Row, Row, Row Your Boat

James and Claire enjoyed their last run down a stretch of the Klamath River just north of Mt. Shasta, where we've been camping for a few days with James' good friend Ken and his family. Bees, flies, thunderstorms, mosquitoes, and runaway campfires -- and we still had a blast! Ah, camping...

Everyone Loves A Parade

Pretty much anytime we all go somewhere together, we're automatically a parade. Add to that all the other folks who joined us for 4th of July picnicking, fireworks and camping, and the only thing missing is a float or two (does Jack's bike trailer count?)...

Flyin' High on Father's Day

James was crowned King for a Day and had his pick of activities, so he chose to go to the Oakland Zoo, where the kids rode lots of rides and we saw one or two animals...

Have Kids, Will Travel

Cool science exhibit for the kids

in the airport waiting area: smokin' vortex.

Or did Wynham escape from his genie lamp again?

Always familiarize yourself with

the safety features of the aircraft...

Oooo, I love Skymall; don't you?

Crossing the Sierras -- it looks cold down there.

You call this dinner? For nine bucks?

Scintillating onboard entertainment; name that movie...

Almost there...

I Spy

I spy a daddy who loves his children who love him just as much right back. I spy a boy and girl so full of wonder, who understand that "believing is seeing" and not the other way around. I spy a rarity: a few quiet minutes together. I spy a fleeting moment, gone too soon.

Big Hair

Well, we all had some pretty bad Big Hair back in the 80s, but no "do" any of us ever dared to wear could come close the the look James was putting on a decade earlier (circa 1970). I mean, the afro of this turtlenecked, mustachioed, side-burn-sporting Jim simply defies gravity. Who knew that within my husband's mild-mannered exterior burns the soul of a flute-playing rocker? Jethro Tull, move over...

Weathering the Storm

Yes, the storm was really as impressive as they predicted. The wind howled all night and day, blew out the dust in the upstairs rafters, forced rain through the cracks in the kitchen window, and turned the trellis on our front deck into a pile of toothpicks. We emerged unscathed from our house, warm and dry. We were lucky enough to not lose our electricity, which allowed us to have a movie marathon and bake cornbread in the electric oven to go with our chili. James apparently likes to court danger, however; don't ask me what he's doing, standing on a rain-slicked three-legged stool, leaning against a wobbly railing eight feet above the ground. I couldn't tell you...

Steppin' Out

Contrary to current speculation, you still can dress us up and take us out – it’s just great deal more effort than it used to be. Since outings without children only happen two or three times a year at most, you’d think we’d have time to plan ahead. Think again.

Fifteen minutes before we are supposed to leave for a fabulous 50^th birthday party, we’re looking up “cocktail attire” on the internet because James is afraid that fashions might have drastically changed since the last time we actually went out. He can’t find his shirt, tie, or cuff links (right where they’re supposed to be) and I’m frantically searching for my shoes (they’re in Chloé’s closet). This leaves us about four minutes to shower, get dressed, and get out the door without getting covered in the mac-and-cheese the kids are eating.

In the car on the way, we try to decompress from a kid-packed day and stay awake at the same time. James says, “I can’t believe I used to like going out.” I say, “Yeah, my feet hurt already.” Sheesh. We are way too young to be acting this old. Somehow, in our rush not to be late, we pull into valet parking five minutes early. It’s embarrassing, but we figure if we’re the first to arrive, we can be the first to go home.

The party, held at Bimbo’s 365 Club, is really spectacular, and beautiful 50-year-old Kate looks like she’s turning thirty-seven. I try not to be jealous. We see a lot of family and have a great time enjoying delectable dishes amidst cascades of gorgeous fresh flowers. At 11pm, when the band starts singing “Get Down, Boogie-Oogie-Oogie” we hesitate, fearing that if we get down too far we might have trouble getting back up.

Getting to bed sounds like the most realistic plan. It’s a good thing that we set the clocks back to Standard Time, because we’ll need that extra hour to recuperate from all the excitement. Boogie Wonderland will have to wait until next time we go out. Which may be awhile.

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 Lost Art of Sleep

Lately at our house, we’ve been conducting a study entitled “How to Lose a Lot of Sleep (and Potentially Your Mind)". It typically unrolls something like this:

10pm, lights out; ah, Blessed Dark! “Mom?” “What is it, Wynham?” “How did my new shorts get dirty?” How could I possibly know? After fifteen minutes of argument (pardon me, I mean discussion) about how it must be my fault, Wynham finally remembers that maybe it happened when he threw his shorts up at the bathroom ceiling near the exhaust vent. I didn’t even ask why he was doing that. I probably wouldn't want to know...

“Mom, can you come down here right now?” Chloé asks this question rather frantically, so I hop out of bed a little worried. It appears that some younger sibling has spilled a whole glass of water on her bed. When I dare to ask why she couldn’t just change the sheets herself, she says, “But MOM! It soaked ALL the way through!” A towel over the wet bit and a new sheet really don’t meet her standards, but it will have to do until morning. 11pm. Can we go to bed now?

Sleep seems necessary, even possible. Suddenly, I wake up and remember that I forgot to post my blog for Tuesday and put the steel cut oats in the slow cooker (cold cereal for breakfast; Claire will not be pleased). Technically, since it’s now after midnight, I’ve missed the deadline on both of these items, so I gracefully let go of the guilt and try to go back to sleep.

At 1am, James decides to let the dog out. This must be some secret agreement they have, and I stay out of it. While he’s not looking, I close the bedroom window because it’s getting really cold out. As soon as James thinks I’m asleep, he opens it again because he “doesn’t like his feet to get too hot”. Repeat steps one and two until exhausted…

2am, and Jack is calling “Daaaadaaaa”. This starts as a plaintive whimper and progresses to a howl until Jack gets satisfaction. He used to call my name until he figured out that I can hold out longer than he can holler, but he knows Daddy’s a pushover. Already, I'm not a big fan of co-sleeping, and now Jack’s kneading my shoulder with his little toes.

Not surprisingly, Claire shows up half an hour later saying, “I had a bad dream”. I say, “Go around to Daddy’s side.” Things are going okay for nearly an hour, and then she needs to go potty. When she gets back, she wonders if somebody will give her a foot rub. Are you kidding? A few minutes of silence, and then it starts: the Surround Sound Symphonic Snorefest. These guys really need to work on their harmonizing skills, dog included.

4:51am, and Jack gets restless again, crying, “Go, go, GO!” in his sleep and pointing straight up. I take this as a sign, and decide to get out of bed for good. James lifts his head and says, “Wow. I almost had three whole uninterrupted minutes of sleep.” I think the universe is telling us that it’s a bad time to try and quit caffeine. Espresso, boys, and make it a triple…