No It All

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…

Last weekend Nate and I soldiered 10-ish hours in the car, there and back, to a Mustangs tournament in Davis.  It was a lot of I-5.  But it was also probably the best our Mustangs team has played since we joined just over a year ago.  On Saturday we won both games– first one was against the Spurs.  Fortunately Kane and Son weren’t in so we finished it handily,  6-3.  Then we played Davis’ B team and also won 6-2.  Based on my James texts it looks like Nate scored twice in both games, including the infamous “tongue” goal.  That’s the one where Nate scored and Eliot dove into the goal headfirst and said he touched the ball with his tongue.  Mmm, yum?

Then Sunday was the big day against Idaho.  Yeah, the real Idaho.  We checked and there’s no Idaho, California.  Apparently it’s about equidistant from Idaho to Davis and SLO to Davis.  Maybe not really but still.  Since they were traveling so far, we figured they were either going to be really good or there’s no one else to play in Idaho.  Fortunately it was the latter.  We beat them 4-2– again Nate scored two goals and had some pretty assists.

Then five hours later it was the final against Davis’ A team.  We don’t have a great track record with finals that take place half a day from our morning game.  And that bit of wisdom still holds true.  Especially because most of our team also stayed pretty late at the River Cats baseball game the night before.  The wheels came off and we lost the final by a number we’ve conveniently forgotten.  Nate did score our only goal and it was a beauty.  We took second place and the Mustangs were thrilled with their first tournament placement and shiny silver medals.  The boys gave the moms pink and salmon dyed carnations for Mother’s Day.

On Saturday morning as Nate and I finished up breakfast at the hotel I asked him, “So Nate, are we going to make this our best tournament yet?”  Of course referring to the quality of the soccer and how hard they’d play on the pitch.

And he answers, “I guess… maybe?  I mean, there isn’t even a hot tub!”

This is the gold standard by which all tournaments are measured.

Personal hygiene has been a running theme for many years at this point, though we’ve long since stopped with the second parental tooth brushing and I do not fall for the “smell my armpits” schtick.  Armpits have been a “development” opportunity for several years now.  The turning point was definitely before the pandemic.  I remember picking up Nate and Cruz and Finn from school for baseball practice and they steamed up my car.  The windows literally fogged up with their little boy stinkiness.  And that was when we introduced deodorant.

We started with Schmidt’s which smells great, but apparently just causes sweat to run down your sides.  I just got Jacob some Native in coconut and he’s been quite complimentary.  Although last week I mention it and Jake tells me, “Buy me Old Spice.”  Seriously?  Do my children smoke pipes in bathrobes?

We drive across town and get Nate, then drop him at soccer.  I don’t know exactly how it comes up but in a split second the kid says, “ Mom, get me Old Spice.”  Sheesh, their ad dollars are hard at work.

That night I’m watching TV and an Old Spice ad comes on, somehow identifying that I have all the purchasing power.  It’s some kind of Thor-looking guy with long blond locks.  There is another guy hanging onto a pipe by one hand or he will fall to his death.  The Thor guy’s armpit literally starts “shooting” sweat like a hose from under his arm onto the guy with the perilous grip.  It’s dis-gus-ting.  I almost can’t think of something grosser and less likely to get my hard earned money.

And let’s be real.  Those deodorant ads should be for me.  You know what I mean…

Today was a foggy, rainy day which continue to be few and far between.  I haven’t worked on boys’ “clothes management” in awhile.  It’s hard to believe this used to be my second job not so long ago and it reminded me of a conversation from a few months back.

“Hey Nate, come here.  What size are those shorts?”

He’s wearing a pair of gray shorts with a fluorescent orange stripe down each side.  They remind me of days at Happy Hollow and the front lawn on Shasta.  “Come over here and let me look at the tag on those shorts.

Nate comes over and I fish around till I find the tag and it says…. wait for it…. Size 4-5.  Yes, Nate is 11.  He doesn’t believe me but here is irrefutable proof right there around his little waist and the noticeably high hemline.  He’s wearing a pair of shorts he’s had since preschool.

I mean, maybe I can be persuaded they started as clam diggers as the knee-less picture below might have us believe, but still… looks like I’ve been rehired by my old boss, clothes management.

On my last milestone birthday we took a trip to Ashland, Oregon– Home of the Ren Faire.  No, that’s a joke!  It’s not Home of the Ren Faire Jillana.  It’s the home of an amazing little theatre community and famous for their Shakespeare.  Not the same thing but I digress…

So that morning I awake one year wiser in the comfort of a freezing cold RV parked in a Redding campground.  I step outside to find a more spacious bathroom and on my way back to our home-on-wheels, I look up into the morning sky and a low flying bald eagle soars directly over my head.  It passes me quickly and then it’s gone, over the waterway that skirts the campground.

I come running inside to share my good fortune… It’s clearly auspicious.  Amazing.  A birthday miracle!

And the boys have been denying this story ever since.  Eye rolls.  Sure Mom’s.  They love to give me the side-eye and then exchange knowing looks.

A few days ago Jake comes breathlessly inside, telling me about how a hawk has just flown over his head.  “How cool.”  I say enthusiastically.  “Just like the time a bald eagle flew over my head.”

And Jacob laughs, “A hawk actually flew over my head, Mom.”  And he air quotes, “Just like your ‘bald eagle’.”  Literally can’t be said around here without their little fingers curling in mockery.

When Nate was a little blond cherub we would rub noses and he would say, “You so cute and I so cute.”  It was darling.  And I’m sure he’s gotten quite comfortable being the smallest, cutest member of our family.

Then there were these times during the pandemic where the boys would emerge from their beds in the morning and I would take one look at them and know they’d grown.  It wasn’t just the capri pj pants.  I can see it.

Jacob just got measured for his soccer physical and his dad says he’s 5 feet 1 and a half.  Exactly 2 and a half inches shorter than me.  I’m losing ground quickly.

So last year I tell Nate I can’t wait till I’m the smallest, cutest member of our family.  It’s going to be so great.

He just smiles at me.  A slightly concerned twinkle in his eye.

Seventh grade.  Pretty much suits no one.  All the awkwardness and puberty, plus the post-pandemic crazy.  And yet it suits Jake.  He likes seventh grade.  He likes his middle school.  And he’s becoming the best version of himself as most people detour into unrecognizable.

Last week Ms. Mooney calls me.  I’m having a day.  I answer my cell, bracing myself for something.  His stomach had been hurting the night before.

Now we hear a lot about Ms. Mooney, Jacob’s math teacher.  She seems to bring her real-world challenges to the seventh grade classroom regularly.  And Jacob comes home and tells us all about it.  I can certainly appreciate that.  I’ll never forget my MBA stats professor teaching us a problem where the starring role was held by a man selling calculators door-to-door.  He completely lost me when he followed that nonsense with a problem where I was responsible for sizing an oil tanker.  Yeah…  you do not want me or any of these other yahoos in this class sizing your oil tanker.  Absurd.

So after telling me Jacob isn’t in trouble or hurt, she says she has a story she needs to share with me.  It starts with her chasing her son in socks and somehow slipping and slamming her face into her own couch.  Gives herself a concussion, a black eye, and possibly a fractured orbital bone.   Poor Ms. Mooney!  After a day or two, she returns back to the classroom but still isn’t 100%.

She says that in the middle of class she stops and puts her hand to her head and in front of the entire class, Jacob turns around and asks her if she’s OK.  Apparently this is not expected behavior from middle school boys.  She says a couple of teachers had asked how she was doing, but no one with as much genuine concern.

She told me he’s a really special kid.  She called him a rockstar.  She sees him.

I was having a hard, hard day and her call was so unexpected and appreciated.  Thank you Ms. Mooney.  You are a rockstar.

Now that our eight weekends of soccer tournaments are nearing an end, the boys are dreaming of Disneyland.  We’re driving home last weekend and they’re telling me everything they want to do.  I’m not quite as enthusiastic and so the hard sell begins…

James says, “You can go get a massage while we go on rides.”

“A Disney massage?” I ask dubiously.

“What…  You don’t want a massage from Goofy?”

“That doesn’t sound very relaxing.”

And then James starts “Ha har ha harring” in a goofy Goofy impersonation as he kneads imaginary shoulders and drives the car up our winding road.

This is not helping your pitch.

And Nate pipes up with perfect comedic timing, “Mom, his hands are so soft.”

We get home from our epic Christmas in Banff and I kid you not, sleep in our beds for three nights before heading back to the gopher great beyond, otherwise known as Lompoc.  It’s our first All Stars tournament, just down the road from where Elon shoots his rockets into the ocean.  Jake and Nate and I check-in to the Embassy Suites and find sustenance at the local Wingstop, where there are no fewer than two other Jaime’s waiting for wings.

We wake-up bright and early and head back to the skinny, rippling fields for the Legends first test.

Now I haven’t mentioned that for All Stars I’ve signed-up as Team Manager and in addition to Sign-up Geniuses, I’m also officially the Keeper of the Stats.  I kind of love this new job.  Otherwise I’m totally in the moment and have no idea what the score is except whether we’re winning or losing.  Now that I have to write things down, I’ve been promoted to one step higher than chauffeur of the water bottle caddies.

Our first game is against Morro Bay and we win 18-0.  No, that’s not a typo.  Our second game is against 5 Cities and we put it away 7-1.  Our third game against Nipomo is the wake-up call we need.  Nipomo establishes themselves as our leading nemesis.  We eek out a win 5-4 and then forget all about it at our impromptu Embassy Suites hot tub party.

The next morning we’re up against 5 Cities for a second time, winning 7-2.  The finale is against SLO B and ends 11-2.  After 10 goals and 8 assists, we’re just able to wedge Nate’s giant head back into the car for the drive home.

For the record, Lompoc has the worst fields… and the best first place medals.