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.

Two Strike Santa

A year ago, Santa was a pretty cool dude, or at least Dylan tolerated his constant chuckling and peppermint breath. He was big, fuzzy, didn't seem to mind a little milk spit-up, and gave out treats that usually weren't allowed at home.

A year later, the "n" in Santa has moved inexplicably to the end of his name (a word puzzler!). He's now frightening and hostile, and, despite the candy and gifts, (hell, despite being her Uncle Greg), he's just downright scary.

It would be easier to drop a cat into a water trough than to set Dylan on St. Nick's lap. What do you mean you've never tried to drop a cat into a water trough? Let me tell you, it doesn't work. That much I know. Just as cats have the cartoon-like ability to run horizontally in mid-air and reattach (painfully) to the object which just released it (which is you, the bad person who thought Mr. Mittens needed a bath), Dylan has the same ability. You start to set her down on that big, red, fuzzy lap, and as soon as you let go, she's right back in your arms like a human yo-yo.

We've trimmed Dylan's nails, but I think she files them to sharp points on her bed posts at night. And whenever she hears, "Ho, ho, ho," those claws come out and grab hold. I've lost a nice shirt because of Santa; Regina's nose may have a permanent scar.

Like good parents who are full of the season's warm spirit, we tried Santa at a Grange Christmas party in Callahan. Great food, fun company, and a very speedy exit as soon as Santa appeared.

We were smart on Dylan's next Santa appointment: we were out of town and left the task to cousin Julie and her daughters. I think Regina mentioned, as we were leaving, that a photo of Dylan on Santa's lap would be nice. From what we read in the police blotter, the results were worse than in Callahan. I'll give the girls credit, they really tried, but in the end, Dylan had a lopsided victory over Santa. Sorry Greg, I mean Santa.

Despite her fear and maiming, we still think Dylan's made the "nice" list. We just hope that she's sound asleep when Santa comes down our chimney this year.

The 5 Days of Christmas

Regina and I like to challenge people. No, not to arm wrestling or sudoku, but simply to be their best. For the holidays, we decided that the best gifts to give, besides an iPod Touch or jerky, would be to challenge those around us to make them better people. It's kind of like getting New Year's resolutions as gifts. You'll thank us later.

First of all, we decided that remodeling the house, again, and adding a couple of new rooms during the holidays would be a terrific challenge to our marriage. Remodeling is perfect for testing your patience. So far it has gone well, but next week the low temperature is expected to dip below double digits, I'll be in Las Vegas, and the construction crew will be tearing down an exterior wall. Hurray! We couldn't ask for a better challenge.

Also, I didn't want to make this project exciting only for us, so I decided to challenge the carpenters. I decided that our twelve foot Christmas tree, which is loaded with breakable ornaments, should be placed against the wall that will be removed. This way the crew can have the good feeling of Christmas as they try not to destroy our tree. I know these guys and I figured they'd appreciate a good challenge, especially in cold weather.

For my bride, I decided to hang the fun ornaments down low on the Christmas tree's branches. So the sock monkeys and rodeo Santas are all within reach of the surprisingly strong grasp of Dylan. We have bets on the condition of the tree and its decorations by the time Christmas rolls around. I figured, while I'm gone, playing "ornament saver" would be a fun challenge for her.

For my baby, I went with two challenges. She's at an important developmental stage and she can only benefit from the extra work. First, for a physical challenge, I brought home a Australian Shepherd/Border Collie puppy with very sharp teeth. While Dylan still can't outrun the pup, Floyd, she has learned that leg strength and staying upright during a puppy attack are critical.

Second, less a challenge than a plea, is for Dylan to stop calling me Mommy. I know she can say Daddy, she will if you ask her my name, but the rest of the time she looks up at me, stretches out her arms, and says, "Mommy!" It's a challenge for her to use the right words and a challenge for me to keep my self-esteem.

It wouldn't be fair to give these wonderful gifts without giving myself a challenge. I've decided that gagging less at poopy diapers and asking Regina, "Do these match?" every time I pick out an outfit for Dylan would be suitable self-improving challenges.

Oh yeah, I've also challenged myself to a Blackjack contest, this Sunday, in Vegas. I guess I'd better show up. If I don't do well, it may be a challenge just to get back home.

Dylan, Patrick Swayze, and Big Mexicans

I have never seen a real wolverine. But, we have the Discovery Channel, which regularly airs shows called "World's Wildest Animals," and "Wolverines Gone Wild." Also, I've seen Red Dawn five times (1984. Patrick Swayze leads a group of high school football players against a full scale Soviet invasion. Frequently yells, "Wolverines!"). It's safe to say that I'm kind of an expert on the ferocious little critters. So when I say that flying to Cabo on a crowded plane with Dylan on my lap is exactly the same as flying to Cabo with a wolverine on my lap is no exaggeration.

We're used to it by now because the same thing always happens when we fly the friendly skies: finally the plane lands, the passengers clap, the stranger seated in the seat next to us dries his tears and takes the stickers out his his hair (Dylan loves stickers), and then -- Shazam! -- the wolverine on my lap magically turns back into an active nineteen month old baby.

Cabo is, quite possibly, the best place on earth for babies. The locals like you, the tourists like you, and the sidewalks are so bad that every ride in a stroller feels like 4x4-ing on a backroad logging track. Dylan even got over her fear of two things on this trip. First, the ocean. This time she spent hours watching me fill a pail with sand, pack it tight, and turn it upsidedown to make a sand "cake." Then she'd immediately destroy it, laugh, and run into the Pacific. Second, large men. She'd dash to every big Mexican dude that she saw with her arms open wide for a big hug. Cabbies, bouncers, restaurant owners, drunks, whomever, she loved them all, as long as they were A) Mexican, and B) big.

We quickly settled into a routine: up at 6:00 AM, Dylan and daddy would get started caking on the SPF 4,000, and at the pool or the beach by 8:00. I'd order a "Dirty Monkey" at happy hour (10:00), Regina would roll her eyes, then lunch, nap, and finally a stroll downtown past the chicklet vendors, and dinner. Dylan would do something to cause us to apologize to our waiter, we'd leave, get an ice cream, and off-road it home so we could get Dylan to bed. Lights out at 7:00 PM. Kind of like camp, but with more booze and stricter rules. We pretty much stuck to this routine, except for Thanksgiving, when I ran downtown to a restaurant that I'm sure didn't want us back and got take-out so we could stuff ourselves with a traditional Thanksgiving meal (ribs, chicken mole, and churros).

The day we flew home was probably the first day ever that Dylan didn't nap. So when the baby-to-wolverine transformation occurred, at least it was expected. Like a roughneck bar-brawler who apologizes before he kicks someone's ass, we could only say sorry to the unfortunate travelers who -- luck of the airline lotto -- drew a seat next to us.

After layovers and airport closures in every airport between Cabo and Seattle, we finally caught our final plane home. I watched the guy in the backwards Oregon Ducks cap who was seated in front of us cringe as Dylan let out an especially loud Swayze-esq, "Wolverines!" She kicked the seat, spilled our drinks, and thrashed around until ... Christmas miracle! ... she fell asleep. Regina and I were so shocked that we sat motionless for the entire flight.

When we finally made it back to the house, we didn't even care that our bags were in Eugene. It's always a nice feeling to be home after a vacation, and I stayed up past 7:00 PM so I could watch "World's Wildest Wolverines," on the Discovery Channel.

Baby High, Baby Low

We've always known that our little Dylan can be a ham, but lately, she's taken it up a notch. Of course, she has to be feeling well, properly rested, and have an audience, but when that perfect storm hits, start the cameras. Her most recent act of super-ham-dom occurred at our friends', Mike and Erin, house.

Dylan rolled in looking tough in her #1 Halloween costume (there are 2), as a Bee. She was a little shy, until she spotted the bucks on the wall. They must have made her feel at home because she instantly pointed them out. "Buck," she said and stretched out the "k" for emphasis (or, because it's fun to say, "Buck" with a static-y K on the end). And from then on, all inhibitions were tossed aside.

She ran around their house like an escaped circus monkey. She climbed on the couches, the chairs, the coffee table, and the curtains. She made strange noises, feigned interest in books, then tried to tear them up. When dinner was served we sat her next to us at the table and fed her bites of ribs until Regina finally just handed her a rib bone. Dylan gnawed on it for a while until she thought it served better as a Flintstone phone. She held it up to her little ear. "Hello," she said into the rib.

She got such a laugh out of the rib-phone gag that she tried out other pieces of dinner. The avocado-phone was a close second for originality and creativity.

The rest of the evening was spent in her diaper, an hour past her bedtime, running around the living room. She was so entertaining that our friends offered to watch her any time we wanted to stay out late. We tried to take them up on their offer immediately, but everything on a Sunday night in Yreka closes at 9:00 PM, so we really had nowhere to go.

We just wish that our pediatrician's office resembled Mike and Erin's living room. No deer heads on the wall, no fun couches to scale, nothing but four walls, a table, and the smell of a thousand tears. Dylan recognized it the instant we set foot in the room.

The length and intensity of her scream-cry was truly amazing. I actually remember thinking, "Wow, this is truly amazing," and, "She's got to pass out soon," as her volume hit eleven on the dial. At first, we were confused about what she wanted. She kept pointing at the door, which had a "Don't Smoke When You're Pregnant" poster on it with a picture of a baby's crib full of cigarettes. I thought she liked the poster. No. She wanted me to open the door.

The room became so unbearably hot from Dylan's energy output that the nurse tried to crack the door open and let some air in. "Jailbreak," thought Dylan, as she dashed for freedom. No luck. We caught her and let her resume her screaming, crying, punching, and kicking until the nurses could inspect and jab needles into her. Our PA assured us that Dylan's terror was a sign of her intelligence. I couldn't hear the reasons why over Dylan's wails; I just nodded dumbly as Regina bear-hugged Dylan to avoid another left-hook to the chin. We couldn't leave fast enough.

By the time we got to the car, her tears had dried. She cracked a smile when we hit I-5 South, and when we crossed the Siskiyous, she put her shoe to her ear. "Hello?" she said and smiled.

Yard Invasion

This Fall, our yard has turned into a sanctuary for deer. You'd think the antlers hanging in the woodshed and the smell of venison coming off the grill would deter our four legged friends from encroaching on our yard, but the macabre reminders of their fallen brothers only bolsters their confidence. Like bad house guests, they lie around all day, eat whenever they feel like it, and poop on the grass.

There are some benefits to this invasion, though. First, the four legal bucks (Deer season is now open) that hang out. Small, yes, but well-fed and will be tasty. Second, Dylan says, "Deer," like a Mexican soccer announcer yells, "Goal!!!" She stands at the back door, points, and yells, "Deeeeeeeeer!" I love it because it always makes me laugh and the yard-rats flee in terror, for a few minutes, at least.

Dylan is pretty thrilled about our wildlife preserve. Aside from the deer, we have horses, cattle, squirrels, cats, dogs, and raccoons, all within rock throwing distance. In fact, rock throwing is one way we keep the critters at bay. The cats are Dylan's favorite because they (well, one of the four) let her ride them. Dylan hops on like she's getting on a rodeo bull and Sergio (the tolerant one) lies flat while Dylan bounces up and down. "Kitty Rodeo" is a great warm-up before she begins Mutton Busting in a few years, and it burns off a little energy before bed time.

But let me get back to my point. It's about the deer and their refusal to leave. We've gone as far as borrowing a BB gun from Henry, our nephew. Which brings me to the third cool thing about having deer in our yard: Watching Regina wield a firearm. I'd tried to convince her to practice shooting before, but she never even wanted to touch the guns. Now she pops off shots like Annie Oakley. Dylan and I are her spotters and we cheer at every BB that finds its mark (on a doe's ass, mostly).

I guess that when we run out of BBs we'll have to resort to the fourth and final fun thing about our yard-deer, and that's watching Dylan chase them. She's not as agile as a Border Collie, but she's equally as persistant. Maybe she's trying to graduate from "Kitty Rodeo," to "Doe Rodeo."

Soon, the snow will start to fall and I expect that the deer will leave. We'll give the BB gun back to Henry and Dylan will have to settle on riding the cats. She'll stand at the door and quietly ask, "Deer?" while I take another bite of delicious buck steak.

Baby Einstein

It has been a nightly ritual that, after I give Dylan her bath and towel her dry, I let her run naked around the house until Regina, disapproving, diapers and pajamas her. This has gone swimmingly until, about a week ago, Dylan added "pee on the rug" as part of her path from tub to Mommy.

At first I was bothered, mostly because I got the "I told you so" look from Regina and also because I had to clean it up. But then I realized that peeing like an old tom cat around our home is a fine example of the genius of our daughter.

Really? you ask. Yes, I shout. Why are you shouting? you ask. I don't remember, I say. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, how a urine soaked carpet equates to intellectual prowess. Here's the theory: Dylan is choosing to NOT soil her bathing/drinking water (we'll address drinking bath water later). Most kids pee in the tub. I did. You certainly did. But super-genius children pee on the rug, outside the tub.

Okay, I see you're still skeptical. Let me give you another example. Dylan can count. Well, we say, "One!" and she says, "Two," and then we say, "Three!" then Dylan says, "TWO!" Maybe I shouldn't brag about her counting, but she knows that two follows one. I'm not sure Stephen Hawking knew that at her age.

Here's my favorite example of her genius. Dylan pretends a metal banana is a phone. "Hello, Ju-ju," she says, cradling the phone, I mean banana, between her shoulder and ear. I'm not going to explain why we have a metal banana, but Dylan's sense of humor (the banana-phone is far more comically advanced than the "pull-finger-fart" trick) is clearly a sign of advanced critical thinking skills.

We tried to convince our neighbor, Jim, that we were living with a Super-Genius. We even showed him the counting thing. He wasn't convinced. And then he told us we didn't want a Super-Genius child. Because three's a crowd? I offered. No. How about social awkwardness, depression, obsession with Dungeons and Dragons, crushes on Carl Sagan, and wedgies? And that's just junior high.

Tonight, Dylan took her bath, drank the bath water, and held out her arms when she was ready to get out. Just before I pulled her from the tub, she peed. Not on the floor, but in the water, once her bath was done. Brilliant! No clean up for me, no slipping in a puddle of pee for her. She might be proving Jim wrong. "Good skills," I told Dylan. "Two!" she replied.