The Adventures Continue!

The day after Wimmy celebrated his spiffing first birthday, he woke up with a series of big red spots all over his face, arms, and legs.

Allergies? Bug bites? Chicken Pox?

CHICKEN POX?

We still don’t know — they’re fading slowly away, and didn’t seem to bother him — but we are pleased to say that the event has inspired yet another title in the growing catalog of “Jack Norris” imaginary novels.

Didja miss the original “Jack Norris” explanation? Go back here and check it out. Since Jeffrey bestowed this strange little moniker on his baby brother, we’ve been collecting titles in the series based on events in William’s life. The concept is that it’s an action/spy series of novels, a la James Bond or — dare we presume to aspire to it — Christopher Cool, TEEN AGENT.*

So, the “chicken pox” have been labeled as The Enigmatic Spots of Jack Norris!

Watching William slowly reach up from his car seat to grab a cracker:

The Floating Hand of Jack Norris!

In Which William Tosses a Rubber Duckie Into His Father’s Bath:

The Mysterious Duck of Jack Norris!

Remember how Wimmy got a toy wolf puppet at Yellowstone? And it always managed to wind up in the small of his back?

The Vanishing Wolf of Jack Norris!

After trying to feed William while he sleepily pushed everything away, my sister-in-law also contributed

The Creeping Ennui of Jack Norris!

Although really — does this match the Super Secret Spy Agent-type nonstop action that readers have come to expect when picking up a Jack Norris title? I’m not sure. Perhaps this volume comes late in the series, when Jack Norris has retired from the international intrigue business and is coping with boredom on his island villa.

Just one more thing — if you haven’t seen the gorgeous cover art Penguin has commissioned for its reissues of the James Bond novels, GO SEE THEM NOW. They are groovaliciously AWESOME.

*Oh yes, it exists. Go over to Fuse #8 and read the full description of this luscious series. Should I mention that the books include a sassy redheaded “co-ed” whose name is Spice Carter?

Happy Birthday Wimmykins!

He’s one year old today!

The funny thing is, I was happy that his birthday was in late July, so it wouldn’t ever conflict with major holidays.

BUT — then we moved to Utah, which celebrates Pioneer Day on the 24th.  Oh, well.  At least there will always be parades and rodeos to see on his birthday.  In fact, Jeffrey and Eleanor already participated in a neighborhood ’round-the-block children’s parade this morning.  Their impromptu pioneer costumes were cuuuuute.

I’ve make chocolate sour-cream cupcakes, and he will be given one to devour all by himself.  Friends of ours from Pittsburgh are coming over for a party (we are currently at Brian’s parents’ house).  A candle will be lit.  Bubbles will be blown.  A big ol’ pile of presents will be unwrapped.

It’ll be the greatest birthday he’ll never remember.

To See What He Could See

Wow!

I actually survived staying in a camping trailer with two kids, a baby, my parents and 13-year-old brother!  While the trip to Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons was very fun, it was nice to get home (my parents spent the entire trip looking concerned and saying, “Brooke, I hope you’re having fun,” and I spent the entire time looking concerned and saying “Mom, I hope we aren’t ruining your trip”).

But it WAS fun.  Jeffrey joined the Yellowstone Junior Rangers and took his duties VERY seriously (his application said “I want to help make the park a perfect home for animals”).  When he earned his official Junior Ranger Patch he insisted on carrying it around in his pocket for the rest of the day.

His favorite part of the trip was swimming in the Firehole River and the String Lake.  Everything with him was cool once we convinced him that a bear wasn’t going to jump on him the second he stepped outside.  (Darn those “Camper Beware” signs with photos of bears invading tents!  Don’t they know that paranoid five-year-olds are going to see them?)

Jeff also acquired a coonskin cap, which he wore while strutting around shirtless.  Oh, he was also wearing this cheesy leather ‘n’ lanyard “medicine bag” he got at the Shoshone museum in Colter Bay (which I had to lace together for him, arrgh).  All in all, he looked like a kid who went off to Camp Gowanagin, circa 1952.

Eleanor spent a good portion of the trip in a sparkly green and pink “Ranger Girl” t-shirt, and kept a ladybug flashlight in her pocket.  She was a little too frightened of the lake and river for much swimming, but she loved hiking, getting shoulder rides from Grandpa, and sharing a bunk bed with Jeffrey.

William, owing to our cramped living space, didn’t get much crawl-around time, but I did let him play in the dirt quite a bit, which he LOVED LOVED LOVED.  Oh, the love affair with Le Dirt: it starts young don’t it?  His main souvenir was a Folkmanis wolf finger puppet.  He loves to give it “loveys” and chew its tail.  Kicking his feet in the Firehole River was also a plus.

Okay, now for the vital stats of the trip.  You ready?

Wildlife sighted:

• Osprey
• Elk
• Bison (including two juveniles butting heads)
• Coyote (it was lounging under a tree and flicking its big ears at us)
• BEAR!!

It was right off the side of the road! I haven’t seen a bear that close in the park since forever.  My dad teased my mom by pretending to want to get out of the car and “get a closer look.”  She totally fell for it and freaked out.  Ah, Mom and Dad: some things never change.

Things we saw fall in the hot pots:

• two hats
• an umbrella

Yeah, it was a windy day.

Number of states whose license plates we saw during our four-day trip:

• ALL FIFTY!

Yes, EVEN Maine and EVEN Hawaii.  BOO-YAH, BABY!

That was pretty much my proudest accomplishment during the trip, other than the ol’ “nobody died” thing.

‘Cause, y’know.  Fifty states.  That’s a lot to keep track of.

The Bear Went Over the Mountain

The kids and I are heading up to Yellowstone Park with my parents and brother, so I won’t be posting much over the next few days.  Brian, poor guy, has to stay behind and go to work — but on the other hand, he gets to go to The Police reunion concert in Salt Lake.

This, as a non-Sting fan, does not seem to be much of a perk to me.  In fact, I’d like to take a good fist-to-the-eye of whoever it was that wrote “Message in a Bottle.”  But I’m sure he’ll have fun.

And so will we!  Assuming, of course, that nobody is boiled alive!  Or trampled by a moose!  Hurrah!

sun moon stars rain

Fantasy vs. Reality!

This has been one of my parenting challenges, as of late. You see, sometimes kids come to you to ask how certain things work (“Why does Dad have to go to work?” “Why do we keep the milk in the fridge?”) and other times they make little theories all on their own.

For instance, this past Fourth of July, Jeffrey was literally hopping with excitement over the fireworks display. (Ella cowered under a blanket during the whole affair, alas.) After enthusiastically joining in the show with his own rocket noises, he turned to me with a serious expression.

“Mom, are fireworks how new stars are made?”

Now, here’s the dilemma: I could correct him, tell him no, stars are born in big glowing gas clouds far out in space. But whenever I do this, I always feel as if the All Powerful Grown-Up Perspective were clamping down its big iron fist on the little flowering Kid View.  There seems no better way to quash a kid’s imagination than to negate it at every turn.  Who says that my world view is all that more valid, anyway?

“Um,” I answer.  “What do you think, Jeff?”

“I think they do,” he says, his grin lit up with sparks.

“Oh?” I ask.  “Just how do they get stuck up there?”

“Well. . . ” he replies, and he then launches into a lengthy explanation that I couldn’t understand very well, except for this bit at the end: “And then all the stars get together around the firework, and use their gravity to swing the new star up into the sky.”  Having finished this little lecture, he then recommenced his tribal firework dance.

I remember a literature prof in college talking about William Blake’s “visionary gleams” — how as a child he would claim to have seen angels sitting in trees, or walking among field laborers.  But his visions continued into adulthood — even at the age of fifty, he claimed to see the rising sun as “an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty.”

Blake knew he was looking at the sun, my teacher explained.  But he was always celebrating the power of the human imagination to superimpose itself onto the world, to see what is there and see what is not.  This is an essential creative power, this ability to create stories, to make worlds.  To see angels in the sun, and stars in a flash of gunpowder.

One Month Later . . .

So.  We’ve been in Utah for a month, and we STILL haven’t been able to move into our new house.

For those of you who haven’t heard the spiel, we are going to be living in Brian’s grandmother’s house, which is in a great neighborhood close to the university.  The only caveat is that it hasn’t been touched up or whatnot since about 1973 (yellow shag carpet!  avocado appliances!  silver-and-hot-pink flower wallpaper! macrame plant holders!).  Therefore we and my in-laws have been embarking on that most treasured of American pastimes, remodeling.

The theory was that it would all be finished by mid-July, but here we are on 7/12 and the house still has no stairs.

That’s right, no stairs, just a rickety frame of slats to get you from upstairs to down.  According to Ye Olde Contractor Lore, the stairs are traditionally the last thing to be built.  (Why?  Whyyy?  WHYYYY?)  Meanwhile, I feel as if my brain is moving through a fog of paint chips, molding strips, and carpet samples.  Auugh.

Where are we now?  In jolly old West Point, also known as the tiny town where my parents live, also known as Suburban Purgatory.  There isn’t much here besides llama farms and a Wal-Mart.  Ten years ago when my parents first moved here, there was no Wal-Mart.  The arrival of the Wal-Mart was a big deal.  Sigh.

You’ll note the charming image of the city hall at the top of this posting.  They built that thing a couple of years ago and are so proud of the clock tower that it appears on the front page of the town website twice.  Like: “hey, look at what an up-and-coming town we are!  We have a clock tower!”

Oh, I shouldn’t be so negative (although I should note that the original name for the town of West Point was “Muskrat Springs”).  We got to see the adorable local 4th-of-July parade (Ella was extra cute when it came to waving at the people on the floats and scored beaucoup candy and a Frisbee, while Jeffrey rode in a truck in the parade with my dad and threw Tootsie-Rolls at the crowd).  I’ve discovered that there’s a rather awesome donut shop just up the road (double fudge cake doughnuts, swoon).  There’s a playground just behind my parent’s house, and on the odd day when Brian is around in the evening, we pile the kids in the car, swing through Arctic Circle for vanilla cones, and then drive out to Antelope Island to watch the sunset.

Plus, it’s always great to see your kids forming that primeval bond with their grandparents.  Hurrah for the grandmas and grandpas, for they doth rock my preschoolers’ worlds.