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?

Reno Rendezvous 2010 - Day 6

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (in Tahoe that is)...

I was looking forward to breakfast on Friday morning. Stacy has a favorite morning-food restaurant down in South Tahoe she is always talking about, so after we bundled up the kids we all headed downhill to the lake and Heidi's Restaurant. Big omelets (mine with Italian sausage!), piles of pancakes and lots of colorful berry syrups guaranteed to defeat any stain remover they come up against! Suddenly it was time to sleep again. But we didn't!





Dad felt that that big, taunting jackpot was still waiting patiently for him at the casino, so we dropped him off at Harrahs. Stacy, however, had decided to take an even bigger gamble. Inspired by our day on the slopes, she decided, against her own better judgment, to reclaim her youth, vitality, and her dimly remembered life of spontaneity and whimsy and return to snowy reaches. Skibunny Stacy was dropped off at the Heavenly Ski Resort base camp with strong admonitions to avoid trees and avalanches in specific and boys in general. Abandoning Stacy to contend with the yeti, Mimi, L, N and I set off on our own little adventure.

My idea of an outdoorsy vacation is more aligned with a hiking, camping and canoeing sort of paradigm. Much too cold to go out on the lake or to contemplate camping, but I reserved hope that a hike was still doable. With that in mind I'd researched some light-weight hiking trails in and around the lake area and found a couple that looked promising. I chose a short hike that went through a forested area to Fallen Leaf Lake, a pretty little lake just south of Tahoe proper. Not knowing what to expect for snow and passability, I was prepared to be disappointed, but we were able to find the trail and it was sufficiently packed down that it made for quite a nice stroll. L and N were off like snow panthers, bounding off the trail and quickly up to their waists in the drifts. Several snowsucked boots had to be dug out and reattached. The trail wound through woodlands on the edge of a campground (obviously closed for the season), opening on meadows and hopping not-quite-frozen streams. There were rabbit tracks and deer tracks to be identified and followed, logs to be surmounted and boulders to be skirted. N, worse than a Labrador retriever, left a considerable number of little patches of yellow snow.











After running flat for half a mile, the trail made a gentle rise up a slope to a table land overlooking Fallen Leaf Lake. Not wanting to overextend ourselves, we halted at the top and left the descent to the lakeshore for another day. The kids were still happy and energetic, but we figured that to be mercurial and we didn't want to press our luck. After a rest and a particularly refreshing boulder-climb we returned the way we came.

















I promised Mimi that I would in no way recount how on the descent back down the hill we hit one part of the trail that she thought a little challenging, and I assured her that I would refrain from describing in any detail how, at the end of considering all her manifold options, she chose to simply sit down on the trail and slide all the way down on her bum. I also vowed to remain very discrete in relating how nicely wide and well-groomed the smoothed out trail looked after her passing, and to forego mentioning a certain soggy seat one member of our party had on returning to the car. So having made all those promises, I of course can't tell you about that part at all. Sorry.



Once back to the car the kids' joie de vivre evaporated and we headed back to the condo for a change of clothes and attitude. We had a quick lunch at a nearby pub and before we were done we got a "come pick me up" call from Stacy. Back down the hill we found Mommy smiling and, to my relief, in one contiguous piece. We checked on Grampy, but he had financial independence in his sights and was quite happy to remain at Harrahs to deprive them of their profits. Relating the highlights of our hike with Mimi, Stacy was inspired to venture forth again and see the countryside. She suggested a mini-cartrip over to Emerald Bay; she's often told me how much she loved the area and how much she thought I'd appreciate it.

And I did appreciate it, but it was a very good thing that my Dad decided to cast his lot with the gambling crowd and not with us pioneers. The ride to Emerald Bay was truly spectacular, but of the exact sort that would have sent Dad into phobic paralysis. The road to Emerald Bay is the same one we'd taken earlier to Fallen Leaf Lake and initially stays relatively close to the lake, running through woods and small hamlets. Not too far past the turn off to Fallen Leaf Lake, however, it starts making its way up the mountains that line the western shores of Lake Tahoe. These roads were probably the most harrowing of the entire trip. Gorgeous, but deadly. At one point the road zips along for about a mile along a summit ridge, poised precariously between Cascade Lake on the left, and Emerald Bay on the right. The road at that point is a very narrow two-lane job with no room for guard rails, let alone shoulders. The drop off on either side is immediate and plummeting. Dad would have met his Maker.



We proceeded wistfully through the slaloms of the mountain hugging blacktop until we got to Vikingsholm at the southwestern tip of Emerald Bay, where we parked and piled out. The overlook afforded great vistas of the mountains we'd just negotiated, as well as multicolored Emerald Bay, and out beyond the narrow neck that almost make the bay its own lake, the huge expanse of Lake Tahoe proper. Already tired from hiking, skiing and booty-sliding (as the case may be), we didn't stay too long - just long enough for another chance for the kids to drown themselves in snow and make ruin of yet another fresh outfit. On the return home, just as we got to that angst-inspiring bridge between Emerald Bay and Cascade Lake we were nearly blown off the meager road by a half-dozen rangers in SUVs, barrelling over the ridge full-speed with all lights flaring. I'm not sure where they were headed, but for the next half hour as we followed the windy road back to South Tahoe we must have passed another half dozen SUVs all urgently whipping past us.













Back at Harrahs we found a Grampy more inclined to leave his financial stratagems to develop on their own overnight. He joined the troops in the minivan and endured the drive back up the mountain to the condo - a drive that now seemed quite placid to the rest of us. A mellow evening of leftovers and cards followed. Stacy, evidently sucking all the good luck out of the mountain air (much to my Dad's chagrin), made off with another Progressive Rum win.

Bathroom Ballads and Restroom Recitals

Stacy was feeling wiped out, so to give her a few moments peace and quiet I took the kids out for Pho after church. Fortunately, it would turn out, we had the restaurant more or less to ourselves. There were a couple of other people there, but they were mostly waiting on take-out orders or off on the other side of the room. About midway through our meal L decided she needed to go to the bathroom. I risked leaving N alone at the table while I walked L around a divider wall to the bathroom at the end of a little hall. I opened the door and switched on the light for her. It was a big bathroom, quite clean and covered with tile. Letting her slip in, I shut the door behind her and returned to the table.

N and I quietly enjoyed our lunch of soup and cha gio (Vietnamese eggrolls) while waiting for L to accomplish her mission. She took her time. Having learned the L doesn't like to be rushed in these matters, I waited more and more impatiently. Then, from around the wall and down the hall I started to hear what sounded like distant, high-pitched chirping. Was that a trapped bird or something in the kitchen that needed oiling? Confused, I couldn't make it out at first, but slowly it dawned on me. L, off in the bathroom, evidently impressed by the tile-lined acoustics, was pouring out her heart in inspired song. As she swelled and built to a crescendo I nervously glanced around the restaurant, which was, as I previously indicated, blessedly empty. I hoped she'd quickly conclude the ballad, but alas, the aria proved a long one and I was forced once again to play the odds and leave N unattended at the table while I went and gently encouraged Maria Callas to wrap it up.

"You could hear me?" asked L sheepishly as I walked her back to the table.

"As could most of Harbor City," I replied.

It's a Dog's Still Life

Finished another painting last week. It's for my friend Linda from church.



I've never met the dog personally, and I'm told from others that it would probably try to tear my throat out if I ever did. It puts a bit of a damper on the old creative juices to try and paint something that would, all things considered, be perfectly happy to see you dead, so throughout the creative process I chose to imagine a much more mellow and peaceable animal - more of a Lassie in pit-bull form, if you will. ("Look, Timmy! Lassie's brought us back another severed arm! Good girl, Lassie!")

A Pre-Summer Night's Scheme

Stacy is a chronicler of strange anniversaries. I get the point of memorizing the wedding anniversary, the birthdays of our children, etc., etc., but Stacy keeps track of neigh unto everything and affords each reminiscence a surprisingly large allotment of honor and esteem. I usually smile and try to humor her when she reminds me that such-and-such a day is the day we first played Yahtzee together or the first time we ate at the In-N-Out in Costa Mesa. Her plethora of accumulated date marks is generally benign and somewhat amusing, if only for the chance to tease her about her capacity for pointless trivia. Occasionally, however, the preservation for posterity of these less-than-landmark events works to my advantage. Take last night for example. It was either the day of our first date, or the day that I proposed, I can't remember. (But I'm sure I was and will again be reminded.) Stacy cornered me and made me promise to be home from work early enough to go out that night. She wouldn't tell me where - it was to be a surprise. I did so and with babysitter firmly ensconced, we went off for our celebratory evening. First it was dinner at the New Orleans Cajun Cafe in Hermosa Beach and some of the best seafood gumbo I have ever had in my life. (Stacy's Crawfish Etouffee was deadly delicious too.)


Since we came all the way to Hermosa Beach I suspected rightly that we were going to go see something at the Hermosa Beach Playhouse, but it wasn't until we parked the car that I learned she had got us tickets for the South Bay Civic Light Opera's production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." It was a great treat and the perfect call. (I was afraid it was going to be "South Pacific," which, for some unenchanted reason, I can't stand.) I'm a big Shakespeare buff and in particular have always enjoyed this play. The cast was fresh and talented and the performances spot on. The only downside was that we were seated in the thick of a mob of 7th graders evidently getting credit for some lit class. Pubescent barely-teens (much like Bottom, the play's star-stuck tragedian), are quite consummate at making asses of themselves. But at least by the end of the production they had stopped flirting raucously with each other and actually seemed to be pretty well engaged in the production.

All in all, it was a great evening, and it is well-crafted, celebratory events like this that will forever keep alive cherished memories like the first time we got stuck in traffic together on the 405.