Backyard Bushwacking

A little over a year ago Stacy and I bought a new tent at a charity auction for L's school. Our old tent was a three-man job, but really only slept two adults. The new one was advertised as a seven-man tent, so given the previous ratio I figured it could just about accommodate our family of four. We didn't get any camping in last summer, so the tent sat in our garage unopened all year. On Saturday afternoon, however, well over a year after we bought it, I decided to pull it out and see what it is we got.

The thing is huge! We're talking ginormous. The floor canvas covered our entire backyard with inches to spare; it was a feat of engineering to get it laid out between my raised garden on one side of the yard and the flower beds on the other. L and N, all worked up about the idea of backyard camping, buzzed about the deflated carcass like disturbed hornets, wanting to "help." I expect we hadn't hit the 30-minute mark before N started yanking on one of the main tent poles I'd laid out and snapped the center elastic string that held the jigsaw pieces together. It was around the 2-hour mark before I managed to finish clumsily restringing the pole in enough of a temporary fix to allow the building to proceed.

I've camped a lot in my "yoot" so I'm generally pretty adept at setting up a tent, but this monstrosity nearly beat me. It wasn't hard to figure out, just way too big and bulky for a single person to assemble. Lynne, Stacy's mom, happened to come by as I was struggling, and between her, Stacy and I we managed to get the thing erected. (Notice who I neglected to credit with "helping.") I understand a little better now why the Egyptians needed all those Israelites when building their pyramids.

Did I mention it is huge? Fully assembled, it stands literally 6 feet high. It has a central chamber with two little side wings on either end, and represents a significant increase in my home's overall square footage. If I didn't disassemble it soon I would be cited by the City of Los Angeles for building without a permit and my property taxes would go up.

The juvenile insects, now with a hive to claim as their own, proceeded to move in the vast bulk of their pillows, blankets and toys from their bedroom. Evidently toys you haven't touched in months suddenly seem a lot more exciting if you can play with them in a tent. To build on the roughing-it mood, we grilled hamburgers and hotdogs and ate at the picnic table by the tent. The frenzy of excited chitter-chatter from L and N throughout dinner and early evening seemed to weary adults to be unsustainable, but we were sorely mistaken. Soon it was pajama time and both kids proudly emerged with full-body footed pajamas. L's looked a little painfully stretched out and Stacy reminded me that she actually doesn't own any footed pajamas anymore and that those were N's and a little, umm, small.



While we waited eagerly for encroaching darkness, L, N and I concentrated on destocking the tent and restocking the house of excess toys and linens; Stacy went off to assemble the camping mainstay of s'mores - those are melted marshmallows, Hershey chocolate and graham crackers for all you uninitiated. I forbade the roasting of gooey, drippy marshmallows over my gas grill, so Stacy resorted to nuking them in the microwave. We discovered in this act that marshmallows and microwaves are not kindred spirits. After a prolonged nuke the chocolate melted into the pool of pleasantness we hoped for, but the marshmallow had no outwardly discernible change of state. I stressed the words "outwardly discernible" for a reason. On trying to eat one of these disturbingly white and puffy looking monstrosities, one finds that a change of state has indeed occurred, but not for the better. The formerly light and springing puff has now become a stiff, stringy, dough-like substance. As you would bite into the s'more, the transformed mallow would stretch and not break, and you got the distinct impression you were eating chocolate-covered mozzarella. A petrochemical disaster alarming enough to earn kudos from BP.

Eventually it was bedtime. Or at least tent-time. Sleep, as we all knew, was many, many hours away. We climbed into the tent, zipped up the door, and established our domains. Our family of four barely covered half the available floorspace. It seemed a little like sleeping in an empty and more sparsely decorated version of the Capitol rotunda. All open floors and soaring dome. (I'll need to install some statues of dead presidents around the perimeter next time.)








As it got dark we endured an hour and a half of the joy that only flashlights, 4-to-6-year-olds, and a tent can bring. After suitable battery drainage, the flashlights were confiscated and we settled down to try to go to sleep. After some last-minute appeals for water and a trip back in the house we settled down to try to go to sleep. After another 10 minutes of trying to wrestle a rediscovered camera from L and N we settled down to try to go to sleep.







As I lay in the tent I noticed several things I hadn't noticed before.

1) We live in a city. You can forget that inside a sealed up house. There were fire engines howling and neighbors talking and a freeway one mile away that sounds like a long-winded demon constantly exhaling.

2) The ground has gotten significantly harder over the last ten years or so. I'm not quite sure how this is possible, but I'm convinced it has. I know I certainly haven't, and you'd think that would compensate for it somewhat, but it doesn't.

3) Everyone in my family snores. Verbal testimony indicates I'm included in this group.

And then the fun started. At precisely 11:00pm L woke up and started screaming. Inconsolable. I thought she was still asleep, caught up in a bad dream, but Stacy said it was probably her stomach bothering her and that when she did this she usually threw up. She and I were out of the tent in seconds flat. Back in the house her crying was the choking, sputtering sort that allows for no discussion of any kind. I couldn't get any confirmation on what was wrong. I did get a negative head shake that eliminated her tummy as being a problem, but that was it. After ten minutes or so lying on her bed, she calmed down but still couldn't/wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I asked her if she wanted to go back out in the tent and she nodded affirmatively. We reentered the tent and I explained my lack of diagnosis to Stacy; N was still snoring not having budged through L's extremis. (I think he's pretty used to it.) We settled back in, but within another 10 minutes she was crying again - once more all choking and snorting. We marched back inside, again with no indication of what was wrong; this time I was getting angry.

I left her to cry it out on her bed and plopped on the couch to wait it out. Eventually she softened and I went back to her room again. She was a little more talkative now, but she still said she didn't know what was wrong. I asked if she wanted to cuddle on the couch and she nodded enthusiastically that she did. I carried her out there and we lay there together for a while until she started crying again. She wasn't as overcome this time as before and I was able to talk with her. It wasn't her tummy she said, it was her leg. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Is it bruised? Is the pain sharp or is it an ache?"

All she could said was "I dunno!" through her tears. First it was one leg, then she started complaining about the other. I rubber her legs, secretly looking for tender spots. She neither winced nor indicated that the rubbing was helping. Now her foot was feeling funny. I started rubbing her foot, but it was difficult because her footed pajamas were so tight that I... wait a minute... Her footed pajamas were so tight... Hmmmm.

"L," I said. I think your pajamas might be a little too tight for you. I think they are cutting off the circulation to your legs. Can we take them off? Oh no. That wasn't up for discussion, because N had on footed pajamas, so she needed them. I thought through this a bit, then I had an idea.

"L," I suggested, "What if I said you could wear a pair of Daddy's pajamas?" Her eyes got big as if they were saying "Really?!?" But all she did was nod quickly. I left her on the couch and fished through my drawers. I came back out and made my offer, "L, you can wear these striped pajamas, or these that have bears on them, or these - these have mooses on them! There was no hesitation, as I knew there wouldn't be; the trembling hand shot out to point at the moose pajamas. We quickly peeled my daughter and robed her in moose. Even with the drawstring fully tightened they were genie pants on her. I had to wrap the string around her middle and tie it in the back. A Georgia Tech T-shirt completed the outfit.

We lay back down on the couch and I proceeded to rub her legs. "Feel any better?" I asked. Not willing to give up the drama too quickly, she responded a little. But soon both legs were good enough that we could risk the 6-inch walk across the yard to regain the tent.

The rest of the night went peacefully, if not particularly comfortably. Other than the early morning nails of a neighborhood tomcat who thought the tent canvas the perfect sharpening implement, all went smoothly. (Well, not for the cat. He received a belt through the tent wall that sent him spiralling into the clivia patch. He didn't come back.) On Sunday morning I emerged from the tent stiff and unrested around 5:00 am. L was up and in the house by 6:00. She seemed none the worse for the wear. Stacy and N dragged it out, as is usually the case inside too.

Later in the day Stacy came up to me to relate an L story. For some reason they had been talking about who they loved. L had professed her love for N and for Mommy. "But," related Stacy, "I really love Daddy, because he helped me last night."

I immediately when out and set the tent back up.

A Preoccupied Pirate

Arrgg! Ye be interferin' with me quest fer booty!

(And yes, that is purple play-doh matted to the back of his head.)

Red Storm Rising

Is that a blush of red I spy amid the foliage? Yes! My tomatoes are looking pretty puny this year, but at least they seem to be bearing fruit and love appears to be awaiting on the horizon. I've got to rethink my garden. I may have to relocate. The raised bed I put in a couple of years ago has become increasingly shaded by some trees that I am now increasingly reluctant to trim. (Got some rather annoying 20-something neighbors behind us. Man, am I getting old and crotchety!) But for now, the tomatoes are coming, though in less abundance than in years prior, and as long as I can get a couple of BLTs out of the deal, it will still be summer.

Dinner Détente

We quietly had an international incident last week. You won't see much coverage on CNN or Fox. There won't likely be any in-depth investigative articles in the Wall Street Journal or Los Angeles Times. The AM talk-radio pundits won't be lambasting anyone over it, and you won't be seeing the L.A. city council voting for any boycotts or bans. No, this incident will likely go largely unnoticed, but nonetheless, the delicate underpinnings of international diplomacy were sorely tried and tested on Wednesday evening.

Due to our kitchen remodel we've been without a stovetop or sink for several days, making due with the microwave and gas grill. On Wednesday I told Stacy that we would forgo the usual work-arounds and go out for dinner. I didn't tell her where we were going because I wanted to surprise her; I planned on taking her and the kids out to RA Sushi, a place that had catered one of L's school events and had impressed us. We'd been talking about trying out the restaurant for sometime now. All afternoon long I had visions of sushi-plums dancing in my head. Mmmmmmm, sushi!

When I pulled in the driveway my heart immediately sank - Poppa's car was there. I vaguely recalled Stacy telling me on the phone that Poppa would be coming by in the afternoon; I guess he decided to stay for dinner. Now, my sudden sense of foreboding was not due to Poppa being there, per se. Poppa joins us for dinner quite often and its always a great time - especially for the kids. But this time it was all about the sushi. Poppa is a "meat and potatoes" kind of guy. You might occasionally see him venture out for cod or salmon, but its always the very dead and very cooked kind. And given all the still simmering resentment over Pearl Harbor, I couldn't quite imagine Kirk and. Sushi. In the same sentence. (See what I mean?)

Sayonara sushi.

I walked in and Stacy, abuzz with anticipation, bounced to me at the door. "Where are we going!" she bubbled. After a quick hello to Kirk, who was watching a movie with the kids draped over him, I pulled her back into my office and explained my former plans and our present predicament. I could see the similar look of loss spread across her face. But Stacy's not one to take disappointment easily. After a minute a new resolve broke over her features. "He likes chicken teriyaki!"

The decision made, the movie paused, we all piled into our cars and headed over to Ra. The restaurant wasn't quite what we'd anticipated. More of a bar/club than a restaurant; the music was loud, the lighting dark. L and N were more aligned age-wise with the crowd than the rest of us. But we got a nice private 3/4-circular booth way in the back and it all worked out fine. Stacy and I ordered a number of sushi rolls, the kids split a yakitori skewer, and Poppa, seemingly a little out of his element, ordered the prognosticated teriyaki. Miso soups all around. (Figuring the evening was going to call for it, I also ordered a rather large Asahi Super Dry.)

After a round of potty trips and water-refills our food arrived. Poppa shared most of his miso with L and N. The kids ravaged their chicken skewer. Stacy and I fenced for sushi with our chopsticks, and Poppa picked through his teriyaki, offering rice and salad to the kids. (I, quite impressed, did not share my beer with anyone.) As the meal progressed L decided she wanted to try some sushi. Her petitions were picked up by her brother and soon there was pleading and begging. Now we'd gone down that route with them before, and not wanting to waste a lot of good sushi on finicky prepubescent palates, we sacrificed a single piece of the well-cooked lobster/shrimp roll to be divided equally between them. But this set a bad precedent for Poppa. Next thing he knew, Stacy was asking him if he wanted to try some and quickly the kids echoed her offer. No, no, Poppa protested, but eventually the prodding took its toll, and Kirk reluctantly agreed that he would try one piece.

The proffered sushi (again, our most "cooked" selection) sat momentarily on his plate as he contemplated it with evident angst. He picked it up tentatively with his chopsticks and it hovered mid-air for a few undecided seconds. And then summoning up the courage and conviction of Daniel Boone, Davey Crockett, or even John Wayne himself, he closed his eyes and did the deed. A tableful of mesmerized on-lookers held their breath. Poppa chewed and swallowed; the lighting was dark, but I can only imagine he looked a little pale. Then he clutched his throat and collapsed on N, much to the riotous laughter of both him and his sister. Mission accomplished! Objectives attained! Goals exceeded! Poppa, fully recovered, basked in the praise and hugs of his grandchildren and the remainder of the evening celebrated the significant milestone in foreign relations. As Stacy and I finished the sushi, we offered Poppa additional samples. But he refused wisely. No need. It would have been overkill. After all, they didn't have to tear down every wall in Berlin to forever alter the world; only one.

A Children's Portrait

I've been working on this portrait off and on since the beginning of the year. I didn't think I was done since there were a lot of things that seemed not quite right, but I'd run out of all ideas of how to fix it, so I signed it. It won't be the first time I've gone back later and touched up something I thought I was done with.



The original photo was from L's first day at school. N was so concerned with sending L off on her own that he gave her the best hug.

Reno Rendezvous 2010 - Day 7

It's been almost two months since we wrapped up our Reno/Tahoe vacation, so I'd better get around to wrapping up the retelling.

Our waning vacation hours were essentially spent packing and driving. Mimi and Grampy were to go back to Reno for a couple of days before flying back to Maine. Rather than drive them all the way back, we found a shuttle service that would pick them up at Harrahs in Stateline and drop them off at the airport in Reno. From there they could catch a second shuttle to take them from the airport to the Peppermill. Gotta love the accommodations the industry offers to keep you gambling! Mimi and Grampy piled into the van one last time, along with a couple of sleepy, pajamaed kids, and I drove them down the hill to the casino where they got some mushy hugs and kisses from L and N before disappearing into hotel. When I got back to the condo Stacy was just about done packing and cleaning. By 9:30 we hit the road, retreating down Kingsbury Grade to Minden and the long road home. We'd heard from Kirk and Lynne that Highway 395 was clear all the way down to Bishop, so we took that road, one of the most beautiful mountain drives I'd ever been on. It wasn't a particularly bitter, depressing drive, as the end-of-vacation drive-homes can conceivably be. The scenery was so beautiful, and the roads fairly clear and traffic-free, that it was altogether enjoyable. It also helped knowing that the next day was Sunday, so I still had a day to recoup before diving back into work.

We made our first major pit stop at the National Park center at Mono Lake back in California. There's something about Mono Lake that is very disturbing. It is a bleak, Mordoresque landscape that moans of desolation and poison. The lake, caustic with naturally occurring chemicals, is essentially barren. The nature center at the park station has a big display on the - umm - biodiversity in the area. Evidently some sad little saline-loving shrimp endures the forsaken Mono Lake waters, but not much else. I have always had trouble coming to grips with the irony that this blasted wasteland can be literally across the mountain ridge from the florid lushlands of Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park. It was a welcome rest spot nonetheless and the kids browsed the book store and drew pictures at the kiddie art station fit for instant exhibition.

Near the June Lake Loop

Back on the road we continued due south. The mountains around June Lake were brilliant in their show sheets. We detoured over to Mammoth to grab meatball sandwiches for lunch, but managed to hold back our animal urges and pack them away in the car. We had better plans for them: a picnic at Convict Lake! Stacy and I had spent a couple of days in cabins at Convict Lake five years ago with Stacy's brother, Uncle Kyle and then-wife, Aunt Noelia. L was an infant at the time and Kyle and Noelia's boy, J, was practically a new-born. We had had such a wonderful time and so enjoyed the area that we are compelled to stop and stare each time we are in the neighborhood. This time we parked our car at the lakeline, found a secluded rock beach, and devoured our now-chilled meatball sandwiches in the brisk outdoors. The cool breezes coming across the lake kept us from dawdling, but even a few stolen moments at Convict Lake are better than none.

Convict Lake in the "Old Days" (circa 2005)

Owen's Valley Near the Whitney Portal

The rest of the ride was reasonably uneventful: The mandatory break at Schat's, the dutiful march down the Sierra-lined Owens Valley, the twisting dogleg through Red Rock Canyon State Park, and the depressing dump out into the Mohave vastland. The kids were remarkably humane through the ride. (It pleases me greatly that they seem to enjoy long car trips. I always did at their ages.) The most notable feat of the return voyage, it seems, was celebrated on Highway 14 in beautiful, stylish and much sought-after Palmdale, when the family's Toyota Sienna, our glamor-van, our happening hot-wheels, our "swagger wagon," hit the big 50,000. We would have pulled over to savor the moment, but decided we didn't want to get shot.



Then: A clean familiar bed. No need to get up too early the next morning. Peace, quiet and closure!

Where, Oh Where Has My Little Boy Gone?

Tonight we bid farewell to our three-year-old son, N. We gave him lots of hugs and kisses before going to bed, because this was to be our last night with him. At some point in the wee hours our small boy would slip away and be replaced by a nearly identical four-year-old version. We got our fill of three-year-old cuddles and sent him off to sleep, wondering what the four-year-old doppelganger had in mind for us over the next year.

Good night, sweet prince. It has been a wonderful year; one I'll know we'll look back on fondly in the years to come. We love you.

--Mommy & Daddy

No More Teachers, No More Books

L and Mrs. Ellis

L wrapped up her first year of school yesterday. The last day of "DK" (Developmental Kindergarten) was dedicated to all the kids who would have birthdays over the summer and who didn't get to have parties in class. L and her two best friends (J and A) were among the celebratees. Stacy was there to help out and N was graciously allowed to partake in the ice cream sandwiches. For N, getting an occasional tag-along piece of pizza or cake when visiting L's class pretty much seals the deal for him; he can't imagine anything more wonderful in all the world that going to school. He will start pre-school next fall and will probably slowly die of longing and anticipation over the oh-so-long-and-boring summer.







L took to school much better than we'd hoped. I remember dropping her off on her first day. It fell to me because Stacy was convinced she (Stacy) couldn't handle the drop-off without bawling. We were more than ready to hear of a disastrous first day when we picked her up that afternoon. But it went well enough, and after a week or two she was excited to be going. Now she'd rather be with her friends on the monkey bars than anywhere else. As much as I'd be thrilled to have her protest that she'd rather stay home with Daddy, I know I've got a good thing in a girl who likes to go to school, and I don't begrudge it.

Her teachers have left a great mark on her and I'm very grateful for the stoking of her enthusiasm that they provided. Thanks a million, Mrs. Ellis and Miss Barbara!

Here There Be Dragons

Fratricide is murdering one's brother. Patricide is taking out your parents. What is the term for exterminating your children? Oh, never mind. I'll just read it in the paper tomorrow...

It has definitely been one of those evenings. The battle of the wills seemed to kick in with L and Stacy in the afternoon and has escalated into something terrible to behold this evening. N, taking his queues from his sister, has set new standards in the "pisser" category. Stacy is finished and I'm more or less ready to call it quits too. Stacy and I are even short with each other, so you know it's been a rough day.

Although I know there's as healthy a dose of inherent brattiness in my kids as any other, I sense it really boils down to being my fault, at least this time. I've been working late every night for the last couple of weeks, or out at meetings or classes, so I haven't been seeing the kids much more than for pecks on the cheek in the morning and at night. Several nights this week I haven't seen them awake at all. There is a strong correlation, I've noticed, to my prolonged absence in the home and their transformation into remarkably effective little demons. Stacy can keep a pretty tight lid on the house for 8 to 10 hours a day, but then her grip begins to weaken and the kids pounce like dogs smelling fear. If I'm not there to be the back-up muscle, things can deteriorate pretty quickly.

Now that the kids are getting older, a quick rebuke or finger wagging, which used to trigger floods of tears and instant repentance, now just brings on the "attitude" and I struggle to figure out the best way to address the challenge and win the fight. Because I really, honestly believe I must win the fight. I am absolutely convinced that the kids themselves will truly be disappointed and in some way damaged if I don't. I'm being tested and the kids are the ones doing the grading. It's a tough test, and its one none of us can afford for me to lose. The key is patience and persistence and faith; running 0 for 3. Uncharted territory. But the kids are in bed now, and hey - grace is renewed every morning, right?