wild*life

I’m afraid of grapes.  And hot dogs.  Mini blind cords give me pause.  Basement steps; restless.  And thoughts of unfenced pools?  I can’t even talk about it.

Yesterday we put plastic up in the two doorways to the kitchen.  Anyone who has remodeled does not harbor delusions of dust obstruction.  It’s symbolic really… slow the dirt down.  The only problem?

Nate is petrified.  Of plastic.  It’s been billowing a bit due to drafts from the open kitchen ceiling and floor.  Last night Nathaniel couldn’t even taste his spaghetti he was so scared.  He cried and struggled in his high chair to escape and needed an escort to get down the hall.  James put on his shoes and walked him around to the kitchen so he could see what was behind the plastic ghost.  We touched it.  We reassured him.  We yelled at it.  Nuh uh.

He watched us eat dinner from the safety of the living room couch, peaking over the back.  Probably imagining some monster would devour us at any moment.

I just recently read that logic and rationalization are useless, and little kids are not capable of facing their fears.  Tonight he still had a tough time enjoying dinner— he only ate three pieces of Maui Wowie.  He yelled, “Deedee, deedee!” pointing at the plastic and running to the safety of the living room.  But, he did get down the hall by himself with some verbal encouragement and by creeping along the opposite wall and then running gingerly past.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll throw some grapes at it.

On our honeymoon, James and I went to Rome and stayed at Hostel Panda for a night or two.  They seem to have changed the name to Hotel Panda, but let’s just be clear, it’s a hostel.  One of the nicer ones I’ve stayed at, especially in Rome, but that doesn’t negate the communal bathrooms.  Then when we were tired and grimy and desperate for pampering, we were welcomed into the warm, elegant embrace of Albergo del Senato, sipping prosecco from the beautiful rooftop, within spitting distance of the Pantheon.  Spitting at the Panda?  Sure.  Spitting at Senato?  No way Giuseppe.

One of the most important lessons we brought home from that trip (besides, if you aren’t eating gelato multiple times a day, you’re not trying hard enough) was that the lap of luxury is so much better, after the lap of austerity.  Clean sheets, towels, your own private toilet… all infinitely better.

So this entire Italian preamble is simply to announce: Today is D Day.  As in de-mo-li-cion.

Our kitchen has been reduced to a pile of plaster dust and numerous super-sketch wires protruding from the walls.  The number of fire hazards uncovered has me thinking about swallowing medicinal sleeping aids so that I’ll actually be able to close my eyes without visions of ripping out the drywall in our entire old house.

In my blissed-out state of envisioning the possibilities of the new kitchen: big, clean cupboards to the ceiling, a real-sized fridge, more than 4 inches of counter space, a microwave above the grasp of little hands, a white sink that is actually white, and drawers that don’t leave sawdust on our kitchen utensils when opened…

I was rudely awakened by reality.  (Does reality awaken you any other way?)  Remodeling involves packing-up all the things you’ve expertly wedged into every nook and cranny, a.k.a. MOVING.  Almost exactly three years ago I had a life-changing epiphany: I hate moving.

Plus, our food preparation facilities now consist of a microwave and a fridge and some boxes of plastic odds and ends in our dining room, a.k.a. FANCY CAMPING.  After our last kiddo camping trip, I swore-off toddler camping for an undetermined number of years.

So we’re in a place of moving/fancy camping.  If our old kitchen was Hotel Panda… this might be the hostel I stayed at over by the Stazione Termini.  The one with tons of cats that was so insufferably hot I had fitful dreams of ripping my shirt off until I realized I was sharing a coed room with acquaintances.  Ah, the joys of backpacking in college.

Si, bon giorno, Albergo del Senato?  Do you have any availability?  At least three weeks?  (dial tone…)

Last night I had the following exchange as I passed out pre-bedtime sippy cups of milk.

“Hey, Jake.  Here’s your baba.”

“Thank you Princess Mama.”

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

Today I received a text from Nate’s teacher telling me she needed to talk to me about his behavior.  Could I talk at 1?  Of course, I can talk at 1.

The whole morning I’m imagining what it could be.  It’s like the dreaded walk to the principal’s office.  At 19 months, he’s just transitioned up to the next classroom, which we fondly refer to as “Lord of the Flies Class”… ever since the era when it devolved into a crazy bitefest and Jake was admitted into a pack of roving, gnashing toddlers.

My mommy brain was churning.  Is it biting?  Pushing?  Hitting?  (Nathaniel bashfully hit me earlier this week.  Yes, bashfully.)  Maybe he’s disobeying everything they say and laughing in their faces?  (We wouldn’t be even remotely shocked if this was the case.)  Is he in trouble for standing on tables?  Repeatedly jumping in the air and landing on his bottom?  Spitting?  Throwing.  It’s totally throwing.  That kid is a sand-throwing menace to society.

She calls me exactly at 1.  On the dot.

So, what is Nathaniel’s call inducing behavior?  Sitting in another teacher’s lap too much and getting her to constantly hold him.

Honestly, I feel like I dodged a bullet.

When Jacob was little he spoke quite a bit of Spanish.  Some of his first words were musica (music), baila (dance), oso (bear), pan (bread) and agua (water).  He even pronounced agua with the right accent (sounds like awa), though now he’s somehow picked-up the non-native hard “g.”  Go fiyure.

A few weeks ago we were touring a house in Santa Cruz with Alesia, Charles, Eleanor and Gallagher.  Gallagher is the most polite, stately French bulldog you’ll ever meet.  I wouldn’t be remotely surprised if someone told me he is descended from royalty.  OK, so a few weeks ago, Jake is leading Gallagher around this old Victorian home and Gallagher is calmly taking all of the bossing and leash pulling in his usual regal nonchalance.  James overheard Jacob on the porch, “Come on Gallagher.  Andale!”

It made me happy to hear he’s still got some Spanish bouncing around in his vocabulary.  Then, one afternoon last week he told James they had pumpkins at school.

“You know Daddy, ‘jack-o-lantern’ is Spanish for ‘pumpkin.'”

“Really?  Isn’t that just what you call it when you carve a pumpkin?”

“Nope.  It’s Spanish for ‘pumpkin.'”

Bueno?  Mmmm, asi asi.

So today I went trekking through Garagelandia… a remote and generally overlooked part of Balconia.  I encountered numerous ruins.  The remains of previous lives such as golf clubs and mountain bikes…  And as I was sifting through the detritus, I felt the metal shelves begin to buckle.  I found myself bracing my entire body weight against shelves piled high with ceramic flower pots, fertilizers, paint cans, boxes of extremely heavy (and expensive) tile, and at the tippety top of the mountain, a menacing electric hedge trimmer.

I couldn’t yell for help.  There was no one to hear me, except maybe our eighty-year-old neighbor, Martha.  Sweat dripped in my eyes.  I felt my leather gardening gloves begin to slip.  Stay calm.  Evaluate my options:

1) Push with all my might and then run toward the open garage door, praying that a giant toothed blade doesn’t hit me in the back of the head as I flee.

2) Stand here, paralyzed, hoping James comes home early.

3) Use my super powers.

With all my strength I somehow channel the powers of Super Jake and bend the shelf back toward the wall, hoping it will hold long enough for me to sprint away from the forthcoming avalanche.

Fortunately, I was able to evacuate the area unharmed.  It reminded me of watching Mulan with Jacob the last two weekends in a row.  We’re both still impressed with the half naked Huns that emerge after an entire night spent buried under an avalanche of snow.  They pop up like daisies.

I did not pop-up like a daisy.  My heart was beating in my ears.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  I decided I better get some water and calm down.

That’s when I figured out one of the natives had locked me out of the house.

There was a benign looking bag of gardening “vine food” in the exact shape of this rusted hole.  Little garage of horrors…

Jakey and Natesy received long overdue haircuts today from Toni.  If Nate were to title his home salon experience, he’d definitely go with Death by a Thousand Cuts.

Little does he know, it could be worse.  His daddy has a Flowbie.

I’ve just arrived and as I’d hoped, Balconia is perfect this time of year.  Today I enjoyed the local offerings of various artisans and craftsmen, as well as a provincial eatery.  This is the life…

Tonight is officially sabbatical eve.  In just two short days I’m off to Balconia for all of October and November.  I.  Can’t.  Wait.

“Balconia, where is that?” people say.  It sounds so exotic.  So romantic.  So secluded.  Is that near Estonia?  The Balkans?

Balconia is apparently what you say when you’re from Germany and you go to your balcony.  So much better than a staycation, don’t you agree?

And I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year.

I’d say it’s time for a rundown of what 18-month-old Big Boy Nate is saying these days.  We’ve got, in alphabetical order: agua, all done, apple, baba, ba(ll), bir(die), boo(k), button, bye-bye, dada, ho(t), JJ, mama, nigh-nigh, upordown, up, and mo(re).  Plus we get tongue clack galloping (when asked what a horsey says).  And canine-esque panting (when asked what a doggie says).  He’s completely forgotten his sign for “more”, which as you may recall, was actually the sign for “you owe me…. now pay up.”  The only sign language left seems to be the “all done” jazz hands.

Two weekends ago, James was sitting on the side steps drinking an Italian grapefruit soda.  Of course the baby birdie wanted some.  His thirst was insatiable.  James says, “Show me the sign.  Show me the sign, Nate.”  This request used to result in the “more” hand gesture.

So James keeps saying it and saying it until finally, Nate looks at the soda, pumps his fist at it in frustration and then points into his open mouth.

James is just lucky… there’s a different hand gesture that comes to my mind.