Perplexity

That’s the first thing I ever remember hearing about my son. I hadn’t even met him yet, he was still half buried in my womb.  He’d punched out arm first (thanks for the stitches, kid,) and his head was emerging. One of the midwives made the comment. I was in the grips of pain and wonder and had no idea what she was talking about.

Two minutes later, my son was wiggling around on my chest; his bright red hair a beacon amongst the muted hospital pastels.

He turns three this weekend.  Three.  And his hair just keeps getting more red.  I tend to ignore all the myths you hear about red-headed kids; how they tend to get sicker, how they tend to be short tempered,  but I do have to say, his personality reflects the hair (or maybe vice versa?).  He’s passionate, yet incredibly tender.  He’s kind, but helplessly curious. A troublemaker who’s utterly charming.

Here he is de-pantsing at the Moffett Airfield Museum. The decorated veterans  seemed unfazed.   This photo was taken last summer, but I feel that it epitomizes the wondrous little dude that he is becoming.  Every one of my days is filled with his questions, humming with his wonder.

I guess his red hair kind of is a beacon. His arrival illuminated my world in a whole new way.

So what if he feeds his sister coins or refuses to eat anything that’s not a carbohydrate. This weekend he’ll get as much cake as he wants.

Happy birthday, little guy.  Go forth and conquer.

Spring came early, and with it, new writing projects, high fevers, family visits and rain of biblical proportions.

Now it’s warm and quiet.  The whole landscape is blooming and everything is high-definition green   At night, the crickets are already singing.

The reservoirs are full again. :)

A week of rain is definitely the most we’ve had since August. Finally an opportunity to feel properly melancholy, to sit around in a comfortable chair and brood.

The kids were more interested in going snail hunting.

As it turns out,  running around in the bushes with a plastic shovel and a tupperware ecosystem is not at all conducive to feeling gloomy.  Who knew?

San Francisco has become my daydreaming location of choice. That is to say, it’s the place I go to most in my head on dreary days. Somewhat ironic, given it’s reputation for crappy weather.

I feel like The City always brings its A game.  I’m fully aware that part of my crush stems from the fact that most of the times I’ve been there, I’ve been without my kids. It’s rare these days that an entire subsection of recent memories can be synonymous with adult-only experience, so I enjoy the novelty.

I was there a few weeks ago with my brother who was down for a vacation.  The morning was absolutely miserable. As soon as we got off the train, we were inundated with San Francisco’s unique brand of rain; not hard or plentiful, but somehow completely, frigidly enveloping.  Our hands were so cold we could barely get the money out of our wallets to pay for the cable car.

We rode it up to the top of Nob Hill, umbrella’s jabbing us in the sides. At the apex, I pointed outwards.  ”Isn’t it beautiful?” I said. ” The gorgeous blue water of the bay, the vista of the Marin headlands? The enormity of the Golden Gate?”

Nothing.  Just a big wall of grey fog.  I think my brother was too cold to be unimpressed.

When we got to the wharf, I stopped to take a picture of him in front of some sort of spec out in the water that was maybe Alcatraz.

We went inside for lunch.  Somewhere between the goat cheese and the sourdough, the rain stopped.  The fog began to clear.

We went outside and looked west, to this:

By 3:00 pm, our feet were dry, and we were moseying in the sunshine on the pier, digging into a bag of hot mini-donuts.

Nice save, San Francisco.

How is it possible that less than three years ago, all this guy could do was lay on a blanket and drool. He’d make these panicked swimming motions with his arms and gurgle or scream for me to come rescue him.  Last Sunday morning, we were deep into our bowls of rice crispies when he stopped slurping just long enough to ask me, “What is time?”

Good question, kiddo.

Rubber boots are a pretty big deal around here.  They’re cherished. Idolized. Worn without regard for appropriate social settings or weather conditions. This particular pair has traveled thousands of miles, across countries and climates. Trust me when I say these boots have seen some things. 

I asked my son if we wanted new ones or if he wanted me to fix the ones he already had.

I think he made the right choice.

“…Wander in wilderness.”

~ John Muir

President’s Day. Woke up to quiet freeways and cloudy skies. Took a nice, twisty drive through the mountains to Santa Cruz. I’m guessing it’s probably pretty crazy on hot, sunny summer days, but today it was really mellow.  The wharf looked like a bit of a tourist trap, but provided some nice views.

sunset on vista slope

The kids currently weigh about 35 and 28 pounds respectively.  Our double stroller is about 27 lbs. On any outing,  we’re awkwardly hauling around 90lbs of toddler. It’s an effort. In a very literal sense, not all doors are open to us.

It’s forced us to find new paths; ones hidden and unexpected.

It’s always worth it.

Thank you, Jello, for enriching our lives in so many ways.