The Sky Is Falling

I’m starting to wonder about my husband. Last night I found him sitting on the closet floor attaching bits of Velcro to his new combat backpack, the same one he was wearing when he fed the dog. Either he knows something about Doomsday that the rest of us don’t, or it’s a prolonged midlife crisis. His stash has been growing increasingly strange over the last few years, and I think I’ve narrowed it down to three contributing factors.

1. Too Much Talk Radio. James listens to talk radio from the time he gets up until the time he comes home in the evening, and I get the sneaking feeling that it's addled his brain. While he’s driving to work, he might call me once or four times with salient tidbits of news – such as Tom Cruise building a 10-million-dollar shelter to protect his family when the aliens invade the planet.

2. Hanging Out With Bad Influences. James and his friend Ken go to the electronics flea market every so often and come home with things like Russian spacesuits and Geiger counters and items that every family needs. They are, I think, trying to “outgear” each other, even sending pictures of their collections of stuff, like proud parents. It’s funny, how with 200 flashlights in the house, we can never find one when we need one.

I tried the can’t-beat-'em-so-
join-'em approach and went to Disaster Preparedness training and got my 72-hour earthquake survival kit, but I can’t possibly keep up with these two guys. When they go on an overnight camping trip, it looks like they’re building a refugee camp for 10,000 people. Every unimaginable necessity is provided, including the martinis. My portable potty simply can't stand up to the competition.

3. Reminiscing a Lost Childhood. Turns out that James spent a great deal of time in his youth hanging out at his Uncle Val’s Surplus Store, stocking up on every possible piece of army gear. I think James is trying to relive his childhood, because he now owns enough camouflage and equipment to hide and defend a small country.

I only got a little bit upset when I got a camo scarf for Valentine’s this year; I thought it was just a joke and James assured me it wasn’t: “It’s Multicam, honey, it’s been featured at the Museum of Modern Art.” What, is he hoping I’ll disappear? I tried to explain to him that raw diamonds blend nicely into their surrounding environment and make a much better gift, but I don’t think he got the hint.

Whatever the reasons for James’ never-ending acquisition of survival gear and combat fashion items, one thing I’m sure of is that we’ll have to build a bomb shelter just to store all this stuff, because the basement and the garage are already completely full. At the very least, when the aliens do come to inflict the End of the World, we’ll be ready.

The Great Pumpkin

Halloween is one of those over-the-top-in-America holidays that I just love to hate. Anyone who has seen four kids in action after all-you-can-eat candy can empathize. And I think life is already scary enough without adding more ghouls, goblins, and horrific monsters to the mix. But I do love the pumpkins.

In past years, the kids have gone to the pumpkin patch on a farm up in Petaluma with their grandparents for a day of frolic in the corn mazes, with hay rides and hot dogs and pumpkins for miles. Sadly, the place has gone downhill, so this year we resorted to a couple of local sources.

It’s such a delight to see the kids ponder their jack-o'-lantern designs and to have the whole family around the table having fun and enjoying each other’s company. Last year’s designs were all elaborate works of art, but this year everyone opted for traditionally simple. Claire picked a pumpkin that is the largest one we’ve ever brought home, and it weighs as much as she does (40+ pounds!).

Luckily, I know a lot of great pumpkin recipes.

Tiny Talk Show

The kids like to sneak off with the camera to make pictures and videos of their own, and I often don’t discover them until I’m uploading things to the computer. This one really tickled my funny bone. The guest on this tiny talk show didn’t actually do any talking, but a picture is worth a thousand words, they say. And yes, he does know all the body parts, he was just a bit groggy from his nap…

Sunset Serene

The hour before dinner is the craziest time of day at our house, no contest. Tummies rumble, the little ones are tired and cranky, and everyone anxiously awaits James’ arrival. Getting us all around the table at the same time is becoming a challenge, but it’s the unspoken rule; you eat dinner with your family unless you have a really creative excuse.

Last night I was in the kitchen battling with a partially frozen fowl that finally acquiesced, and I could tell by the lengthening shadows that the sun had dipped behind Mt. Tamalpais. I went to open the front windows and was greeted by the stunning sight of an evening sky strewn with color.

“Come look at the sunset!” I said, and they all came running. We went out on the front porch for a better look, and the cool air seemed to calm everyone on contact, even the antsy almost-two-year-old. The western horizon puts on a brilliant display almost every night at this time of year, and none of us ever tire of watching the show. No one ever wants to go back inside, either.

There’s magic in these moments, so hold on tight
As day gives way to starry night…

All Upon A Saturday Night

Chloé had her first performance at a real “gig” on Saturday night, singing a cover of Norah Jones’ Don’t Know Why. She had backup from James on keyboards and a handful of professional musicians from the headliner band, the Water Brothers. Not only does she have an amazing voice (and that’s not just a mother’s pride speaking), but she blows me away with her poise on stage. She’s just got it so together for someone her age (please don’t tell her I said that; she’s already impossible to live with!).

It was a real family affair, with Wynham in charge of video; I was assigned to get the still shots. That didn’t work out too well because I had a couple of adorable but very persistent groupies hanging off either arm, but the video work was great. Needless to say, the crowd went wild!

On the long road back, we passed a Coco’s restaurant and made an impromptu stop for a photo op (Coco is the nickname that Claire gave Chloé, and it stuck). I’m really glad I didn’t mention that they make the most wonderful chocolate cream pie (childhood memory peg). If I had, we might still be there…

Kodak Moment

Getting everyone appropriately dressed and ready to go out the door in the morning requires clockwork timing and good delegation. Chloé had just combed Claire’s hair, and then Jack’s, and he must have been thrilled to be looking so spiffy. He's always been an affectionate little guy, but he's only now figuring out the hug thing, and loves to sneak up and bestow them on folks. He just grabbed Claire and squeezed her with all his might. There are so many times when I wish I had a camera around my neck, and in this instance, luck was with me. Click!

Run, Run, Run

It's true, there were some pretty long faces in class the day the Gingerbread Man ran away. Luckily for the kids, Mr. GM is a reliable correspondent and has been sending postcards from each stop in his extensive travels. There have also been a few sightings, but no one even gets close before he's off and running again... Every day Claire comes home with a new installment of the Continuing Adventures of the Gingerbread Man, and most recently he wrote from Outer Space! His progress is being charted on a big world map in the classroom, and they're running out of space for all his missives. What I would really like to do is climb into his suitcase, but I guess I'd have to catch him first, and he's a very elusive character...

(top photo graphic design by Debra Turner)

Boyz N Da Hood

Jack is reaching an age now where he wants to do everything like his big brother Wynham. They growl, they tussle on the floor, they won’t stop playing ball in the house (for heaven’s sake!), they leap fearlessly off the furniture, and they’re wearing a trough in the carpet where they run circles around the living room and dining room chasing each other.

Jack hangs adoringly on Wynham’s every word (and all the other noises he makes, but never mind…). And Wynham has found the perfect rapt audience for all of his shenanigans. It’s a match made, maybe not in heaven, but for the long run.

You can't top the delight on Jack’s face when his brother comes through the door after school. And there’s no joy greater than watching Wynham get down on the floor to play with little Jack. If it gets a bit loud and rambunctious, well, we wouldn’t really want it any other way. There’s simply no replacement for their brotherly love.

Artist In Residence

We ended up having take-out burritos for dinner last night because Wynham had soccer practice, Chloe had choir rehearsal, and I bought everything but the chicken for the chicken stew I was planning to make. These things happen.

In the middle of eating, Claire leapt up from the table, and said, “I need tape! I’m making something!” She definitely gets points for creative use of plastic utensils. I can’t remember now whether this is an alien dude with tentacles or a ghost with a rad Mohawk, but I can assure you that dinner is never dull around here.

The preferred medium for most of our mealtime artists-in-residence is usually food, and there have been some real pièces de résistance, let me tell you. But I particularly like this masterpiece for its ingenuity, its simple lines, and best of all, no clean up required.

The Aftermath

Our home is generally pretty tidy, but on a weekend with a full house it’s another matter altogether. I always start our days of togetherness trying to clean up after everyone as I go, but I’m outnumbered and they all seem dedicated to the task of trashing the place (or at least burying it under as large a pile of stuff as possible). My adorable weapons of mass destruction, they are.

Somewhere around 4pm on Sunday afternoon, my eyes simply glaze over and I no longer see what’s going on around me. This is when Claire and Wynham usually kick into high gear in an attempt to “outmessify” each other and gain my attention. Yesterday, this was the moment one of our neighbors decided to drop by; I’m pretty sure I didn’t even say hello to him, I was so dazed.

On Sunday nights, I always go to bed hoping that I’ll wake up in one of those fairy tales where the Brownies come and clean everything up while the household is fast asleep. Mother Goose never seems to get the memo.

When the garbage trucks go by at 5:15am today, I stumble out of bed and into the darkness, ready or not to face what I call the Monday Morning Aftermath. It’s not pretty. It will be hours before the order is restored. But as Claire would say, that’s the way life goes. Now if you'll excuse me, I’ve got some cleaning up to do...

Birthday Greetings, Bottle of Wine

Dear Mom,

If you had stayed among us mere mortals, you’d be 64 today. I imagine you’re cavorting with the angels and having a grand fête of your own – you never did go anywhere without taking the party with you – and I’m sure your brand of heaven has Original Wheat Thins and spreadable cheddar, too.

Well we don’t want you to celebrate without us, so first thing this morning we’re going to blast When I’m 64 really loudly on the stereo; I hope you can hear it because I know it’s one of your favorite Beatles songs.

When we get to church, I’ll light a candle for you; I do that almost every Sunday now, but I’ll make a special wish today. Right before communion, your grandkids will put a dollar in the offering plate in your honor, since that’s the birthday tradition at St. Stephen’s. After the service, we’ll go to Guaymas and order those grilled shrimp you always loved.

I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but we have a dozen Sterling roses for you. Can you smell that amazing scent from where you are? Your whole paradise is probably filled with that fragrance. To top everything off, we’ll pop open a bottle of White Star, your bubbly of choice. I’ll probably have your glass if you don’t finish it.

And one last thing, just in case you were wondering about the answer to that question the Beatles keep asking in their song, we DO still need you…

Happy Birthday Marmay, with love,
MH&Co.

Stolen Moments

I confess: I was trying to steal a moment for myself. Chloé has an early rehearsal this morning and there isn’t enough time to make it worth driving all the way home and back, so I go to the local boulangerie for a café au lait and a tartine, hoping to sneak in a few pages of my current book.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Are you going to get out and enjoy it?” The man sitting at the table to my right is obviously hungry for conversation. Yes, I tell him, there will be a soccer game and a jaunt to the city and a dozen other things, what with four kids to amuse. “I hope you make the most of it. I wasn’t there for my son when he was young; I was working too much. Now I spoil my grandson instead.” I wonder, in his grown son’s mind, if that really makes up for lost time.

On my left sits a family of three, round and perfectly matched like a set of Russian matryoshka dolls. There are so many pasties on their table I’m afraid it might capsize. The well-dressed boy asks his mother, “Mommy, why are there pickles on your plate?” She feigns a European accent and says, “They gave them to me because I am so pr-r-r-e-e-e-ty!” She’s not what you might consider attractive, but the mirthful expression on her face and the way she trills her “r” make her beautiful.

Suddenly it’s time to go, and I haven’t even cracked the cover of the novel in my bag. The man next to me says, “Do me a favor, will you? Have a wonderful day!” I smile. My pilfered time has been snatched away from me, but I’ve received something in return: the gentle reminder that the numbered days with your children should never be taken for granted, and that life is exactly what you make of it. I can always read later, if I can steal a moment…

The Way Life Goes

Now that the rainy season has installed itself in earnest there’s an additional layer of aggravation to this gig called Parenthood. Mostly, it has to do with wardrobe issues.

Claire won’t wear a hood, Wynham has put on a sweater and windbreaker with his shorts and flip flops, and Chloé, well, she’s a fashion crisis unto herself. Picture the wooly boots and jeans, so far so good, but that’s topped with a tank tee and a light cotton cardigan and she is NOT going to wear that hideous poncho, even if it came from Ann Taylor.

Then there’s this insanity that takes over the drivers on the morning school route. We’re supposed to be teaching our children the simplest common courtesies, but you’d never know it by the way these folks are behaving behind the wheel (No, honey, that man was not waving hello).

While I’m sitting in the kindergarten car line considering all this, Claire says, “Why is there a big line of water down your window, Mom?” I explain that it’s where the windshield wiper stops. She wants to know why they don’t go the other direction, so the line isn’t right in the driver’s way. I marvel at her observation, and tell her that maybe she should be a car designer when she grows up. She replies, verbatim, “Oh, leave that to the silly engineers, Mom. I’m going to be a horseback-riding veterinarian. That’s just the way life goes.”

Although I question the need for such a broad rationalization for her narrowly defined prediction, I smile at the bigger message. When it comes to the inconveniences of parenting in the rainy season, well, that’s just the way life goes!

Life in Non Sequiturs

Once, when I was twenty, I spent an evening in a café in Amsterdam waiting out a fierce thunderstorm and to pass the time I wrote down everything that came into my head without stopping to ponder. It was an interesting list and a revelatory experience, as I realized that minds like mine never really travel in straight lines. This is great if you’re working in advertising, but it’s bound to drive the people who have to keep up with you every day completely bonkers.

I was reminded of this in the middle of the night when I sat up with the lyrics of Kingston Trio’s They Call the Wind Mariah running through my head. Don’t ask me why because I couldn’t tell you. Anyway, it made me want to try the Train of Consciousness experiment again, just for fun. Here are the results from fifteen minutes before breakfast:

Escargot, Camelot, volcanic craters, Houdini, flower bulbs, egg salad, Aristotle, Xania, iPod playlist, raspberry preserves (maybe I shouldn’t sit in the kitchen to do this), soprano, batteries, mildew, Albert Camus, Thomas Edison, drag racing, Kleenex, widdershins, gravitas, Fibonacci, raw diamonds, home remedies, Scarlett O’Hara, catechins, microscope, almond butter toast (maybe I shouldn’t do this when I’m hungry), sea urchin, otters, gas cooker, castle, hemostats, soy sauce, existentialism, plastic plates, drain pipe, laundry soap, throw out the dead plant, wash the sheets (NO! This isn’t a TO DO list!), Switzerland, condensation, healthy soil organisms, magic markers with no caps, shearling, pizza-pizza-pizza, orthodontist, ranunculus, smell of a burning soccer ball, tropical vacation, geometry, egrets, guitar lessons, Kermit Lynch, Topher Delaney, Shakespeare, cable, quantum mechanics, this list was much more interesting last time, crispy English muffins for breakfast, yay!

Okay, now you try it; come on, you know you want to see what happens. Then post your results on the comments page if you’re brave enough to share. Just don’t over think things or you’ll start to actually make connections, and then you really will go nuts…

After the Rain

There’s a euphoric feeling in the air on the crisp, cool mornings that follow a night of rain. The air smells clean and everything glistens. Birds bathe in the shallow puddles that formed in the hollows overnight, twittering more cheerfully than they did yesterday.

Last night was the first real rain of the season, and now it truly feels like summer is over. From the kitchen window we see an ever-changing tableau of our microclimate, and I can tell it’s going to be a “cardigan day”. For me, the weather is perfect when it’s cool without being too chilly.

Jack sleeps on the couch; he’s had a rough night of urping from the flu he seems to have caught just as I’m finally getting over it. Socrates isn’t feeling well, either. I know that’s the flipside of the seasons changing, but fall is still my favorite. I miss the intensity of the changing colors of autumn that I grew up with, and hope when the kids are older we can get back east one year for “the show”.

I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, though; I love being able to depend on rain that doesn’t start until October and can usually be counted on to end in April. Cuddling up as it pours down is a treasured pastime in this household, and the whole world seems brighter when the sun peeks through again. Even the hummingbirds act as if the salvia’s nectar has been sweetened by the downpour. Everything’s better after the rain.

Yo, Ho, Ho, and a Bottle of Milk

Don’t let the Dotted Swiss dress fool you, mateys, Claire is a swashbuckler through and through, with enough swagger to put five hardened sea hands in their places. Just ask James about the black eye she gave him at the beach when she was only two. And he wasn’t even talking back.

Claire is one mighty personality. At preschool graduation the teacher gave her description of each child, and Claire was dubbed “the little adult who uses big words and knows what they mean”. Well, this could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the word of the day. Just watching her commandeer a play group is enough to leave any parent shaking in their boots.

James wonders out loud how she got so strong willed. Hmm, maybe something to do with her gene pool? One thing is certain, though; with Claire in the mix, there’s never an uninteresting moment. The second day of kindergarten, she said, “Just drop me off at the curb, Mom; I know where I’m going. And I’m done with that hug and kiss stuff, too.” Whatever you say, Captain. No need to ask who’s running this family…

Yesterday as soon as the sprinklers went off, Claire ran out to the back yard with Jack in tow. I went to the kitchen door and said, hands on hips, “Claire! What are you doing?!? You’re going to get filthy, and your brother’s eating dirt!” Jack said “Uh-oh…” and immediately dropped the trowel while Claire threw down the gauntlet with her ditty of a response: “Getting wet and dirty is what we love to do, and then we come back in the house all sloppy just for you.” I surrender in a fit of laughter. She may be a bit of a pirate, but she’s a real treasure, too.

(photo by Debra Turner)

Of Aliens and Onions

My family says I have no sense of humor, and I want them to know they are seriously wrong. A humorless gal wouldn’t put herself out there for the whole world to see looking like a roast suckling alien (more on the goggles later).

First, you can’t change up to 32,000 diapers in your lifetime and not have the ability to laugh in the face of Der Poopinator. Call it bathroom humor, if you will, but you’ve got to focus on the amusing aspects of the situation when someone pees (with amazing accuracy) all over the shirt you just ironed.

Now, the slapstick routine of picking up the same shirts, hairclips, smelly shoes, wet socks, toys, sippy cups, bits of food, underpants, lip glosses, book bags, text books, magic markers, blankies, fur balls, marbles, Legos, spare parts, curling irons, dishes, and I-don’t-know-whatzits from the same places around the house seven times in the same day – that most certainly requires a funny bone. My feng shui got up and feng shwent a long time ago, but there’s still some sort of harmony in the hilarious.

Then there’s kitchen comedy. Last night for dinner I made what I’ll call Parody Pot Roast. This took seven hours to make, required a special trip to the Spanish food shop for smoked paprika, and tasted like, well… I’d say the dog’s food gets higher marks. Ha ha, ho ho, hee hee, the joke’s on me.

But a little side note on those glasses: they’re called OnionGoggles, and with the dense foam that encloses the eye socket, they guarantee tear-free onion slicing (and I slice a lot of 'em). Plus, they look pretty darn funny, especially with a color-coordinated apple. So you can’t really say I don’t have a flair for the farcical…