Sacramento Highlights

Last weekend, Regina had a conference in Sacramento and, like any good sugar-mama would do, she let her hillbilly hubby and rugrats tag along.  Aside from feeding Grady chicken satay (peanut sauce -- he's allergic) and letting Dylan hang out with panhandlers, I'd say I did an alright job of guiding a couple of country-kids around the capital.  The weekend was a blast, but each one of us had his or her own personal highlight.

We spent Saturday night with some friends in Folsom.  Martin and Anna have two kids approximately our kids' age, so our suffering is nearly equal, and it gave us plenty to drink talk about.  If I had been kidnapped by Russians (you know, when they were cool and kicked ass) and sent to the same facility where Ivan Drago trained in Rocky IV, I would, today, look a lot more like Martin.  He's the Uber-Judd, and Grady fell in love.  Grady would flee from my arms to go hang out with his BFF, Martin.  Better looking?  Check.  More fun?  Check.  Grady learned that having two dads was waaaay better than one, and Martin seemed to really like Grady.  Plus, they had a great bar, so neither of us wanted to leave.  I was content sipping Guiness and Grady just wanted to drool on his new dad.

For Dylan, the highlights never ended.  Just the fact that we got to stay in a "hotel-house" was pretty fun, but it also had an indoor pool.  Yes! and Yes!  Also, we stayed in Old Sac, which, in about three square blocks contains nothing but restaurants, tattoo parlors, and candy shops.  Dylan learned quickly that, because of the intense competition between "Candy Heaven," "Sugar High," and "Hey Kid, Want Some Candy?", the shopkeepers were pretty liberal with their free samples.  I retaliated every sample by leaving both kids unattended in their candy-packed stores until their highs wore off.

And Regina?  She kind of geeks-out at conferences, so I'd say that sitting in a convention center with other like-minded educators was, for her, loads of fun.  But, seeing friends and family, eating awesome Pho, and having a never-ending supply of dirty martinis made her weekend a long string of highlights.  And I think the rest of us were just good enough to get to tag along for her next conference.  Fallon, NV, look out 'cause here we come!

An Open Letter To February

Dear February:

I don't understand you.  We'll talk about the stupid way you spell your name and your measly twenty-eight days in a bit.  But the mind games you play, the ups and the downs, let me address those now.  You began beautifully.  Sure, snow would have been nice, but you brought the sunshine.  If I didn't know you so well I'd of thought you were March (or April.  Meeeow!).  You're blushing, but it's true.  Blue skies, crisp mornings, sunny days, it was glorious.  We hustled to our tractors and farmed like it was late spring.  And we got a lot done, so thanks.

Then you had to go and hand out a round of RSV to both kids and a sinus/ear infection to Grady.  And having Grady cut both eye-teeth at the same time?  Come on!  I'm sending you a bill for the chair legs he chewed up trying to ease the pain.  Still, you let the monkeys off easier than last year (you were a real prick in '10), and we appreciate it, really.  Grady's even named you "Kitty," and that's an honor only a step below "Mama."

But, I've got to admit, you sucker-punched us with our first school Valentine's Day party.  Who knew candy was the new expression of love and friendship?  Okay, I knew, but I didn't think that knowledge was mainstream yet.  Dylan's still not over her sugar-high -- here she is at her worst:

Just when I thought you might be cool and we could hang out, you hit me with the never-ending flu.  And you mocked me with it.  You took all my sense of taste the day before Regina and I went to our favorite restaurant, then gave it back, for one night only, during dinner.  You let me recover just enough to see Ryan Bingham in concert, then kicked me to the curb when I started bragging how much better I was feeling.

Nobody likes a complainer, so I'll be positive.  You taught me a few things that I'll always carry with me.  Things like: I can successfully blame fever-sweats on a faulty heating system in my classroom, or codine + Nyquil = crazy dreams, and most importantly, don't cough and pee at the same time.

So, goodbye, jerkface.  And here's a little advice for next year.  First, bring some snow, it's winter, remember?  Next, buy a couple of extra days to fill the calendar like a real month and, finally, drop that stupid silent "r," it makes you seem pretentious.  You just might fit in after all.

Sincerely,

The Eastside Gang

The Book of Dylan

While the chances of Dylan joining the priesthood, or a nunnery, or holding any mid-level non-secular job seem as unlikely as the Seahawks making it to the playoffs Superbowl, she has been, lately, infatuated with Baby Jesus and God.  I think the trifecta of Grady's baptism, Christmas, and a steady dose of religion from Grandma have piqued her interest.

Has Dylan reached a level of holiness that we cannot fathom?  Is she the Golden Child?  No.  She still beats our pets with sticks and regularly throws tantrums that make the neighbors lock their doors.  But, once she puts down her weapons and dries her eyes (and we unlock the door), she'll ask questions like, "Where's God?"  If we respond with "Everywhere," she starts listing.  "Our house?" "Yes." "The barn?" "Yes." "Julie's house?" and on, and on, and on.

Last weekend I took Dylan snowboarding.  Since I usually go on Sundays, going to the mountain is often my church, and maybe that feeling rubbed off on Dylan.  On the way there, she asked if Baby Jesus would be on Mt. Shasta.  I told her that He would, but He'd probably be spending most of his time boarding the backcountry.  He's hardcore like that.

Questions about God or Jesus come up all the time.  For now, we can give her pretty much any answer and she's happy.  But if she gets a little more biblical knowledge, Regina and I will have to brush up on our religion.  Here's an example of a typical theological conversation between Regina and myself:  So ... Moses.  He's the guy with the whale, right?  Maybe.  Wasn't he the baby, floating down the river?  And then a whale ate him?  Yes?  And that reminds me, we need to pump up our inner tubes so we can float the Scott River this weekend.  Awesome.

Somewhere (Grandma's) Dylan learned that we shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.  When she's around, we can't say: Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ, Jesus, Jeeze, Young Jeezy, Cheese Whiz, or Chimichunga.  If we utter any one of those, she'll reprimand us.  I love it when our Catholic cousins slip with a "Gee."  Dylan's right on top of it and scolds them.  "It's not nice to say 'Jesus.'"  It's like catching a Mormon saying "crap."  A rare and treasured gift.

Dylan still gets time-out on the pew on our front porch for all sorts of bad behavior, so I'm pretty sure she isn't ready for the convent, yet.  I'm trying to clean up my potty mouth and hopefully we'll strike a balance.  And in the meantime?  Go Seahawks.

Like A Cheese Stick

When I asked Regina what she wanted for Christmas, just behind a Jaguar XJ and Dance Dance Revolution was, simply, a date.  "What about our weekend in Portland?" I asked.  I got The Look.  "That was with Grady at OHSU."  Okayyyy.  "We just went went to Medford," I offered.  I should have quit while I was only in a shallow hole.  "Both kids, and, again, at a hospital."  I knew I had to act.

It wasn't fancy, but we took New Year's Eve Day (the official holiday for parents of young children) and went to Ashland.  After lunch we went ice skating in the park.  That sounds romantic, right?  It may be, but I'm a 200 pound gorilla flailing around on hockey skates, not Brian Boitano.  Apparently, the only adult males who skate at this rink are all professionals.  Except for me, of course.  After an hour there, my New Year's Resolution was to do one of those cool ice-spray stops that hockey players do.  I got as far as a slow stop, wall grab, and slip.  We finally had to hang up our skates when Regina got taken out by a toddler pushing around a "learning aid" (read: walker).

We limped around town, enjoyed some wine and cheese, and watched True Grit.  Our date may have continued indefinitely, but our parental responsibilities (read: guilt) kicked in and we came home to gather the kids, watch Dick Clark, and down some old champagne to welcome in 2011 (EST, of course).

For an encore, that Sunday we decided on a Family Date Day and took the monkeys sledding.  Watching Dylan rip down an icy slope is as fun as watching old people dance: there's a chance for a wreck at any moment.  Grady's not ready for high speed sledding, so he basically sat in the snow and cried.

On the way home, Grady fell asleep and I turned on the radio for some noise other than Dylan's requests for more hot chocolate.  The Far East Movement's song "Like a G6" came on and, to my surprise, Dylan started singing along.  I thought it was funny that she knew the lyrics to something other than the Avett Brothers' "I & Love & You," or "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" until I really listened closely.  For a three-year old, her rendition was perfect.  "Now I'm feeling so fly like a Cheese Stick, like a Cheese Stick."  What a great ending to my date-weekend.  I felt so fly.  Like a Cheese Stick.

Christmas Reflections

During our post-Christmas debriefing, Regina and I were discussing our favorite part of this holiday season.  For me, it was the build-up.  Watching Dylan's Christmas excite-o-meter bump up another notch with each new open door on her chocolate filled advent calendar was the coolest part.  It was like watching someone blow up a balloon much bigger than you thought imaginable.  For Regina, it was Christmas morning.  When Grady received a gift he appreciated, he settled in and started playing, uninterested in the gifts, the toys, the chaos around him.  Dylan, on the other hand, tore open each gift -- I LOVE IT!!! NEXT!!! -- and watching the yin and yang of those two was the joy for Regina.

Let me rewind.  After our trip to Cabo, we returned and immediately jumped into super-holiday mode.  The first item on the list was the tree-cutting.  Often, that involves lots of peppermint schnapps and hot chocolate, dogs and dads roaming the woods like lost hunters, and a truckload of freezing kids.  This year, we braved it alone.  We slid and spun our way over backroads to get to the perfect super-secret tree spot.  We arrived with a triumphant chest pounding and I turned around to see both kids sound asleep in their car seats.  I slogged through the snow alone, found two good trees, and returned to a truckload of well rested children.

After tree and house decorating, the spirit of Santa really hit.  We had Christmas tunes playing on Pandora radio 24-7 (Regina's favorite, R&B Christmas.  Mine, "Little Drummer Boy" on loop).  Dylan got into the spirit of things by making up her own versions of Christmas carols.  Frosty the Snowman, apparently, is an Old Mermaid, and "Jingle Bells" has just one verse, and it's sung on repeat for hours on end.  Grady loves any music but bangs his head especially hard, like he's at a Def Leppard concert, whenever Christmas tunes come on.  At the Christmas Eve service, Grady crawled up to the alter and sat underneath the piano and danced while we all sang "O Come All Ye Faithful."  At church that night, he got to sit on Santa's lap.  He alternated between crying, because a thin Santa was holding him and not his Dad, and smiling, because, damn, that's a cool beard.  Dylan climbed on his lap and sat, stone-faced, for about five minutes; I think she was disappointed in his thinness.

And all this, of course, brings us to Christmas morning.  Santa had eaten the cookie, decorated with gummy bears and peppermints stuck into inch thick frosting, that we left out for him (oh, my gut), and had filled our stockings.  We shuffled out to the living room and Dylan realized that full stockings = Santa.  When we reminded her that Christmas is also Jesus's birthday, she nearly blew a gasket.  "It's Baby Jee-jus birthday? Yiiiii!!!!"  Grady found his perfect toy, a dump truck, and Dylan spun in a gift wrapped whirling dervish until bed time (mercifully, without any meltdowns -- another Christmas miracle!).  And when it was all said and done, Regina and I sat down and talked about the day.  It's too easy to race through Christmas without much reflection, especially with young kids in the house, and I was thankful that we could reminisce about the past month and put some perspective on the season.  And you thought our "debriefing" meant something else.   Shame on you.

Cruisin' Cabo

Our trips to Mexico have become so routine that we've established a few Mexico-holiday traditions.  Not "Mexican-holiday" traditions: we don't spend a day making tamales with our family, or watching luchadores hit each other with folding-chairs.  But, our traditions do revolve around food and folding-chairs, so it practically makes us local.

We generally bounce between the pool and the beach, then go out in the afternoon for an early dinner.  If Cabo had early-bird dinner specials, we'd shame the senior citizens with our prompt arrivals.  Then it's a stroll through town and off to bed.  When that routine happens year after year, it becomes tradition.

Grady's been to Mexico before, but not Cabo, and so he was initiated into the fraternity of gringos this trip. For starters, our Cabo-Thanksgiving tradition is eating at El Pollo de Oro.   Except for the taco-stand by the bus stop and the churro vendor on the corner, it's our favorite restaurant least likely to seat a gringo.  Meaning, it's awesome.  We forfeit the traditional turkey, stuffing, and pumpkin pie for mole' enchiladas, fish veracruz, ribs, and micheladas.  It's a great trade.

The expansion of our family has slightly changed or evolved our traditions.  Regina and I used to get barraged with requests to buy drugs and check out local strippers.  Add one child, those solicitations get cut by three-quarters, add another and they drop to zero.  Now we just turn down requests to see timeshare presentations or beach vendors selling fake silver jewelry.

Our pool traditions, too, have morphed from how many Dirty Monkeys is it possible to order during Happy Hour, to watching Grady cruise the pool chairs and seeing how high I can toss Dylan in the air (while we're in the pool, of course).  And, instead of Cabo Wabo for dinner and music, the Giggling Marlin for upside down tequila shots, and El Squid Roe for ... I forget, now it's Ni How Kai Lan in Spanish and reading in bed.

This isn't by any means a compliant.  I love watching Grady do laps in his lounge-chair playpen and seeing Dylan's confidence in the water expand to the point I get nervous.  And I'd trade a good mole' sauce and a caramel churro for jello shots any day (But the bacon-wrapped hot dogs from the street- stand? Not as good as it sounds.  I'd opt for a jello shot over those again).  And who knows, once Grady is able to swim around on his own, he may just fold up a pool chair and crack it over my head, just like a real luchador.  Now that would be a Cabo tradition worth starting.

And Now, Bad Poetry

I was cutting hay last summer,
Starting to go insane
From trying to beat the storm clouds
And getting My, My, My Poker Face out of my brain.

When I caught a glimpse of something
From the corner of my eye,
I had to do a double-take:
It was a bird that could not fly.

No, not an owl with a busted wing,
Or a lark run down while day-dreaming,
But an emu, yes, an emu,
And I instantly started scheming.

I'd catch that feral flightless bird
We'd have a unique pet
I'd take it for long walks on Sundays
And teach it to fetch and set.

So, I chased it with a 4-wheeler,
But it refused to be caught
It would not go into the corral
It occurred to me, "Emu's are dumber than I thought."

The emu?  Well, it disappeared.
It bested me in battle,
But then it showed up two months later
Living happily amongst our cattle.

This time I tried a new approach
I flanked it with my car
And Regina ran behind it
To ensure it couldn't go far.

Captured!  I put it in a trailer;
It loaded a lot easier than I thought
And I drove it to our house
Hoping I wouldn't get caught

For emu-rustling, is that a crime?
Could I go to the clink?
I started having second thoughts
Besides, what do emus eat and drink?

But I couldn't let it loose again,
I felt bad for the wing-ed freak,
And my kids think it is such great fun
To have a pet with a giant beak.

If you've never been up close and personal
To a prehistoric beast
Come by our house, but time's running out

The emu's center of our Thanksgiving feast.