No It All

On Tuesday I took Jacob to Dr. Lindsey’s to get his braces on.  I stand corrected, his Invisilign.  Only eighth graders in the ’20’s would have the option to unapologetically wear masks covering half their faces and have the option of clear teeth straightening.  It’s so unfair.

As I took him in to sit in the chair I most certainly declared, “I remember the day I got my braces on and it was one of the worst days of my life.”   I still stand by that statement.  I remember Dr. Matlack’s teenage teeth straightening factory.  And I remember him gluing the torture devices to my teeth toward the end of sixth grade so my dad didn’t lose his flexible spending account dollars.  Eye roll.  That night we went to Chinese food and I couldn’t even chew a grain of rice.  A grain of rice!  I was hangry and miserable and I let everyone know it.

Meanwhile the boys were at Kennolyn all of last week and Nate nonchalantly mentions how he lost a tooth.  Oh and Jake did, too.  Nate was smart enough to guard his lost tooth, combine it with two more that have been in a drawer, and was rewarded with a crisp 5 bucks from the fairy.  Jacob doesn’t know what happened to his tooth.

He thinks he spit his final loose tooth into the dirt.

In August of 2010 I made this list of goals:

1. With James, raise outstanding children.
2. Travel the world.
3. Build a house.
4. Own a business.
5. Give back.

I just left the county building with my arms filled with a huge pile of approved plans and after countless years, an official building permit.

I got into my car, rolled down the windows, and pulled out onto the street.  Mr. Jones started playing as if on queue.  I turned it up loud, let the tears run down my face, and drank it in.

Is it a problem when you’re getting dressed and you find yourself thinking, “Have I had this shirt longer than I’ve had Jacob?

Looks like I’ve answered my own question.

The topic of girls remains taboo in this house.  I’m fairly certain 51% of the world either doesn’t exist or is invisible, not unlike the rollback of our rights by 50 years.  But I digress… I’d never put my sons anywhere near that extremist club.

So girls are an unthinkable topic that of course I love to poke at on occasion.  A few months back I pressed it a bit with Nate and he whipped around snarling, “Well I’m not gay.”  Which I made abundantly clear is totally OK, more than OK, and that our family accepts whoever you love and makes you feel loved.

Today I’m pretty surprised when I pick Nate up at College for Kids and we’re still waiting for Jake.  Nate’s in the backseat and he says, “Mom, there’s this girl in my cooking class.”

“Oh yeah?”  I say casually.  Mentally rubbing my hands together in giddy anticipation.

“She smells like poop.  It’s teeeeerrible.  And she sits right behind me.”

There it is.  The girl talk I’m used to.

I recently watched a home design video professing the importance of a pantry to a well-run household and thus familial bliss.  I’m pretty certain Jacob-the-Bottomless-Pit would agree.

At the Park house we put a pantry cupboard in our laundry room when we renovated the kitchen.  We don’t have any pantry memories from that house as Jake was still on a liquid diet.  On Shasta we had one particular cupboard behind Nate’s high chair next to the dining room.  Basically there was a lot of milling around this cupboard, pointing and attempting to reach the out-of-reach latch that was probably only 3 feet high.  The boys were always picketing and protesting in front of this cupboard.  It’s where we kept the cookies.

Then we moved to the mountain house and the boys quickly mastered the power of moving chairs.  I put the major contraband as high as I could, but this strategy had a short lifespan.  We’d reached the point where you hope all the nutritional training on health and savoring would start to pay off.  At some point I’m hoping they go off to college and aren’t those kids only eating mountains of buttered noodles and cookies.

Now we’ve moved into the barn and it’s the closest thing we’ve ever had to a real pantry.  A wall of shelves with mostly food at eye level.  The challenge is that if there is any Bundaberg ginger beer, Jacob just can’t resist it.  It’s constantly evaporating, evidenced only by the recycling bin.  We’re talking about this over dinner and I’m like, “I can’t buy ice cream and Bundaberg every week because no one can resist it.  My options are to not buy it.  Lock it up.  Or hide it.  I have no other options.”

“Or you can just buy more,” counters Jacob.

I honestly had not considered that.  Sometimes I miss the power of a 3-foot cupboard latch.

Yesterday I finally escaped 12 straight days of lockdown.  12 days of single-parenting house arrest.  I reached my lowest point on the second consecutive Saturday of being trapped in pandemic prison.  I chose to go to Paso where it was 94 degrees and sweat it out in my car while Nate played back-to-back outdoor and indoor soccer games.  Anything to escape the mountain.  I passed some cash out the window to him and he brought me an ice cold Coke.  It was so good.  And now we’ve finally come out the other side.

Back when Jacob missed his chance to go to sixth grade camp, we went to Catalina.  And when Nate’s fifth grade field trip to the Monterey Bay Aquarium turned into a hike up Bishop’s Peak (hugest rip-off for the record), we went to Monterey.  Jacob made it back to the last day of seventh grade– just in time to get his yearbook, turn in his Chromebook, and then come home for me to feed him lunch… again.  It felt quite cosmically unfair that the person who got us into this mess was the first one to escape from it.

Unfortunately Nate never made it back to the last week of school, thus securing his classes’ inevitable loss in the final soccer playoff.  And missing the majority of Sex Ed.

Catalina, Monterey, the Red Light District of Amsterdam?

Yesterday morning before school, Nate informed me, with a bit of giddy trepidation, “Mom today’s the first day of sex ed.”  Love how they save possibly the most important part of the curriculum for the final eight days of school.  And yes, I did sign the permission slip and add three enthusiastic exclamation points next to the “Yes” checkbox.

So I’m pulling out of Laguna, on our way toward his school, “Nate, what’s the big deal?  You luh-uh-uuuuuhve talking about your private parts.”

“Yeah.  But not about the West Virginia.”

Then I say, “The West Virginia??  More like the South Virginia.”

And now we both think we’re so clever.

It’s that time of year where I write a special birthday letter within six months of your actual birthday.  Look at me… it’s only been two!  I’m such an over-achiever.  Let’s get down to it.  All the things that make eleven-year-old Nate tick.

My dear, dear Nate,

I’m not sure where to begin.  I describe you as fifth grade famous.  Everywhere we go, people know your name.  Baristas at Scout Coffee have stopped me to ask if I’m Nate’s mom.  Girls in the lobby of the hotel in Bakersfield.  Little boys from 5 Cities and Santa Barbara.  You aways know their names but inaudibly return their greetings.  We’re coaching you to be a louder form of friendly.

You eat, sleep, and breath soccer.  You’ve been playing close to five games every weekend for the entire winter and into the spring.  When you’re “resting” I find you’re watching soccer videos about the most epic players, and epic goals, and epic penalty kicks.  You know the names and ratings and nationalities of so many global players my head spins.

Unfortunately, you still like Fortnite.  There was a point during the pandemic where you’d OD’d on it and were done.  But then your friend got it and you’ve been sucked back in.  At least you still seem to choose the strong girl with pigtails and a pencil skirt as your go-to character.

If you’re not watching every game or goal on the internet, then you’re watching some guy called Spice King.  You love to challenge your inner spiciness and try anything.  I’m worried this will get you in trouble someday, but you just laugh mischievously in that invincible youngest sibling way of yours.  I expect to enter a restaurant and find you’ve challenged Coach Woods.  You’ll both be eating wings with your eyes swelled shut.  You recently introduced me to Tajin and boy were you right.  It’s the best.

When I got your report card I asked your brother, “What do you think Nate’s highest grade is in?  Without missing a beat he correctly answered, “PE.”  But you’re not just an athlete.  You brought home your east coast States test with a big 100% ¡Fantastico! written across the top.  The East Coast.  Jacob and I spent daaaays coming up with ways to memorize all the states and capitals, thanks primarily to the hours of pre-work Sarah and I put into it in eighth grade.  You and I didn’t even study.  “Oh hey Mom, I had my last states test today” he says nonchalantly.  We joke about three-year-old Nate saying, “I’m bewy smaht.  Mom I’m bewy smaht.”  And of course it’s true.

You’re still the last out of bed, the first to the breakfast table, and the last to the dinner table.  You’ve developed a newfound hatred of peas, possibly a genetic attribute inherited from Nonna.  Your top favorite foods are sushi, then orange chicken, and then fish tacos.  Dad recently pointed out you don’t really like chocolate candy.  You prefer treats like Sour Patch Kids and Takis.

This year we got another new principal and she’s already resigned.  Seriously.  I snorted out loud when I saw the ParentSquare message since she’s our third principal in six years.  Good thing because you are not a fan.  It started with a policy disagreement about the cutthroat training ground that is the Pacheco playground soccer field.  Apparently the King Nate vs. King Moi rivalry reached epic levels and she declared a ban on soccer– hiring a “coach” to run drills at recess and thus a mass exodus to the blacktop.  You’ve opted for basketball.  Little does she know this one decision may have lasting consequences for the future of the AYSO All Stars pipeline.  You kept emphasizing her “Karen” haircut.  Being labeled a Karen is one of the worst possible ratings you can get from the fifth grade.  I didn’t know it also came with a distinctive haircut but I googled it and yep, the YouTube generation has spoken.

This year you completely mastered the non-commital grunt– it could go either way, positive or negative.  I’ve seen its powers first hand but I’ve struggled to implement it as effectively.  You continue to cycle through a variety of responses that trend over time with little rhyme or reason.  I got a truly satisfying laugh out of Cruz one day after school when you asked me a question and I answered with a string of Nate sayings something to the effect of, “Sussy sussy baca, dogwater, dogcheese, beans, Dorito Dorito, hello sexy bananah, bery good bery nice, bery good bery nice.”

Your default song is still “Makin’ my way downtown…”  You sing it as you move from place to place.  You’re really good at twerking.  I hope you only do it at home.  You’ve also developed a pretty impressive British accent.  Sometimes we just eat lunch together and speak in our British accents and you correct my ability to say, “shdupid.”  You correct me a hundred times.  Not a single pronunciation meets your standards.  You also especially love to repeat “bottled water.”

Over the last few weeks the girls at school have invented a new disease they call Boyrona virus.  It really gets under your skin.  And Principal Karen seems to side with the girls in every conflict.

You love your Spy School book.  Mr. Marthaler says you’re very strong in math.  He’s asked you to focus on capitalization and punctuation.  you seem lukewarm on implementing this feedback

On our drives to school we try to catch the Carmen crank calls.  My reception isn’t great.  I try and recreate her name which is Carmen Santiago de la Hoya Ruiz Rivera Perez Tu Sabes.   I like to go with versions of Carmen San Diego Rivera de Oscar Fortnite.  You also love this site Edgar recommended called Hoovies.net.  You quiz me to name a single movie they don’t have and so far I’m 0 for 50.  The site has no discernible business model and the content seem totally legit.  I’ve coached you not to get too attached.  Somehow the movie industry will discover this genius hacker and shut him down, much to the sadness of millions of elementary schoolers.  The “about” link literally says “Coming Soon… before we release enjoy service :)”

Oh my Nate.  You are always living your best life.  I love you so very much.  Happy belated birthday letter.

xoxo,
Mom

Way back when, James coined the phrase “Habitat for Jaimie” and boy did Grandma get a kick outta that.  It’s true.  I like me some beautiful house Pinterest porn.  There are much deeper and more meaningful origins to my relationship with home but this is all just a build-up to my big announcement: We’re moving!

Across the yard.  It’s time.  We’ve only been planning our main house building project since we bought this orange house in 2014 was it?  2015?  The plumber is coming tomorrow to move our dishwasher and I am going with it.  I cannot live without a dishwasher.  I’ve tried.

So last Thursday I tell Nate, “We’re moving to the barn soon.”

And he says, “When?  Tonight?  Tomorrow?”

“No hon, next Thursday.  So like a week from today.”

“A week??  That’s not soon!”

Oh to be eleven…