Montezuma's Last Stand

What a difference five months makes. That's how long it's been since Dylan's last visit to Mexico and our little chrysalis is now a Mexican butterfly. Can you believe that in November Dylan couldn't even order tequila con limon (she always said "con carne") or buy cheap Vicodin at the pharmacia? Amazing.

Okay, she still can't ... as far as we know, and we did clear customs, but her traveling skills (aka patience) have improved greatly. We no longer have to restrain her on the plane like it's Con Air. I'm actually writing this on the plane and Dylan is sitting quietly on her mother's ever-shrinking lap, watching Curious George. And while Dylan is being as good as possible, Regina's on the verge of vomiting because our seat-neighbor just put on patchouli lotion and now our row smells like the BO from a hundred burning-man hippies. Unfortunately, Dylan has filled every available barf-bag with her snack and toys, so I guess the next option is my lap. Dylan's bored, despite the monkey on the portable DVD, and wants to read (aka "tear apart") our foul smelling neighbor's book. She hasn't yet, and we're proud, but if the patchouli comes out again I'm turning her loose.

Aside from Dylan becoming a better traveler, Regina and I have become much better parents. We've learned the power of candy. Dylan, like her old man, has a complete row of sweet teeth and we take full advantage of it through bribery. Can't stand another second on a cramped bus? Try candy. Need to be quiet before we're asked to leave the restaurant? Candy. I know, the Baby Whisperer might call it bad parenting, but we say bully to her. Besides, they're just baby teeth, if they rot, she'll get new ones.

Puerto Vallarta was a great new city for us. Dylan was excited that our resort had feral cats, but didn't think too highly of the iguanas. We swam, walked the marina, and took little adventures on the butt-breaking local buses into town. Poolside, there were plenty of little Mexican boys for Dylan to oogle at, and I found a place nearby that made killer fish tacos, so everyone was content.

In the end, the trip was just a great, relaxing getaway. No crazy drug-gang shootouts (although the twice daily canon fire from the "pirate" ship kept us on our toes), no blistering sunburns (I always remembered to pass out beneath an umbrella), and no Montezuma's Revenge.

So Puerto Vallarta, keep your fish taco frying, your beer cold, and your pharmaceutical regulations loose, because the Eastside Gang will be coming back.

The (Eastside) Road

If you've read Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," you'll recall that it is about a father and son trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic world and find "the good guys," all the while pushing a shopping cart full of their belongings. If you haven't read it, thank you for choosing my blog over, quite possibly, America's greatest writer.

We're reading it for class right now, so it's on my mind. The book says a lot about a father's love, cannibalism, and the best way to carry all your stuff in a cart. The familial love part is nice and meaningful, but Dylan, probably by listening to me yammer on about the novel, has learned how to fit her belongings not in a cumbersome shopping cart with a wonky wheel, but in her arms. She'd kick ass in post-apocalyptic America. Or in a McCarthy novel.

Trips in the car, walks around the yard, even moving from one room to another, all require a transfer of supplies that resemble a US military exit strategy. We call it "Operation Toy Grab." A ride in the truck requires, minimum, one pacifier (mi-mi), one small blanket (night-night), and often a book, pencil, small Diego toy, Diego's puma, and anything that resembles a kitty. Around the house, Dylan usually packs a small piano, her Leap Frog caterpillar, a recorder, and anything else that will fit into her arms.

Regina's started calling her the Bag Lady. I'd call her something from "The Road," but none of the characters are named. Dylan's greatest achievement in supply-carrying comes at bedtime. To sleep properly, we must have mi-mi, night-night, a stuffed cat she got in a trade with Malcolm, a dolly, Hello Kitty pillow, and in the tight grip of her hands, a Baby Barbie and a Hello Kitty ring. It's exhausting to even remember what she needs, but if I've forgotten just one item, I can't get to to the door without her calling out, "Daddy. Ring? Ring?"

Oh sure, you're wondering why we allow it, right? Or are you still wondering if we read Cormac McCarthy novels to Dylan before bedtime? We don't, yet. And to answer the first question, we've tried to "forget" some of her swag on road trips, and the hell unleashed from the back seat made us turn around for whatever trinket we'd left behind.

I hate pushing Dylan into growing up too quickly, but I won't miss having to run a mental checklist of everything required to travel/sleep/walk. I've gotten so good at remembering exactly what situation requires which toy that I usually forget A) my necessities (wallet), or B) Dylan's real necessities (diapers). And heck, when she's just a little taller I'm going down to the WalMart parking lot and swiping her a real cart of her own.

Little Dylan the Wrangler

Last week, Regina and I went to a wine tasting party. I learned that I am very good at tasting lots of wines, yet horrible at determining the difference between, say, two-buck chuck and the host's wedding wine.

I also learned that I wrangle. Granted, I live on a ranch (wranch?), I wear Wranglers, and I know the words to the old western song, "Little Joe the Wrangler," but I'd always reserved the terms "wrangler" (as an occupation) and "wrangle" (as a verb) for summer-camps and dude ranches. But then I had this conversation with a wined-up party-goer:
SHE: What do you do?
ME: I'm a rancher.
SHE: Oh my God!
ME: (flinching) Yep.
SHE: What time do you wrangle?
ME: (confused) Um. Five?
SHE: Can I help wrangle? I'm .. blah ... horses ... wrangle ... blah ... horse ... blah ...
ME: Yep. We can wrangle.
REGINA: Stop calling it that!

A couple of weeks ago, Dylan and I did a little wrangling. A couple of weeks ago, I just called it "moving cattle," or, "a cattle drive," but now I have a cool word for it.

Dylan was, to my relief and joy, very excited about getting on a horse. She's only sat on a few of the older "kids'-horses" (okay, and a horse no one had yet ridden, but he is very gentle. I swear.), so when I put her on my saddle-horse and we took off after the cattle, I expected shrieks of terror and a quick return to mommy. Instead, she laughed at the uncomfortable trotting and yelled at the cows. "Move! Cow!"

I was impressed. Once the cows lined out and slowed down a little, and we no longer needed Sparky, my horse, to trot, bite, or push, Dylan finally got bored and wanted down. I thought about giving her the "cowgirls don't quit on the herd," lecture, but I thought better. Besides, Dylan had made it nearly three miles, sitting or bouncing on a saddle horn. I'd have called it quits long before that. The pain in her butt couldn't compare to her sheer unbridled (mind the pun) joy.

So now I have these two things: a daughter who loves horses and my very own little wrangler. I need to go to more wine tasting parties. It's amazing what I learn.

Photocopied Finger

Regina and I went to the doctor's last week for our second sonogram (which is just the technical term for an ultrasound -- we asked -- and is not to be confused with a Sonicare or a mammogram, unless the technician is extra-thorough). After they dumped half a bottle of green slime on Regina's belly, the technician measured just about everything on our squirmy baby. (We remembered that Dylan, too, was a wiggly baby. I think Regina and I are in for it.)

The coolest thing about our tech was her "working voice." While she looked and clicked and measured, she told us exactly what she was doing in a lilting voice that was like a soft, pleasant song, like something from Sara McLachlan or The Cranberries. "Now I'm measuring baby's kidneys," she'd sing. "Encore!" Regina and would shout as we waved our arms and held up our lighters.

As we neared the end of our concert, I mean appointment, the technician asked if we still wanted to know the gender of our baby. Regina and I aren't into surprises, and we'd already made up our minds that we wanted to know as much as possible about the new roommate we were getting. I looked up at the monitor to see if I could tell before she told us. Every image she'd captured up until then looked nothing like a baby to me. "See the baby's nose," she'd point. "There?" "No, that's MY nose, but nice try," she'd reply. Other, more plausible, options that I saw on the ultrasound's screen were 1) the surface of the moon, or 2) leftover casserole. But a baby? No.

But this time, when she asked the gender question, I glanced up at the screen and saw something that looked like a photocopied finger. I'm no doctor, but I was pretty certain Baby Turtle was a boy. I was right.

With Dylan, we had decided on a boy's name (or, rather, a different name for a boy, since, let's face it, Dylan is kind of a boy's name), but were uncertain about a girl's names. For Turtle, the opposite is true. This means either giving our son a girl's name or that we have only four months to come up with a boy's name. The name negotiations will probably take longer than California budget negotiations, and ours involve thumb wrestling and Google searches.

Dylan, we think, will be happy to have a little brother. After all, there aren't too many girls who are her age around here, so she's used to boys. And, as Maddock pointed out, a little brother will come in handy for deterring young grinders when high school dances roll around (and I won't have to chaperone).

Until then, we'll keep our image of the photocopied finger on the refrigerator and try to convince Dylan that Mommy doesn't have a full tummy, rather, she's having a boieeeee.

Dancing: A Cautionary Tale

A friend of mine recently chaperoned Etna High's homecoming dance. He was only slightly disturbed by the grinding on the dance floor, but was generally unimpressed. That is, until he noticed his daughter dancing, a recipient of the aforementioned grinding.

I've seen this guy completely dismantle men in fist fights, and, I suppose, his first reaction was to do the same to the young grinder. Instead, he calmly told the boy that if he danced like that with his daughter again, he'd break his arms off.

The story is both a cautionary tale (be careful with whom you choose to grind) and a beautiful story for fathers of daughters. I know I'll hang on to it for a long time and will retell it to Dylan before her first school dance.

But really, what it makes me think about is how soon that first dance will be. No, Dylan's daycare isn't holding a Spring Formal (good thing, the girls outnumber the boys 3:1), but, as the old cliche goes, she's growing up too fast.

It seems like yesterday Dylan was sticking her fingers up my nose and asking, "Booger?" Okay, maybe that was yesterday, but it'll be sooner rather than later when picking her father's nose, or even her father picking his own nose, in public will embarrass her.

It feels like overnight Dylan has gone from coo-ing and drooling to a little monkey who can climb into her dinner chair, answer questions (How old are you? "ONE!" Did you poop? "Mmmm-Hmm."), and count to ten (one. THREE! nine. TEN!). Time seems only speeds up exponentially. This is only good during the NBA season and bouts of the stomach flu, but it's too fast for parenting.

As the old joke goes: when boys start showing up like tom cats at our door, I only have to shoot the first one and word will get around. I know that only a father of a daughter could have written that, and soon I'll probably start seriously considering if that's a viable option. I'll know that it won't be, but the break-off-the-arms-thing, that just might work.

Super Baby

We broke in the new addition last weekend with a Superbowl party. Dylan thinks any gathering of three or more people is a party for her, and she's usually right. And why wouldn't she be? People brought snack foods (her favorite) and most of the kids who came were boys (her other favorite -- until I teach her that boys are icky).

We had a table loaded with awesome treats: smoked salmon dip, chips, nacho cheese, smoked cheese, stuffed mushrooms, little smokies ... it was a dangerous gastronomical cocktail which gave me a food induced hangover. Well, that and the beer. But Dylan loved it; she parked herself next to the table like a stray dog begging for table scraps. "Chip?" she'd ask anyone who approached. Most thought that Dylan was a kind and thoughtful hostess, offering her guests chips.

We know better. "Chip?" as a question simply means For the Love of God, Give Me a Chip. Now. Once everyone caught on to her chip gathering scheme and her tummy was full of pressed corn goodness, she ventured outside to play with the boys.

She still says "boy" like Flavor Flav says it ... stretching out the Y at the end of boy, like it's a long i-eeeee. Flavor Flav isn't the best role model, he's not even good for language lessons, so we won't be getting her the giant clock medallion or a creepy show on VH1 any time soon. Although we would let her duet with Chuck D if he wanted to do a Public Enemy reunion tour (80s rap joke alert!).

Outside, Dylan accosted anyone who came out to the cooler for a beer. "Swing?" she'd ask the party guests who, by now, were a few beers in. They'd politely tell the persistent little urchin who was guarding the cooler that, no thank you, they'd rather not swing on a full stomach, and besides, halftime was about over, but thanks for asking. Little did they know that "Swing?" is neither a question nor an option -- it's a command. Much like "Chip?" is a demand.

Those unfortunate enough to deny Dylan her swing time found out the hard way that a five minute session pushing Dylan on the swing was a prerequisite for getting a beer from the cooler. Most of the guys started bringing in four or five beers at a time.

As the afternoon faded into evening, everyone came inside. Like a little Martha Stewart, Dylan roamed the party and made sure the guests were happy and didn't have any unwanted chips on their plates.

When bedtime finally rolled around, Dylan was hesitant to leave her party, but her snuggly jammies and warm milk trumped etiquette, so, with a wave and a loud, "Night-night" to everyone, and after several escapes from bed -- just to make sure everyone still missed her -- the queen of the party finally fell asleep.

Chickens in the Outfield

Last spring, I was driving to my English class in Yreka and, as I passed the ball park in Ft. Jones, I saw that the JV baseball team was practicing. As I frequently do, I shifted my attention from the road for a while because something caught my eye. The boys has stopped practicing because there were chickens in the outfield. One poor kid, probably a freshman, was in charge of herding the chickens off the field. Herding chickens is akin to herding cats or small children and this guy was having a rough go at it.

I almost pulled over to watch. All I could do was think, "That's so country."

Regina points out the extra-country things that we witness in Siskiyou County and that I usually take for granted or think are perfectly normal. I can tell when her internal country-alarm sounds because it causes one eyebrow to raise and is followed by short, incredulous questions. Rat batting? Really? or, You need another gun ... because? or, A sleeveless Motley Crue shirt, and you're in the wedding?

When I think about Dylan growing up, I realize it'll be here, in this valley. Her childhood will be a lot like mine: she'll think that taking a trip "to town" means going to Etna, and that "the city" is any town, village, or actual city that is larger than Etna (pop. 781). She'll also think that every town outside of Siskiyou County is like Kingpin or Witness, where poor country folks get taken advantage of in big cities.

My latest "country" incident happened in the barber shop. Mind you, "The Palace" has deer, elk, and caribou mounts on the walls and is in itself pretty country. I was in the chair and Richard was working on my hair when a woman and her young son came in. They were familiar with both barbers and chatted about guns, ammunition, shooting guns, and Obama taking their guns. The woman wasn't young, but had a tiny diamond nose stud, which made her a little more attractive, or at least a little more unusual for Yreka.

The woman in the barber shop chatting about hunting didn't really strike me as out of the ordinary. What really struck me was the fact that this woman came to town for her son's haircut dressed head to toe in camo. Not even hunting camo, but a camo sweatsuit. One you'd lounge around the cabin in. Here was a modern woman with a nose stud, fully prepared to hide in a forested area, sitting in a barber shop and talking about the best places to buy ammo.

"That's pretty country," I thought.

As of now, Dylan only owns one item of camo clothing. Regina has some sort of one article of camo clothing per growth spurt rule. That's now, but the country is as much a part of Dylan as it is me. It's even sneaking into Regina, too. I can just imagine Dylan in a few years, dressed in her camo sweats, chasing the chickens off the field so soccer practice can start.