The ‘Hood

We are currently in the midst of the time of year that explains why people would ever choose to live here voluntarily. From the months of August through late November Humboldt County experiences it’s only two traditional seasons: Summer and Fall. For the remaining months of the year we go through our other seasons Wet, Really Wet, Foggy, Miserable, Suicide Inducing and Windy. And believe it or not, this 4 month window makes up for all of it.

Because we realize just how important this time of year is to our physical and mental health, we take as many opportunities as possible to immerse ourselves in it. Our evening walks are a family affair, and are more about quality family time than they are about vigorous cardiovascular activity. Keeping these two kids on task is akin to herding an ADD clowder of cats. Porter usually goes back and forth about whether or not he will let his princely feet touch the ground, but when he does, he becomes harder to retrieve than an off-leash Ranger. He has a complete disregard for the idea of Private Property, and I am pretty certain it is only a matter of time before a neighbor finds an adorable but volatile 2-year-old wandering on their porch. Stella, on the other hand, cannot let any animal go ungreeted or piece of nature un-analyzed. Keeping her from picking everyone’s carefully cultivated flowerbeds is like attempting to deprive her of air.

Our immediate and extended neighborhood are an interesting hodge-podge of rural landscape. Our house falls in a cluster of modest ranch-style dwellings originally built in the early to mid 1960’s. It is unimpressive at first glance, but we have always seen it for what it eventually will become, not for what it is right now. It was the location and lot that drew us to 111, not the upside-down cabinets and single pane windows. There is actually a good group of people on our street, and much to our surprise, a lot of kids.

The road that runs perpendicular to ours is a small extension to our mini sub-division of houses, then rolls into what we refer to as “Little Oklahoma”. This area is populated with a delectable group of livestock-owning, cars-in-front-yard-sporting, penned-up-hound-possessing residents that are not uncommon in the rural enclaves around these parts. What is also not uncommon is that this area is interlaced with about a dozen or so newly built sprawling homes. Let’s just say that although there are homes in this area whose main design feature is a blue tarp, the remaining unbuilt lots at the end of the road are rumored to be priced somewhere in the $700K range. This is our usual route. And although it is less than a mile, it takes us the better part of an hour.

As we were heading out of the house one of the days last week I decided to run back in at the last minute and grab my camera. I figured this was one of those things that you can’t really understand unless you see it. And although I didn’t find an opportunity to get any good shots of our Dust Bowl Era settlers, I was able to capture a the essence of our evening stroll.

You’ll see the rubber frog that lives on the landscaping out front of one of the houses along the way. This frog has become a holy touchstone for both children. It gets man-handled and re-position each time we pass it. I also was sure to include the cat that is brave enough to hang out with us even though we have a large salivating dog who is still somewhere around step 2 in his cat 12-step program. (you’ll notice that there are a handful of pictures of Porter with the cat, then a shot of Ranger who is a great distance away and still fixated on the fact that there is a CAT, A CAT, A CAT!!!) More than anything, though, I just wanted to capture the beauty that reminds me why we choose to call this place home.

=porter steve stella ranger
(click photo to see the entire set)

Bunk Mates

After months of threatening, and weeks and weeks of researching, we finally made an impulse decision, and bought the kids a set of bunk beds yesterday. We ultimately came to the realization that they are BUNK BEDS and not a set of heirloom Chippendale end tables, and went with the $299 version we found at a local furniture store. They fit our minimum criteria of solid “not dark” wood and were convertible into separate beds, for that moment when Stella starts complaining that she caught Porter secretly snooping through her text message log and whines about having to share her room with her like totally lame younger brother.

If I would have written this last night I would have expounded about the effortless bedtime ritual. Tonight, on the other hand, required a licensed counselor. Stella missed her old bed. Porter required not one, not two, not, three, but seven or eight bedtime rituals before he was content to voluntarily go down for the night. By the time we were finally able to leave their room without subsequent screaming, it was almost 9:30pm.

Right before Stella went to bed last night I reminded her where the stairs on her new bed were and told her that if she had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and couldn’t find them to just yell for me. I would much rather deal with the inevitable night waking than the middle-of-the-night-sheet-changing. And so, at 4:55am I heard the call, and was (moderately) happy to heed the call. The unfortunate downside to this predicament is that she woke herself up enough to have difficulty getting herself back to sleep. Finally, after three return visits, I insisted she just get into bed with us so that I could get another hour of sleep. Steve was already up and surfing the internet by the time Porter shuffled out of bed, and so I suggested he climb in with Stella and I. That lasted all of about seven and a half seconds before all three of us were up and ready for the day.

I am fully prepared for the fact that for tonight and many nights forward, I will again be summoned as a middle-of-the-night bathroom wingman. It’s not like it is anything new, considering I have to make the usual nocturnal runs for the single purpose of standing sentinel while she attends to her business. This is, obviously, the earliest form of the Female Group Bathroom Run. And I guess all I can say is, “Don’t worry Stel, I got your back.”

She Shoots, She Scores, She Laughs, She Cries

Yesterday was the, ahem, kick-off to Stella’s first soccer season. And for those who haven’t witnessed the joy and splendor of the Under 6 category of youth soccer, you have not lived the joy and sorrow of life. And Stella was no exception. Anyone who has ever met my daughter will back me up when I say that this girl was built for physical activity. It’s a perfect trifecta of 1.) physical powerhouse, 2.) bottomless pit of energy, and 3.) a relentless desire to be a participator. And let me just say that in sports, this girl has found her calling.

She went to her first practice on Tuesday where we met her new team-mates and coach. And can I just say that when I use the word “practice” I am using this term in its loosest possible definition. Watching a group of 4 and 5 year olds vie for control of a mini-soccer ball is like watching an drunk swarm of bees. With crying.

I was thrilled to find that their coach is the embodiment patience and enthusiasm. He interjected nothing but fun, supportive and happy mojo throughout the entire process, and was quick to accommodate in whatever way made the process a positive and fun experience for these aspiring footballers. Pervasive throughout each moment of joy and sorrow there was one consistent and clear message: just have fun.

As for my girl, she wore her uniform every day for the three preceding days leading up to the game, however had a somewhat disappointing experience when attempting to do some home practicing. Yes, we have a great yard for kicking the ball around, but we also have a dog who can fit the entire ball in his mouth – and subsequently run off with it. Cue the crying…and the 4-year-old equivalent of cussing out the dog.

And although practice was entertainment worthy of network television, I knew that game day was going to be the epicenter of color-coordinated soccer-loving crazy. Their games are not officially scored, and the refs were well versed in the enforcement of emotional harmony over strict adherence to official league regulations. Want to shoot your goal into the neighboring field’s net? Sure! Covertly use your hands to bump the ball back in the other direction? Well, okay. Just this once. Need an emergency pee break mid-quarter? No problem. We’ll see you when you get back.

Life moves so quickly these days, and my ability to blur out the rest of the world and reflect entirely on my kids as individuals doesn’t come nearly as frequently as I would like. Yesterday was a gimme. There was no way I could look out on that field at that little girl so earnestly participating and not feel nostalgic. Once that first whistle blew, and she was out there on that field she was wholly engrossed in the task at hand, running and kicking her little heart out – and sometimes even within the boundaries of the field she was playing in.

stella

Year 8: Coming Home

Today is Steve and I’s 8th wedding anniversary. 8 years. We are officially at that point in our relationship where there aren’t a whole lot of surprises. In fact, I would be willing to wager that if we were to enter the guess-what-your-doorknob-touching-spouse-is-going-to-say-next tourney, we’d be easily advancing to the finals about now. It’s that point in marriage where we know each other’s bizarre, yet predictable idiosyncratic ways. That point when you eerily start looking like one another. And accordingly, it is that point where sometimes we need to reassure one other that yes, we will be coming home at the end of the day.

Instead of adhering to one of the traditional/modern gifts, we opted for the more abstract theme of ink. More specifically, we got tattoos. Steve settled on his artwork pretty quickly, however I spent a ridiculous amount of time searching for the unfindable. Typical. So, after spending the better part of 2 months searching for the Loch Ness Monster of tattoo artwork, I re-focused my search, and settled on something that worked pretty nicely in terms of beauty and meaning.

As it ended up, Steve and I both went with artwork including swallows. The significance of the swallow in tattoo artwork has become almost cliché, however it was that retro component that we both found appealing. When in doubt, go back to the beginning. And, among other things, swallows are a symbol of loyalty, fidelity and coming home. Because in the end, I always will.

elvis
(click on The King to see the entire set)