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.

farther over the hill than I thought

9 year old daughter: "The movie is different from the book, because in the book, there is a younger man, a middle aged man, and a guy who is about, like, fifty ..."

me: "Wait. How old is the 'middle aged' man?"

daughter: "About, like, thirty."

Ouch.

Bye-bye, Baron

There he is, Baron Davis, ball at his hip, making that turn, blowing past some defender and pimping some Power Ade from on high. "Oh, Mom. That billboard makes me sad," says my daughter from the backseat. "I know. Me, too."

Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.

My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"

Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.

As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.

Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.

Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.

Summertime, and the living is easy ...

... or, at least, that's what the song in my head keeps saying. Ahh, yes, the lilting melody is stuck in my head, my daily soundtrack as I frantically rush out the door to drive my kids to summer day camps. Late again. The song is mocking me. Stuck in my head, telling me that everything will be easy -- because it's summertime.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.

The Lunch Shack

It’s the first Tuesday of the month, my day to work the lunch shack at my son’s school. As I run out the door, I leave my desk at home littered with papers from yet another school-related volunteer project -- which will be waiting for me when I get back from lunch -- so it is one of those days when volunteering feels like a full-time job. I am one of the many unpaid-yet-working moms who have the luxury of helping out at the schools. We know it is a privilege, but sometimes it still feels like work.

I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.

I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.

For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”

My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?

After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.

Time for the mothership to get back home.