Ode to my healthy baby

Replica of late Meiji Era Japanese postcard
courtesy of ambientfusion.

It was three weeks of hell,
but his bottom's finally well.
Tests done.
Positives? None!*
The cause is a mystery still.

(Although, he is allergic to eggs and nuts.)

To the point

Photo courtesy of wpholmes

My husband and I took the kids to Sizzler for dinner thanks to coupons from the library's summer reading program, and as I was packing the diaper bag I saw one of my 7-year-old's pick up his new pocketknife and slide it into the Velcro holder attached to his belt.

"Can I bring my knife, Mom, to cut my steak?" he asked.

"They have knives at the restaurant," I replied.

"Yeah, but can I bring my own?"

"No. Let's leave it at home until we go camping at French Meadows."

Reluctantly, he slid the knife and holder off his belt. The next day we headed up into the Sierra Nevada mountains. After a four-hour drive that led us through deep gorges, across Foresthill Bridge (which sets a California record at 730 feet), around at least 600 hairpin turns that prompted vomiting from the backseat, we made it to our campsite.

The door opened, the kids spilled out, and within 15 minutes, my first son was back at camp with a potential marshmallow stick and poised knife. Five minutes later, his brother came rushing back with his own. They whittled and broke tips, rushed off for new sticks, whittled some more. That night the marshmallows slid effortlessly onto the wooden spikes, were patiently turned over coals until toasted a golden brown and then slipped between two graham crackers and a chunk of Hershey bar.

I think they made a stick each night, but I'm sorry to say I can't be certain because each time I'd polish off one's gooey creation, the other would be standing at my elbow offering me S'more.

I deserve a merit badge

A Mama Merit Badge

I've spent the last three days in doctors' offices asking why my baby is sick. He's had diarrhea for 2 1/2 weeks, hasn't gained weight in over a month and suffers from chronic eczema on his cheek. I've cradled him during allergy tests and blood draws, and been sent home to fill five jars with stool samples. I feel as battered and bruised as he looks, and there are still no answers.

While the scratches and pricks broke my heart, trying to collect stool samples tested my sanity. Of the five jars, two had to be collected from the same stool, and a different two jars had to contain samples that were (preferably) one hour old or been refrigerated. In an effort to scoop poop, I covered the toilet bowl in a film of plastic wrap, wrapped his bottom in plastic wrap, and, finally, at 5:30 a.m., held the tiny jars up to his irritated bottom and filled them.

The jars and vials are at the lab, the allergy test results are on their way to the pediatrician, and now I must cap my fears (just like I'd like to plug his irritated little rectum with a cork), and wait through the weekend.

And while I've had eye and ear trained on my baby's red-faced grunts, I managed to get on the computer and, via a friend, learn about Mama Merit Badges, the brainchild of Amy Bowers. This Florida mom says she designed the badges in response to the "dearth of authentic recognition for the very hard work of mothering. Overly sentimentalized depictions of motherhood belie the actual daily duties that alternately feel like drudgery, brave political acts, and absurd performance art."

This week I earned my first badge.

Passion for a pocketknife

Norman Rockwell painting, Museum Syndicate

My 7-year-old sons spent the day at Stillwater National Wildlife Refuge learning about ducks. Greenwing Day, sponsored by the Nevada Waterfowl Association, knew that teaching to boys must involve action: They fired a shotgun, took two rides in a motorboat, learned to make a duck call, and won pocketknives. And while my sons can explain the dangers of a coot (sharp claws) and describe the bite of a black fly (terrrrrrible!), the highlight of the day was becoming the proud owners of pocketknives. Here's what one son said in just one hour the next morning:

1. I just can't believe I have my very own knife.
2. Mom, can I show you the bottle-opener?
3. Do you have some string I can cut?
4. Do you think this is my fish scaler?
   
5. What is a fish scaler?
6. I just can't believe I have my own pocketknife. It even attaches to my belt.
7. Dad, I can open a beer with my bottle-opener. Do you want a beer? (Asked at 10 a.m.)
8. I have a saw, too.
   
9. What can I use this saw for? (My reply: Scale fish.)
   
10. I know what my big knife is for, for sharpening sticks for marshmallows.

Want to take a guess how many sticks will be whittled on our camping trip this coming weekend? I'll report back next Monday.

Fashion, part one

The upscale mall in town, The Summit, sponsored a camp for girls, ages 6 to 16, this summer. The whole concept -- a day-camp destination for children interested in shopping, accessorizing, make-up, decorating and entertaining -- has been sitting like a tiny pebble in my Birkenstocks since I first spotted the advertisement. I finally figured out how to write about it:

The mall's calling all girls to camp
to teach them to twitter and vamp.
Gloss lips.
Swish hips.
Individuality replaced with a stamp.

***

A summer camp of fashion and glitter.
Send my daughter? Naw, I'd rather hit 'er.
The hairs on my head
stand up in dread,
as feminism goes to the shitter.

Feel free to add your own limerick!

A penny for your thoughts

Photo courtesy of Daniel Y. Go

"The memory manages to be found, like a dollar bill crinkled up in the pocket of old clothes. She fondles this memory a moment, a few seconds' worth, no more."

I love the above sentence written by Laura Valeri in "Furniture," published in Glimmer Train's, Summer 2008 edition, and was compelled to document a memory-in-the-making involving my children and money:

For every year my children have lived, they receive a quarter in allowance. This means my oldest, at age 9, gets $2.25 a week -- the value of a day's hot lunch at school, a pittance in a world where her classmates own cell phones, but (and I shrug here) it's all a large family can afford on one income. My daughter would be quick to point out that the "week" part of the above sentence is "weak," and I have to agree. Her father and I have been lax in filling their small hands with their even smaller allowances, and this may have contributed to their different attitudes toward money. I have a:

1. Hunter -- Eyes peeled for pennies on the floor and dollars behind the couch. Regularly checks the insides of washing machine for wayward change.
   
2. Hoarder -- Stashes money not only in the piggy bank, but also the bottom of the underwear drawer or the spare book. (When asked how this money would be retrieved, I was given an elaborate answer involving monetary amount equating to page number and letters in the title of the book.)
   
3. Habitual Forgetter -- Money rarely makes it to the bank. Usually relies on the goodwill of others for any spending.

The wails and shrieks that occasionally ricochet off the walls often have to do with money: Who stole it? Where is it? And why isn't it here on the floor where it was left six days ago? The yells are followed by heavy, angry footsteps thumping down stairs to report the infraction and demand that I do something. For awhile I tried, but their memories are tangled balls of string and the more I pulled, the more frustrated and tense we all became. So, now I hold out my hand, they turn over the disputed dollar (which is placed high upon a kitchen shelf for safety), and I tell them to come back when they've worked it out. Within a half-hour they usually return to report their resolution and ask for the money. Or the dollar sits on the shelf, forgotten, until I put it in my pocket and recycle it a week later as allowance.

A chance encounter and a yummy rum recipe

Painting courtesy of freeparking

I don't remember the old woman's name or her appearance or even the house I was in when I met her almost 20 years ago. These trivialities, the mundane facts that we put into a story because we think it will make it real, don't exist anymore. In fact, she probably doesn't exist anymore, either.

After all, she was maybe 80 and I 20 when we met. We were both drinking hot buttered rum at the same holiday party. She was there because she was relative of someone. I was there out of politeness to my boyfriend's parents. Maybe she was glad to be there, but I sure as hell wasn't. I don't like small talk and dislike the upper middle-class even more, and this was a party filled with both.

So I probably approached her because (one) she was old and therefore not intimidating, and (two) because she was old, she might be more interesting than the rest of this crowd decked out in bell-jingling holiday sweaters. Again, the niceties can be ignored because what I'm trying to get at is a feeling, an "Ooh!" that's never dulled.

I had thought I was going to be entertained with tales from long ago, but instead found myself swapping experiences about growing up in Nevada without running water, without electricity. Old woman and young, we leaped across the generation gap and embraced as girls.

In response to Sunday Scribblings writing prompt: Chance encounter.

***

Aside from the lingering memory, the other thing I took from that party is a love of hot buttered rum. Now, I know it isn't something that comes to mind on a smoky day in July, but save this recipe for when Old Man Winter arrives.

Pour 8 to 10 cups of cider into a pot and bring to simmer. Meanwhile, melt 2 TB. butter in a pan. Add 3/4 tsp. cinnamon, 1/2 tsp. nutmeg, 1/4 tsp. cloves and allspice and stir. Add 1/2 cup brown sugar, stir and remove from heat. Combine butter mixture with cider. Pour cider into mugs, add 2 to 3 TB. rum and stir with a cinnamon stick.

My oldest friend

Photo courtesy of Seb Przd

It was fifth grade and we weren't friends.

She was part of a group of girls who developed a music number for the school talent contest that involved dancing to the thumping rhythm of Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust." I performed a solo -- singing Pinocchio's song "I Got No Strings."

She had curves and feathered hair and boyfriends who were too old and too fast. My body was a series of angles and plains, glasses and braids. The thought of ever having a boy's penis inside my vagina was disgusting.

She lived in a trailer with her father, a morbidly obese man who used the CB moniker "Big Mac" and rarely moved from his seat in front of the TV. I lived one bus stop away, across the railroad tracks and down a stretch of dirt road in another trailer, crowded with kids.

But inside both of us was a black hole, a giant, empty thing that echoed with loneliness, and somehow -- despite our differences -- we recognized that and became friends. She pulled me out of books and invited me for sleep-overs and afternoons listening to her record collection of Styx and Michael Jackson. In return, I shared my innocence. Between classes in junior high we passed notes filled with loopy handwriting and signed BFF -- Best Friends Forever. In high school, together we struggled through chemistry and pre-calculus, and sewed our own dresses for senior prom.

We were two planets circling a shared sun, but after graduation our orbits swung wildly apart. She moved to Los Angeles and, within two years, was married and had a son; I was in college. She had her second child and I was a budding journalist, intent on my career. When her third arrived, I was newly wed and planning a move to Europe.

Now, her youngest son is entering seventh grade, mine is 7-months-old. While I'm tied to young children, she is experiencing the freedom and choices I tasted in college. Although the time between our phone calls and letters has stretched to years, the elliptical paths of our lives continue to cross and recross as we share, albeit delayed, experiences.

So she remains my friend, forever.

The funniest thing I've watched in a while

"Business Time" by The Flight of the Conchords

Jemaine Clement also stars in "Eagle Vs. Shark," which is a fabulous and weird film. Watch it.

In response to my sister's question

Photo courtesy of moominsean

There once was a woman from the city
Whose dreams of the desert made 'er giddy
Her spouse wouldn't lie
"Dear, sand's in your eye."
So she settled back down and wrote a ditty.

***

Still unclear on Why I Was Wrong About Silver City, check out Maakies comic on Home Improvement Hooch. It's good!

Silver City

Historical picture of the Nevada mining town, sometime after its decline in 1869.
photo courtesy Nevada Historical Society

Her silver tarnished,
this old mistress of the mines
is bedecked in junk.

***

Silver City is a decrepit mining town, pocked with holes, studded with splintered shacks and adorned with rusted cars, glittering in the late afternoon sun. It's a ghost town that's been revived, so why think about living there today?

Because its tiny population -- a smidgen of the 1,200 living there in its heyday -- knows one another. They're raising their children together, which is why kids were camping in the park on a weeknight, and the city's summer program is providing lessons to a teen garage band.

Because it's hills are shades of coffee, its air is perfumed with sweet, pungent sagebrush, and the night sky sparkles with stars. Living there is a conscious choice to be grounded in location, tied to the land, to know a place.

This is what my parents gave me when we moved to Silver Springs in 1980. I wish I could give it to my children.

Two mothers on missions

My children and I experienced a modern version of this classic story on our way to the grocery store today. A mother Mallard and her babies were crossing McCarran Boulevard as cars whizzed past going 50 miles per hour on the four-lane road.

"Mom! A mama duck and babies, Mom!" Max yelled from the rear.

I hung a U-turn and hopped out, trying to get the traffic's attention. Cars slowed, drivers smiled and waved, but no one else stopped to help this little family cross the street and get over the concrete wall to safety. As we held our breath, the ducks made it to the other side but when they discovered the barricade, started to re-cross.

"Mom, what's going to happen? Are they going to get hit?"

Cars swerved and honked their horns, so I hung another U-turn. By the time I hit the hazard button and hopped out, the mother and two babies had crossed, but the other ducklings couldn't hop the curb and were trapped in the gutter. This caught the attention of a worker mowing the shopping center lawn, so he scooped them into the grass while I blocked traffic with my car.

"They're looking for water and there's water here with all the irrigation, so maybe they'll stay," the man said.

We called animal control and left them to finish our errands. As I tossed cans of lemonade into the grocery cart and wove my way through the crowded store, squawking at my own brood tailing me, I couldn't help smiling at the similarities between the Mallard family and my own.

Here's the intersection near the ducks' crossing. If you head east on North McCarran Boulevard, you'll pass a Ross clothing store and the lawn where we last saw the ducks.


View Larger Map

A night with bats

The biologist was a slip of woman with long, dark hair streaked silver the shade of moonlight. She waited on the casino rooftop for the bats to arrive as dusk faded and night's long shadows wrapped around her.

Nearby was a small electronic box waiting to help her with identification by recording the bats' high-pitched clicks and chirps, and circling her was a casino security guard, waiting for her to unexpectedly plunge off the side. But she wasn't going to jump. She was going to count the number of Spotted Bats, rare and solitary creatures found in just one location in all of northern Nevada, and that was here, circling the towers of the Grand Sierra Resort.

The biologist worked for the Nevada Department of Wildlife, documenting animals found living too close to humans, and sometimes this brought her into contact with bats. But she sought out this animal in her spare time, too: Following the growth of a female colony raising pups in her neighborhood, and mimicking the mother bats' chirps so the babies would skim her head in curiosity.

Tonight, as she stood on the roof high above Reno, it was she who was curious. The electronic box was picking up bat sounds, but they were far away, flitting above the casino's putting range and pond. She held her flashlight and waited. The casino's perimeter lights clicked off and the night around the towers grew denser, drawing the bats closer to her.

Her flashlight sliced through the shadows and struck a bat as it tipped its wings and exposed its furry backside. She counted and smiled into the night.

My thanks to Jennifer Jeffers from the Nevada Department of Wildlife, for sharing her stories and love of bats, and to Silver City's summer youth program for sponsoring the talk. If you would like to help count bats, email Jeffers at 423-3171, ext. 234.