the food trucks like a runaway in training.  We have a grilled cheese picnic in our hotel room.  My Bread and Broth Oaxacan carne asada grilled cheese sandwich with spicy tomato dipping sauce is just as amazing the second time around.  Seems they’re always out of soup so really, they should just change their name to Bread.

Sunday AM: James wakes up a new man.  And has missed almost half his vacation so we have to double down on adventure.  We hit Case Study again but I’m sorry, I cannot eat donuts three mornings in a row.  We then go all the way to the Northeast side of town to play at Peninsula Park.  Teeter-totters, a formal rose garden… unfortunately, no grandparents from Connecticut.  In the rose garden Nate exclaimed, “Oooh bootiful!”  We had to drag Jacob away… in order to go to Rejuvenation‘s headquarters.  Unfortunately, the sell out to Williams-Sonoma continues to disappoint.  In 2007 we made a pilgrimage just to visit this store.  It’s no longer a must see.  I can easily get my fix in Berkeley.

Then we drove across town to make a pilgrimage to my new favorite Rejuvenation replacement: Schoolhouse Electric.  Weird part of town.  Great store.  Plus the boys had a memorable time racing up and down their loading dock for half an hour.

Sunday PM: As if we hadn’t done enough, we decided to drive back up the mountain to Washington Park to visit the Japanese Garden.  A lovely place.  Nate took his nap at the Rejuvenation cafe.  Jake chose the tranquility of a waterfall and koi pond.

Then we headed back down the hill to the trendy NW 23rd Avenue.  An interesting, sustainable meal at Bamboo Sushi.  (Guess the Japanese garden inspired this?)  Followed by waiting in line for half an hour at Salt & Straw.  I was told it was good but overrated.  Accurate assessment.  The same as Penny Creamery but a line around the block!  I did enjoy my goat cheese marionberry habanero ice cream.  Of course I had to get the weirdest sounding thing on the menu.  It was pretty freakin’ good.

Monday AM: Fortunately, a fairly uneventful trip home.  We had a long walk to the “medium-term” parking at SJC.  Jake invented a new form of transportation where he holds onto the big green suitcase, on his stomach, and picks up his feet.  Nate fits on my overnighter.

Seems all that time on the street in Portland has made them more resourceful.  Good thing because we will definitely be back.

Yesterday I was on the train, luxuriating in the fact that I had a brand new digital magazine to read.  I came across an article about Vermont and some amazing looking artisanal cheese and started daydreaming about how we’ve always wanted to do the old New England road trip in the fall, to take in the changing leaves.  Inn hopping and quiet drives down country lanes and pulling over on a whim to try the local marmalade or poke around that promising antique barn.

And then I was struck by this insane sense of pressure in my chest.  Followed by a wave of anxiety and mental calculations.  Does Jakey go to school next year?  In the fall?  Am I about to get on that “school-aged kids” train where vacations are dictated by a calendar that drives us straight into unbearably hot weather, unending crowds, and inflated prices?  Have I somehow missed the one autumnal season in my entire foreseeable future when we won’t have that gorilla on our back I formally refer to as Homework?

I feel this may be a major error in my familial job performance… my bonus is clearly in jeopardy.  Wait, what’s my bonus again?  Oh yeah— healthy, resilient, well-balanced children.  And a Cartier watch?  One can dream…

Speaking of dreams, we just returned from a wonderful trip to Portland which I intend to write more about later.  In a nutshell, the boys seem to have just summited that place where they can be strapped into a flying tin tall boy and hypnotized by moving pictures so as to make the idea of going on a more distant vacation relatively plausible.

My mental calculations unfortunately resulted in the realization that my autumnal fantasy should have been planned so as to fall… this fall.  As in next month.

Serendipitously, Jacob proclaims to me last night, “Mom, I’m going to go to kindergarten!”  We’ve talked a bit about this, but not a lot.  He’s just moved up to the classroom where many of the kids are transitioning off to big kid school this month.

Later in the evening, as he’s trying to eek out every last moment before bedtime, he begins an ambitious “house building” project with chairs and super capes and a butterfly net gate.  As I remind him that it’s book reading time in two minutes, he says, exasperated, “Ah Mom, you’re so oooold.”

Right back atcha punk.  Too bad you’ll be doing homework in the confines of a B&B while I’m enjoying scones and fall foliage.

It’s been a week of many highs and lows… and it’s only Wednesday.

Victory: Monday morning I heard Jacob wake-up and use the bathroom.  Then after several minutes of silence, I got scared he was cutting his own hair or drinking mouthwash.  Turns out he had crawled back into his bed.  This has never happened before.  A mini parenting miracle.

Victory: A big meeting at work went really well.

Defeat: Then an unexpected conversation at work.

Victory: We strategically planned spaghetti dinner night and kid in-home haircut night on the day before the cleaning lady comes.  Brilliant.

Defeat: I had to wrestle Nate into submission to get his hair cut while he sobbed and resisted and cried, “I don’t yike it.  I don’t yike it!”  To my embarrassment, he hit Toni, couldn’t be bribed with cookies or a new truck, and left me a snot-and-blond-curl-covered mess.  Now before you go freaking out about the trauma he may have endured, let me just say that I mentally calculated all possible alternatives while simultaneously whispering sweet nothings in his ear and constraining him in a knee-lock:

1) Let him go and then do this all over again in two weeks

2) Continue the knock down drag out match and shave his darling hair completely off

3) Take him to a kid barber and let him thoroughly embarrass me in public, rather than in the comfort of my own home

4) Or just grow his hair indefinitely and at some point, change his name to Natalia

I opted for option 5) Traumatize my child until he’s sweaty and exhausted and then lavish him with compliments about how cute his hair looks and stuff him with spaghetti.  Top it off with a new, unbroken cookie to ease the pain.  Plus, I’d already written the check.

Victory: I put Jake to bed and was not required to return a half dozen times.

Defeat: In the middle of the night I heard my name.  Jake had his first significant nighttime accident after a dream about peeing in the pool.  I’ve told him before, no p in the ool.  We fumble around in the dark, change his pajamas, and he crawls into our bed.

Victory:  I tell him he has to go straight to sleep and there will be no kicking of Daddy.  He complies.

Defeat: The kid is a furnace.  I am too hot and can’t fall back asleep on the balance beam that has become my side of the bed.

Defeat: As I’m crawling into the top bunk, back in Jake’s room, my knee lands on the handle of his butterfly net which pops up like a rake and hits me in the face.  I set the alarm on my iPad and cuddle it in the fetal position.

Victory: I thought I’d turned my alarm off, but my dutiful husband comes to wake me up.  I hear him come to the door, then go to the living room, then come back and look in Jake’s room, and then leave again.  For a split second I’m sure he thinks, “She wouldn’t sleep in her car, would she?”.  I peek over the side and he finally sees me… after his delightfully uninterrupted night’s sleep.

Tag, you’re it.

Do you remember the day… after you’d read two or three Harry Potter books… when you found out (to your great relief), that it wasn’t pronounced Herm-ee-own?  Me, too.  It was like a powerful weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I’d been having such trouble relating to a girl with a name like Herm-ee-own.  I mean really, it conjures pictures of a balding Mr. Magoo or something.

But Her-my-o-nee.  Now that’s different.  Pretty.  Like an anemone or Persephone.  That’s a child witch I can get behind.

I remember a similar revelation after years of reading fashion magazines.  It’s been probably two decades that I’ve been reading articles about an intangible mystery exercise: Py-lates.  And then, maybe five years ago, someone clued me into: Pi-la-tees…. still conjuring images of some kind of Plato Socrates mash-up.

So after years of watching my exercise routine dwindle down to one precious soccer game per week and a twice daily hike to and from the train station to save $50 on a monthly parking pass, I’ve been going to a weekly Pilates class after our swim lessons.

So far I kind of like it.  You don’t really sweat, but your muscles hurt for at least two days, so it seems like I’m getting my money’s worth.  If you’re still wondering what it is exactly… I’ve surmised after a month that it’s a lot of tightening your core and relaxing your shoulders and concentrating so that the teacher doesn’t spend all her time correcting your form.  Plus sometimes you get to go on this big machine called The Reformer.  Which, frankly, I just like the idea of striking a Wonder Woman pose and declaring, “Out of my way.  That’s my Reformer.”  I might even invest in some of those fancy lemon meringue pants all the yuppy yoga moms wear.

Every Saturday Jakey asks me, “So, how was Killates?”

I think he may be onto something.

Nathaniel is just coming up on two and a half years old.  As you can see, I am not one of those parents with a 30 month old child.  Puhleeze.

Now he has been quite the verbal super star of late.  Going from his little observant self to Mr. Talky Talkerson.  “Mama, where’d Jakey go?  I don’t find him… Right back.”

He is especially into telling us what he likes and does not like.  “I need more cheese.  No, A LOT.”  This is in reference to the sprinkling of Parmesan, or the sprinkling of powdered sugar.

Yesterday we went to Old Navy for some summertime pajamas and as we were crossing the parking lot, Nate points to a bright blue car as it passes us.  “Oooh.  I yike that one.  That a Coool Car.”  Fortunately the driver overheard this evaluation and gave us a friendly smile.  I think it was a Ford Focus.

Today at the grocery store, Natesy continued to tell me all about what he likes and what I like.  “I love chicken.  You love chicken, too, Mama.”

And a week or two ago I was changing his diaper and he tells me.  “I LOVE boobs.”

Yep, that’s what he said.

I spend a lot of time telling stories.  Reading them, writing them, and coming up with ones I can “tell with my mouth.”  Every night Jacob challenges me to dig up a new, untold story he’s never heard before.

It started out with just stories about pets I had when I was little.  Which did last awhile as I clearly remember a second grade assignment requiring me to report-out on our twenty-one pets.

The best story I’ve told JJ int this genre is the story of our little farm poodle, Boogie Boo, and how she would run around, barking furiously at our pony, Apache.  Then she’d leap up and bite the hair on his tail, whereby he’d swing her around until she flew off… unscathed.  This particular story was a major hit with my audience as it involved woofing and neighing and flying.

But alas… my aged brain can no longer remember every waking moment with each of our chickens, cockatiels, bunnies, and kittens.  I’ve had to move on to plain old “stories about when I was little.”  I do take some creative license with the term little… basically anything that happened before Jacob was born.

Recently he likes to implore me to tell him sad stories.  I know this is a bad idea.  He is plagued by nightmares and is allergic to sleep.  Yet, once, well maybe twice, I was talked into it.

I told him my very sad story about the untimely demise of Granny Goose by way of a pick-up truck in reverse.  I’m sure this is still too fresh for Grandma to be reading… probably close to 20 years ago and yet it still puts my stomach in knots.  And then of course Jakey was so sad that I needed to tell him a happy story to get the sad story out of his mind.  “Mama, make it go out of my head!”

So, to save my story-telling stature, I quickly swooped-in with the story of our second goose, Lucifer, so-named as he was the devil incarnate.  This is also a hit with my preschool patron as it involves Daddy talking to Granddad while sitting on the patio.  And then Lucifer sneaking-up behind Daddy and biting him venomously on the bottom.  Whereby Daddy swats the villainous gander in the head and gets yelled at by Granddad for poultry persecution.

After this story Jakey tells me, “Mama, it’s still in my head.  Make it go out!”

“I can’t make it go out.  I told you I shouldn’t tell you a sad story.”

“Use my off switch Mom… I have an off switch.”

“Ha!  I’ve been looking for that since the day you were born.”

Back in late May we took a family trip to the San Francisco zoo.  It was one of our best visits to date.  Uncle Geoff and Auntie An-la-la and Baby Devon all came, too— Devon’s inaugural visit.

The zoo had a baby tiger that came running to eat a big steak when his mommy roared for him.  The four-year-old gorilla came up and banged on the glass right in front of us, and then threw dirt at his mom.  Really it was dirt.  She immediately put him in primate time out.  No joke.  And of course the daddy gorilla peered deep into my soul.  As he always does, posted as family lookout.  Even the bears were out and about.  It was the first time we’ve gone to the zoo and all of the animals were actually visible and not hiding in their heat-lamp tanning beds hidden from us looky-loos.  It was a completely different experience when compared to our first and last trip to the Oakland zoo.  Let’s just say I think I paid $8 to eat a bowl of dogfood for lunch.  Of course I ate it.  I was starving.

But the very best part of our last zoo visit was a four-week old baby giraffe.  She was possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.  And… she started running and chasing birds around the pasture.  Perfectly silent, and yet as menacing as a toddler can be.  If she could have roared, I know she would have.

And speaking of roaring… last week I was nominated as first shift for nighttime book reading.  Natesy quickly produced a book about a lion.  That’s right, a lion.  I read the entire thing, substituting lilon, and by the end he was back to lilon.  Roooooaaaar!  Thank goodness.

But the next day he woke-up and had doubled-down on lion as being the true and credible pronunciation.  There’s no convincing him now.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  Lilon is gone for good.

Honestly, I think a little piece of me has died.

Mew.