wild*life

So Natesy’s fear of lilons has been quite the roller coaster.

Maybe a bit over a month ago we were playing in the backyard and Nate would point over the fence to the neighbors yard, “Lilon?”

“No, no lilon.”

Then he’d point to the side yard, “Lilon!”

“No, no lilon.”

At one point he was standing directly in front of me and pointing to thin air, “Lilon?”  I must admit, the question did cross my mind as to whether two-year-olds can be stricken by Ritz cracker-induced hallucinations…

Then when we went to Los Osos at the end of April, Nate was sure there were lions behind every closed mini-blind, dark corner, and definitely behind the surfboard propped in the corner of the guest room.

This past weekend we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  We were in the dark viewing room that has the enormous tank with sea turtles, hammerhead sharks, and stingrays.  Nate points into the dark depths, “Lilon!”  Then thought better of it, “No… no lilon.”  Clearly, lilons don’t really swim…

As we’re walking back out into the light he’s gripped by a new level of certainty.  “YEAH, LiiiiLon.”

“Where?  Where’s a lilon?”

“Ober dare!”  (Pointing back toward the darkness.)

Though I’d say the pinnacle of this obsession with lilons lurking in any and all dark or anxiety inducing situations peaked one night at dinner.  We were at San Pablo Square, waiting at the Vietnamese restaurant counter for Jacob’s order.  As we watched the head chef firing Jake’s noodles, Nate points at the friendly cook, “Lilon!”

Sometimes James and I overhear Nathaniel in his car seat mumbling to himself, “Lilon?  No lilon.  Lilon?  No lilon.”

I’m cutting off the crackers.

This evening I stopped by Safeway and bought the biggest ketchup they had.  I’m tired of always finding I can barely get a splattering for my scrambled eggs.  It says it’s 4 pounds of Heinz goodness… a half gallon.

I’m taking wagers on how long we think it will take us to dust this bottle?

I’m guessing it may get us through the summer.  Or maybe I should end that last sentence at May.

As hopefully everyone knows (we all have a mom, right?), yesterday was Mother’s Day.

I knew something good was about to happen because A) James got out of bed as soon as Jakey woke-up, which rarely happens and B) a short time later I heard the slap-slap-slap of Crocs in the backyard, which is the sound of The-Big-One fetching flowers for me off the one flowering bush out there in the concrete jungle.

I was soon greeted with my favorite morning surprise: Breakfast-in-bed.  And let me just tell you, if you’re ever looking for a way to win over a three or four-year old in one fell swoop— serve them breakfast-in-bed.  Jacob always asks me, “Mama, maybe when I get five you can bring me breakfast-in-bed?”  This morning I told him it’s highly probable, and then let him eat a muffin over a plate on the floor next to my bed.

So our breakfast-in-bed tray is a flat wooden crate that came with one of our Melissa and Doug toys.  Probably the wooden Velcroed fruit you get to slice with a wooden knife.  It holds a small plate and is also manageable enough that you can trust Jacob to carry it.

And what was I served for my lovely Mother’s Day treat?  At first I was completely unsure. There was a cup of hot tea, accompanied by a bowl of… Black beans with shredded mozzarella?

Turns out it was black forbidden rice pudding made with coconut milk and topped with shredded coconut.  Scrumptious.  Our new favorite breakfast/dessert.  Plus it is not something that preschoolers are scrambling all over you to chow down… Unlike bacon or anything served with ketchup.

Though I must note that we woke-up this morning and Jake was hell bent on serving his dad breakfast-in-bed because, well, it’s Monday.  There were leftovers so I served him the same thing except I folded his napkin like an airplane (I thought that added a manly counterpoint to our espresso cup bouquet of pink flowers).  When I came back to check on them, Nate told me, “Umm, Umm.  Nummy.”  Seems he’s interested in eating anything that is served in bed.

As I was eating JJ exclaimed, “Oh!  I forgot to make you a present.”  Last time I had breakfast in bed it also came with a wooden tin of pretend tunafish ensconced in a spare piece of wrapping paper.  I made sure he knew the flowerpot he made me at school was present enough.

We then went over the hill and had a lovely brunch outside at Grandma and Granddad’s house along with Geoff, Baby Devon and the Zings.  It was hot.  Jake and Nate stripped down to their skivvies, followed by their birthday suits (this is always the sequence of events), and spent what may have been several hours swimming in the dog water bowl.  Followed by a lot of random base running and a few hits off the baseball tee.

A perfect Mother’s Day indeed.

Have I ever told you about one of the best days of my life?

I think it was a Friday, I’m not entirely sure.  In any case, it felt like a Friday.  You know that Friday feeling.  I do know that I got on the train and instead of opening up a giant new 5 lb. macroeconomics textbook, I opened up a giant new 5 lb. Harry Potter novel. And I was in heaven.

It was the elation of pure freedom… something I rarely brush elbows with these days.  I’d finished the grad school quarter and was free to not study on weekends, to watch television at night, and to read pure witches and warlocks fiction to my heart’s desire.

I still remember Kristen telling me how she was on an airplane and an older gentleman next to her looked over and saw her cracking open her giant Harry Potter tome.  (It has to be good if you’re willing to lug that around on your travels, right?). He says to her, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for our children to be reading about witchcraft and sorcery.”  And in typical Kristen fashion, she says without missing a beat, “I’ve read the entire series and have yet to cast an effective spell.”

How I wish I had such in-the-moment wit at my disposal.

These days, I’m frequently reminded of my historical love affair with Harry Potter (the books, not the movies so much) as we use an exact phrase from the series almost daily: You-Know-Who.

In the book, the kids are forbidden from saying the bad guy’s name.  Something about if you say Lord Voldemort then he’ll come and get you.  So instead they’re always saying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who.

I noticed James and I also talk in code so as to avoid detection.  We’ll be driving in the car and James will check the rearview mirror, “You-Know-Who’s almost lights out.”  If you say his name, it’ll snap him out of the pre-nap trance and that kid’ll never go to sleep.  I’m talking about The-Big-One.  Another one of our simplistic code phrases.  They haven’t completely caught on to The-Big-One and The-Little-One.

The last two mornings in a row, The-Big-One showed up at my bedside at exactly 5:11 and 5:26am.  I tried my most focused and potent “Expelliarmus!” on him.

You-Know-Who was not phased.

Yes I know.  I told you not to read the warning on your bunk bed.  But I didn’t tell you not to read the warning on mine:

First up, the word entrapment freaks me out.  How can I fall asleep with visions of a bed that could silently squeeze the life out my most darling bambinos?  I prefer my entrapment of the Catherine Zeta-Jones variety.

Rule #1 is not to allow anyone under 6 years of age on the upper bunk.  Meanwhile, who really buys a bunk bed unless they have limited space and more kids than fit in said space?  And usually those kids are much younger than 6 when you need to begin stacking them on top of each other, literally.  So considering we let Jacob sleep up top at the ripe old age of 4, rule #1 is out the window.  Plus Nate climbs up there fast as a squirrel.  So Nate’s out the window, too.

Rules #2 and #3 are about the size and depth of your mattress.  When you buy a bed you really should always factor in the cost of the mattress, or in this case, mattresses, before determining if you can afford it.  Styrofoam peanuts or balled-up bathroom towels are not a replacement for a real mattress.  Got it.

Rule #4 is about using guardrails on both sides of the top bunk.  Fortunately we have that in place now.  I’ve removed the two Euro pillows stuffed into the window crevice that clearly were the stars in my mental movies of entrapment.

Rule #5 is the one I repeat most often: “Horseplay is prohibited on or under this bed!”  Maybe I have to repeat it so often because I’m not lecturing horses.  I’m disciplining monkeys.

Rule #6 says to prohibit more than one person on the upper bunk.  This rule is completely useless because I can’t enforce a hypocritical rule when I need to read books in the top bunk and climb up there to yank horses down for playing.

Rule #7 commands the use of the ladder to get up and down from the top bunk.  In less than 10 minutes Jacob realized he could easily climb up to the top bunk without the ladder.  This was an unfortunate realization.  Then there was about 30 seconds where he thought he was safely out of reach and immune to consequences.  We dispelled that right quick.  That was a fortunate realization.

Rule #8’s all about entrapment and walls again.  I think we’ve covered that nightmare sufficiently.  The editor of this label really should have considered combining #8 and #4.  I’m glad my job is not editing bunk bed labels.  Talk about nightmares…

Rule #9 says not to exceed 165 pounds on the upper bunk.  James uses this as his excuse not to read bedtime books up top.  Maybe I can fatten Jakey up and save myself the unflattering climb up and down.

And Rule #10 paints pictures of bunk bed strangulation via jump rope.

It’s a wonder any literate kid can fall asleep up there.

So I was going to write a day-by-day account of the pacifier weaning process.  But then life took over, the sun rose, the sun set, and one morning I woke up and realized a week had passed and I could confidently declare that the occupation is over and we’re withdrawing all troops.  Imagine the banner unfurling behind me in all it’s glory, but hopefully without the embarrassing aftermath of retractions and an additional decade of battles.  (Well, of course there will be a decade of battles… But hopefully not involving improvised pacifying devices.)

I feel obliged to recount this success story in great detail so that you, too, may one day wage a successful occupation against a tyrannical binky regime, should you in fact find yourself in a similar situation.

So day 1 was when the troops invaded by cutting a little hole in the pink nigh-nigh.  Or nah-nah, which is how Natesy first pronounced it.  That was Wednesday.

Thursday: I missed the drama via a late-night work dinner.  James rocked him to sleep.  This was probably the pinnacle of the DTs.  An unplanned but seemingly critical piece of the strategy.  You’re the General so don’t feel too bad… delegation is all part of effective leadership.

Colonel Fucillo reported that the target talks significantly more without a speech impediment device in his mouth.

Friday: I got the following picture from Miss Dulce with the accompanying text: I had to put him to sleep in my arms he was very upset he told me no nite nite and I sing a song and he say no a mama song so I had to make one and he fell asleep.  

(A Mama song?  She must have been referring to our old standby lullaby: Hut, 2 – 3 – 4, I don’t know what I’ve been told… I don’t know what I’ve been told… nigh-nighs aren’t for two-year-olds… nigh-nighs aren’t for two-year-olds.  Sound-off; 1 – 2; Sound-off; 3 – 4.  1 – 2 -3 -4; 1 – 2 — 3 – 4.)

Seems I forgot to recruit the school teachers into the pacifier detachment process… Minor tactical error.  She tried to give him a new one but he wouldn’t take it.  Puzzling… But in hindsight a clear sign the insurgency was losing ground.

Saturday: The boys went to Grandma and Granddad’s while James and I spent our 11th wedding anniversary eating braised short ribs in a school gymnasium for the annual “Be An Angel” charity dinner.  Surprisingly tastier than it sounds.  Of course Grandma tried to talk Nate into an intact nigh-nigh she had stashed away for just such a subversive opportunity.  If you’re even remotely surprised by this, you really don’t know Grandma.

Apparently he refused and said it was for Baby Deveen.  That’s how he says Devon.  I certainly never told him nigh-nighs were for babies so I’m not entirely sure where he gleaned this bit of intelligence.  Most likely the previous leader of this regime, Jacob Up All Nigh-Nigh.

Sunday: He asked for it when I put him in his car seat after grocery shopping.  I had the defective pink nigh-nigh at the ready.  But as soon as he had it he proclaimed “No nigh-nigh!” and threw it to the ground.  It was like he’d experienced a moment of weakness, regained his self-control, and defied his addiction outright.

Monday: He went down easily that night.  Kisses for Mama.

Tuesday: Tonight, the last words he whispered were, “No nah-nah.  No nah-nah.”

Mission Accomplished.  And in half the time.

Nate woke-up in his usual way this morning: flicking the light switch on and off and then knocking loudly until I finally put down my make-up brush and delivered the little prince, his baybit, and his nigh-nigh via his royal litter to the comfort of the warm spot in the bed which is rightfully mine.  All was right with the world.

At lunchtime I remembered to text James and ask him to cut a little hole in the pink nigh-nigh.  He wrote something about not wanting to take part in my premeditated baby torture.  How quaint… he thought he had a choice.

Apparently Natesy came home for his standard routine: curling up on the couch with his baybit and his nigh-nigh to watch Ononots (Octonots).  James handed him his nigh-nigh and he said, “Uh oh.  Uh oh.  Hole.  Hole.”  Then he told him, “No, no, no.  Udder one.  Udder one.”  First he looked in the hallway, then in the bathroom, then in our bedroom for a new nigh-nigh.  Then he wouldn’t watch any TV and just hung around James’ feet in a moody funk.  He tried to satiate his depression with a string of snack requests.

When I came home he was face down in the Pottery Barn Baby La-Z-Boy and didn’t even greet me with my daily, “Hel-lo Ma-Ma.”

When we finished up our night reading books in the bottom bunk, at one point Nate dropped the pink nigh-nigh over the side of the bed (because he’s just holding it in his hand, rather than having it in his mouth.)  We look and look and finally I see something under the toy crate.  It’s the two-tone green nigh-nigh that I haven’t seen in ages!  I quick pull a David Copperfield move and get it stuffed in the back pocket of my pants before he knows what’s happened.  We find the pink nigh-nigh right next to where the green one was.

He keeps saying to me, “Hole.  Hole.”

“Hmmmm?  Hole?  That’s OK.  I’m sure it still tastes the same.”

I laid him down in his bed and there was definitely a moment where it could have gone either way.  He looked alarmed and kept repeating, “Nigh-nigh?  Nigh-nigh?”  I quick plugged it in his mouth, told him it tasted just as good even with a hole, gave him a big kiss and got the heck out of there.

Remember, once an operation starts, there’s no turning back, Soldier.

Those of you who follow this blog may remember the great kitchen remodel of 2012.  No, that’s not the number of months it took, that’s the year it finally ended.  Or did it bleed into 2013?  Who can remember, my life is a blur.

Anyway, so part of that remodel was actually updating our laundry room and the adjacent half bath.  Yes dear guests, we do in fact have a guest bathroom!  Please visit it next time you’re over so I don’t feel obliged to throw 200 bath toys in the linen closet.  You’ll find the guest bathroom door just over the summit of Laundry Mountain.

In case you don’t recall, and you wouldn’t because most people didn’t even know we had a guest bath, the walls were tiled in pink and teal with black accents.  When we were making decisions on the remodel, we decided we’d go with just plain painted walls, nothing outrageous.  By that point in the process, we did in fact probably have enough tile given we still had boxes from our first bathroom remodel, but we were tired of fancy camping and starting to feel that sense of poverty that grips you toward the end of any enduring home renovation project.  So, James made the decision that we didn’t need to reinstall tile at chair rail height within the confines of this small bathroom’s walls.  He may refute this assertion, but I’ve taken over this blog and I document the stories as I remember them.

In the meantime, Little Nake is now Big Boy Nake.  And what do Big Boys do? (we hope) Develop an interest in that crazy porcelain bowl otherwise known as indoor-plumbing-and-the-best-thing-that’s-happened-to-people-in-modern-history-as-far-as-I’m-concerned.  Don’t challenge me on this, I will most likely fight you till the death.

So Big Boy Nake has been using the potty almost once a night for a number of weeks now.  This is real and tangible progress!  And we rarely give him chocolate!  Just a lot of high-fiving and cheering.

Only problem?  He’ll only go standing up.  (Boys.).  And in most instances it’s a little potty party with two well-intentioned, easily-distracted little boys dancing around the throne.

Let’s just say we definitely made a mistake in not tiling the walls.  BIG mistake.