it's the pyro family

My family is gathered around the fireplace, eyes glazed over, my husband prodding the pile of burning wood to encourage more flame. Or something. I am not really sure what the point is, since I do not share the fascination with fire that my husband has. My children, apparently, have inherited the pyro gene from him, and they are enthralled with this fire building process.

It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.

Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."

Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.

Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.

As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!

Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.

As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.

So Cal Diving

"Mom! Do you have any coins for us to dive for?"

My kids are splashing around in their Aunty D's pool, which is empty except for the two of them. It's like their own private oasis, here in sunny California. The rest of the gated community is at work, while we are on vacation and soaking up the UV rays. Aside from one action packed day at Disneyland, our trip to my childhood hometown has been very low-key. We spent a couple days making the circuit from the pool to Pinkberry, another day visiting with my cousins at the beach in the LB, another day at the LA County Museum of Art to see the Price collection of Japanese art, followed by ramen for lunch back in Torrance and a visit to the Redondo Beach dog park -- and all the in-between times filled with my kids being indulged by their obaachan (grandmother).

I empty the change pocket of my wallet, and toss ten coins into the pool. Six quarters, two pennies, a nickel and a dime. One dollar and sixty-seven cents. A buck sixty-seven does not buy much these days, but it is good for several dives to the bottom of the pool and at least a few summer memories for my kids. Chances are good that this handful of change will be remembered at least as much -- if not more than -- the four hundred dollars we just dropped at Disneyland the other day. Yes, it is the simple little pleasures that often make our summers special; joy has no price tag, and memories seem to have an inverse correlation to the amount of time, effort and money one's parents have put into making a "special" day for a child.

As I am writing this, I realize that this is ironic in a bad way. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted.

Better get some sleep. Interstate 5 is waiting for me.

wild ride at midnight

I learned something new today: if you don't want to wait in a long line to go on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland, just wait until it's almost midnight. By that time, the target demographic of Fantasyland has moved on to see Mr. Sandman, and the wait time for Mr. Toad is down to under ten minutes. This was an unplanned discovery, since I had no intention of staying till midnight. But the day just seemed to go on and on and on in the sweltering heat, until suddenly, like Cinderella, we looked up at the clock and it was almost midnight.
As we had gone through our top five list of rides -- Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom and Finding Nemo -- I realized that my kids had never ridden most of the rides in Fantasyland when they were "little kids." Sure, they had ridden the carousel, the tea cups, It's a Small World and Dumbo, but that was about it. I was determined to have them ride some of the classic kiddie rides before we left today.
So, just before midnight, we found ourselves zipping through the lines for Mr. Toad, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio, and I remembered something from my childhood: some of these rides were scary, and I didn't really like them as a child. The Snow White ride used to creep me out, with the wicked witch and all her wickedness. I did not recall the skeletons decorating this ride, and they seemed to be a bit much for the pre-school set. The Pinocchio ride started out with the giant bird cage hanging overhead, threatening to capture me and turn me into a donkey. And who is Mr. Toad, anyway? I did not remember his ride, at all -- especially not the part when wild-driving Mr. Toad plows you into a train, and then you find yourself in a very warm and humid room where everybody has red horns and there are flames all around. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride ends in hell.
Scary, yet symbolic in its own way: yes, folks, step right up with your super-tired toddlers and enjoy the ride -- hell is waiting for you right here in Fantasyland!
Ahh, yes, the happiest place on earth.