MY DADDY IS THE SMELL OF RAIN

There's a picture of my father and I. It's buried in a box somewhere. But it's always the one I go to when I'm missing him.

I was about 4 years old. Sitting on a tabletop. My head was full of black curls.

My father was so thin and so young. So very Grease and West Side Story. Hair always slicked back in those photos. White t-shirt and jeans. He was just so young. Although, I never thought of him being young then. He's always been old to me. Not old, like silver fox with a cane old. But old, like when I get old, I wanna drive a truck like my dad's.

But when I was 4, he was only 25.

He still had his buddies that he hung out with. He still loved his stock cars. He still had these thick gorgeous sideburns that hugged either side of his face.

I'm certain he wasn't ready to be a father. And I'm even more certain he wasn't keen on the idea of letting go of all his rowdy ways and...gasp...raising a girl.

But I have a terrible memory. I do. My early years, especially, completely escape me. And visual memories, in particular, are so out of reach for me. And I hate that I can't seem to retain them, and that there are so many others I know who can rattle off what they were wearing, where they were, and what the weather was like as if it had just happened. I know that years from now I'll be begging and praying to recall something tangible. To remember specifics. Something I can hold onto. Some key piece of advice he gave me when I was growing up. Some major life lesson.

And there are some days when I float in and out of those memories. When a song or a sound or a smell takes me there, but just for a moment, just long enough to put the lump in my throat. Just enough for me to know it's there, somewhere, I just can't seem to bring them to the surface. Yet.

But my Daddy is the smell of rain. The sight of cactus. The line of old sweat inside a ballcap. He's the sound of diesel trucks. The Blue Angles. Deer crossing our path. He's the roaring of race cars. The smell of refineries. The monster truck competition commercials. He's the smell of fishing. And BBQ'ing. He's the sound of chicharras in the morning, sitting on the back porch, having his coffee. My Daddy is the smell of gun powder. The hums of lawnmowers. The nostril-burning smell of welding. He is oleanders. And fresh cut grass. He is every old man watering his front lawn.

My Daddy turned 60 last year. And the kids and I spent the greatest week back home with him, just hanging out with Grampa, doing a lot of nothing that was filled with so much something that the briefest recollection of that trip sends me into missing tears. And, suddenly, I don't think of him as old anymore. And I want him to take me camping again along the Frio. And I want him to take me to Astroworld and Six Flags. And I want to go hunting. And I want a turkey leg and a funnel cake and peanuts in my Coke.

And suddenly I'm hating living so far away and want to be able to have breakfast with him every Sunday. "Hi, mija," he'll say, when I show up and try to switch out his thick maple syrup for light agave nectar. And I want that so much for the kiddos. For him. And for me.

Especially today.

...

SPERM, SUICIDE, AND 7-YEAR-OLDS -- GEE, THANKS A LOT, OPRAH!

Watching disc #2 of "Life," those amazing Discovery Channel nature videos narrated by Oprah (really would've preferred James Earl Jones), when Saia suddenly looks up from her dinner, rotini hanging from her lower lip, and says with a mouth full of chicken and peppers, "Mama, whath thspum?"

I point at my mouth and give her the look. She swallows quickly, wipes the back of her hand across her pasta sauce glazed face and says, very clearly, "Sperm, Mama, what is it?"

I'm fairly certain my own noodles fell right out of my own mouth and onto the floor. Or right outta my head. I couldn't really tell at that point.

Either way, I totally froze. Like a deer in headlights. Thinking this was gonna get really complicated really quick. That they were gonna ask about how they were conceived. That I'd need to pull out the 32-page packet of information that went along with the first nitrogen tank Fed-Ex'd to our door 8 years ago. That I'd need to pull up to the front of my brain the speech I'd been rehearsing for 7 years about our donor, about insemination, about -- gasp! -- how babies are made. And that Amy really really needed to be here for this. Where was my phone? I really thought we had at least a few more years. How fast could she make it over here, I wondered.

"Mom?!?!" she says with that helloooo lilt in her voice.

"Huh? Wha?"

"Sperm, Mom." And every time she uttered that word, my whole body flinched. As if she were shouting "Lord Voldemort!" in the middle of Hogsmeade, and all traffic came to a full stop, and someone whispered to her that she should really be saying "you-know-who" instead.

"Right," I begin, "you-know-what...er...sperm is what males produce to fertilize a female's egg to make a baby."

"Oh," she says, "Ok," and turns back to the clownfish eggs nestled deep inside the sea anemone.

And that was it.

Minor reprieve, I do realize, but a reprieve just the same.

Then, we're getting ready for bed. All tucked in. Harry Potter at the ready. And I ask, as we've been doing for a few months now, if there's anything they want to talk about or ask about that we didn't get to today?

"Yes, Mom," says Saia, and I hold my breath again thinking she's been pondering our discussion all day, feels completely inadequately informed, and is about to demand the whole story.

"What's suicide?" she asks.

"What?! Where in the world did you hear that???" I ask, stunned, relieved, then stunned again.

"On that show, Mom, when they were talking about the honey bees attacking the bear to save the hive."

[Oh, dammit, Oprah, you're really killing me here!!!!]

...

FIRST DAY OF SUMMER BREAK: OF DUCKS AND DUCKIE

"Good morning, second graders!" I say when they crawl under the covers with me this morning.

"We're not second-graders yet, Mom," she says.

"Well, okay, what are you then? 1st-2nd-in-betweeners?"

"We are NOT weiners, Mama!!" he says. [20 minutes of 7-year-old cackling ensues]

"Okay, okay, so what are you?"

"We're summer vacationers!" she says. "Let's go to the beach!"

And while that does sound like a pretty awesome plan, we've got a birthday pool party to attend this afternoon, presents to buy for it this morning, and breakfast to be had.

The beach may have to wait a few days.

So, while I was making breakfast, Saia tapped into her inner Rodin, pulled out her modeling clay and sculpted this totally adorable duck!

Santiago, on the other hand, was just bursting with energy this morning (ok, no, not ONLY this morning), so off he was sent to the keyboard. Within minutes, he'd discovered the demo button, and, baby, it was ALL over then!

Just try to tell me he doesn't remind you of Ducky from Pretty in Pink.

AND SO FIRST GRADE COMES TO AN END IN A BLAZE OF FOOT-LONG FRUIT ROLL-UPS AND PLAYDATE PHONE #S

How is it that the last day of school feels 1000 times worse than the 1st? I'm tearful and joyful, relieved and exhausted. There's no way another year has come and gone. Did someone DVR it?

They already seemed older to me today. Something about the way they carried themselves. The way they kissed me goodbye on the playground steps. The way they ran off with their buddies only casually glancing over their shoulders long enough to toss me an obligatory wave.

But as much as it is emotionally wrenching to have to face the reality of their growing up, not even that seems to be quite as painful as this final week of school has been. No, really. Saying that it was a bit insane would be an insult to the insane. It was madness. Sheer chaos. And I just don't remember my last week of school ever having been this crazy, although I'm almost certain my parents would disagree.

One of the oddest and topsy-turviest things the kids got to do this week was a School Camp-out. So, here we go, rushing the morning of, to get them changed out of their sleep jammies and into "school jammies" (which really only means for us that all major body parts are adequately covered and then having to explain to them for the 150th time why they have to wear their underclothes with their pjs). Then we packed up their toothbrushes and a mini-toothpaste each in separate but equal ziploc bags. And packed up their lunches and a snack for 6 (times 2) to share with their assigned "sleepover" group.

So, now we've got their everyday backpack all bulging and ready to go. And we've got their sleeping bag backpack with attached water bottle all set and ready to go. And, of course, we've got a pillow each, a stuffed animal, and a nighttime book to share.

The pile of stuff outside of the classrooms that morning was just ridiculous. It looked like the back lot of a Salvation Army. And I was never more grateful that I hadn't been asked to volunteer than I was that day.

But, not surprisingly, the kids had a blast. They made fortresses in their rooms with sheets and tables. Their 3rd grade buddies came and read them bedtime stories. They ate a ton of stuff they'd never get from me. And came home with their robe pockets full of little pieces of paper with first names and phone numbers scribbled in color pencil and crayons in that undeniable first-grade handwriting.

...

I. AM. THE. MCGRUBERMAMA.

"Mom?" she sings sheepishly as we're getting ready for bed tonight.

"Yes, babe?"

"I need glasses, a shawl, a squirrel mask, and a tail," she rattles off at the speed of light.

"Wha? What? Now? For tomorrow???" I stutter.

"Yep," she bounces off to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

"Yeah," he chimes in from his bunk. "And I need a red pig's tail."

"FOR TOMORROW?!?!?!?"

"Yep," he hums.

"But it's 7 o'clock," I mutter, my mouth still agape. "And tomorrow's the last day of school. And what do you need them for? And how long have you known about this? BOTH OF YOU GET DOWN HERE IN FRONT OF ME RIGHT THIS MINUTE!"

They exchanged knowing glances, and somehow decided without uttering a word that Saia would take this one for the team and step up to the line. Santiago took two paces back. Evidently, these are the sacrifices you make for being able to hold over his head for the rest of his life that you are actually older, if only by 2 minutes.

So, apparently, the props were needed for the plays they've been rehearsing for the past couple of weeks. They're final performance IS tomorrow morning at 8:15. No reasonable explanation for why or how they managed to forget.

So, my inner McGyver, with which all mothers are blessed, kicks into orange alert. And within minutes, with a tampon and stick of gum...

Okay, no, not really.

But with...

some paper plates,	a Hawaiian lei,	and red bendaroos,

...we managed to fashion all of the necessary props and still have time to read a chapter of Harry Potter (we started year 5 tonight, Diana).

Sleep tight, my little monsters. The world is safe again.

...

'TWAS BRILLIG, AND THE SLITHY TOVES DID GYRE AND GIMBLE IN THE WABE...

So, this post is two-part.

Part I: Review of the revamped Alice in Wonderland.

You may recall my singing the praises of Common Sense Media. I've contributed my review of Alice in Wonderland this week, primarily 'cause I happen to mostly disagree with the reviews on there with regard to this particular flick, and just want to make sure that our perspective is also covered.

The basic gist: we loved it. It was very well done, but requires a great deal of active parental participation, discussion, and artistic appreciation in order to ensure that the well-intended messages are, in fact, received.

Part II: The Very Merry Unbirthday

JABBERWOCKY

by Lewis Carroll

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

This is one of my all-time favorite poems. The genius in being able to tell a story with completely nonsensical words is just an awe-inspiring feat for a writer. To my utter delight, Chaguito's been reciting this since he was about 2 1/2. No, really.

He IS the MadHatter, in so so many ways. And this week at school, to HIS utter delight, they had a Very Merry Unbirthday celebration. His costume of choice was, of course, the MadHatter. And he hasn't stopped callooh-callaying all week!!

...

MAMA, YOU'RE LIKE A MANATEE

Leaving school today holding their hands as we wait for the crossing guard's whistle to blow.

"Emma, sweetie," I call to a classmate of Saia's who's standing a little too close to the curb waiting for her mother to come pick her up,"why don't you take about 4 steps towards the fence so you're not so close to the street?"

And she does.

And we say goodbye and cross.

Halfway across the street, Santiago leans into me and without looking up says, "Mama, you're like a manatee."

"A what?"

"A manatee!" he yells gleefully. "But like a mama manatee, you know?"

"Umm...ok...well, thanks, Bubba, I think," and kinda suck in my belly self-consciously.

"No, mama, you don't get it. Mama manatees don't only protect their own babies, they protect all the other manatees' babies, too. And you do that all the time."

[melting.]

...

STUCK IN A DRAFT STATE

I have 14 posts in DRAFT state right now, at least one of which goes all the way back to January.

FOUR. TEEN.

JA-NU-ARY, people!

It's June now.

Am thinking this says way too much about my life, about me as a person, and about my caffeine intake.

[So, pay no attention to this man behind the curtain.]

It's the same reason my novel, collection of short stories & poems, and children's book series are all in a state of incompletion.

It's the same reason my suitcase from my trip to Indy is still sitting at the foot of my bed, only partially unpacked.

It's the same reason there's still a box of framed pictures in the living room, just waiting to be hung, begging to be freed, for 10 months now.

It's the same reason I can't even walk into my walk-in closet for fear of impaling my foot on the pile of heels and sandals congregating right there in the middle and extending out to cover every inch of the closet floor.

It's the same reason I've convinced myself that consulting is fine for me when all I really want to do is get back to working full-time and feeling like part of a team again.

It's the same reason it's been for the last few years.

I'M in a state of incompletion.

I'M stuck in a DRAFT state.

And somebody really needs to tell me how to just suck it up and push SEND already, and preferably before I order those Professional Procrastinator Seeks Perfection (aka, Unobtainium) business cards I've only half-completed on VistaPrint.

...

GET-WHAT-THEY-WANT GIRLS. YOU KNOW THE KIND.

I've known a few of these in my time.

Some might even accuse me of being one. (No need to assent here.)

But Chago recently pulled the "please, please, please, Mama" thing today as we were leaving school as he tried desperately to negotiate a playdate with a friend I'm not very fond of, and then immediately upon seeing that that was obviously NOT working, decided to launch full force into the Puss-in-Boots-big-kitty-eyes routine, and we hadn't even got past the gates.

The thing is, and he knows this already, that I absolutely do not care how adorably cute he looks or how much he makes my ears bleed, begging, verbally or optically, does not and has never worked in this family.

Evidently, though, it is a very common tool employed by many of his classmates. His female classmates.

And I'm absolutely certain their parents would be mortified to know that these little monsters not only know exactly what they're doing, they're actually sharing tips and tricks with one another. And what's worse, they're then bragging to their friends about how such-and-such tactic got them an extra day in Tahoe, and this-or-that tactic got them another hour at the arcade and $5 bucks in tokens.

Yes, really. They're GLOATING!!!

And when Santiago (according to Santiago, of course) tried to explain to them that he's already tried those things on me to no avail, they pretty much just told him that he wasn't doing it right. AND PROCEEDED TO PROVIDE HIM WITH STEP BY STEP INSTRUCTIONS!!

"You must not have looked cute enough," one of them concluded.

"Or loud enough," the other one chimed in.

"You need to reaaaaaally whine until they cover their ears," the demons continued.

"That means you're getting ready to get what you want," the other banshee cackled.

And then he turned to me as we were crossing the street to the truck and said, "Why do they think that, Mama?"

And the thing is, he knows. He's not Mr. Innocent, although he likes to play one on TV. He knows full well how to play the manipulation game, and a part of that act includes asking questions that he already knows the answer to.

Saia, luckily, is not quite as good at it. And, very matter-of-factly, without lifting her head from her homework, says to him, "That's because they're get-what-they-want girls, Santiago. Everybody knows that."

[Ahhh. That's my girl.]

...

A NOTE TO MY HIGH SCHOOL BAND TEACHER UPON HIS RETIREMENT

A few years ago, my grandfather's brother died. My aunt, his daughter, asked me if I would play Taps at his funeral back in my hometown.

I had come down from the East Coast, where I was living at the time. I hadn't played my trumpet in years. But when I went to open up the case, that same familiar smell wafted through the air -- that intoxicating mix of valve oil, musty faux fur, and glistening aged brass that only a true band nerd could love.

I reached in with both hands. A little embarrassed. As if it would somehow know that I'd been neglecting it all these years. As if it would somehow hold a grudge.

But it felt exactly the same in my hands as it did when I was 15. The heft of it was like an old friend. Cold at first, unsure of my intentions. But it soon warmed beneath the heat of my skin and then readily gave in to my touch. The valves still pumped smoothly. The mouthpiece reciprocated my long-lost kiss. And the sound, although muted at first from my own timidity, was as full and soul-shaking as it always had been for me.

I practiced in the bathroom. I practiced outside. I'd forgotten how loud it was. How the trumpet fills the air, blasts the clouds, rattles the windows. But I wanted to be sure. I needed to get it right. I simply couldn't, could not, make a single mistake this time.

On the day of the funeral, I was sitting in the truck waiting for my cue. I was heartbroken at the loss of my uncle, emotional at being around my family, back in my hometown that I'd fled so long ago, and visibly trembling at the thought of, once again, having to perform a solo.

A few minutes before it was time, a young boy arrived with a trumpet case in hand. He'd been sent over from the high school. To play for the funeral. Just as I had been so many times before him.

And although this was MY uncle, and I had been asked by MY aunt, I didn't want to discourage him, a young hopeful musician. I didn't want to deprive him of the profound and meaningful experience of playing the last song anyone would ever hear before their loved one was buried and gone forever. It was an honor to play for the mourners. An honor to play for the dead.

So, I dragged him back to the truck in his blue & gold gym clothes, and we practiced as a duet. And he was trying to keep up. He was. He was trying to harmonize, but he just couldn't pull it off. Because although I've never ever been a natural musical talent, I knew the one thing I always had over my competition was heart, as trite as that may sound. And although he did his best and did play with me that day, I honestly don't even remember his name. I don't remember what he was wearing or what he looked like. In fact, I don't remember even hearing him at all.

I could hear nothing but the melody I was playing. Everything else, the wind, the train, the traffic, was drowned out by the notes that were swimming solemnly over the flag-draped coffin, soaring triumphantly up past the trees, and back into the heavens. Where they belonged.

CLICK TO PLAY "TAPS"

'Cause the thing is, I was the one that loved to play.

I did. I loved it. Through and through.

And you saw that in me. And you let me have that.

Being First Chair. Playing solos in concerts and on the field. Bringing home medals from competition. Those were awesome, unforgettable memories for me.

But being able to play something as simple and as pure as Taps at my uncle's funeral, is something I never could have done, would have done, or would have been asked to do, if it weren't for you.

So, besides the fact that I got my first real kiss in the 6th grade band hall (oh, trust me, I was NOT the only one), you will always and forever hold a very special place in my heart.

Thank you for everything you did, for everything you taught us, and, most especially, for all of the things you never even knew you gave us.

Congratulations on your retirement, Mr. L. I'll imagine you always on a white sandy beach in Havana with the trumpets playing softly over the warm breeze under a blanket of starry skies.
...

BIRDHOUSING AND GARDEN STONING ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

What an awesome little 'possum we have.

A few Sundays ago, she pulled out her Garden Stone kit, donned her scary bird-flu-looking mask, strapped on her latex gloves (just stop), and mixed her first plaster mold stepping stone.

She added little plastic jewels and made a giant "S" with the colorful mosaic tiles, and off it went into a cozy corner of the garage to dry.

Yesterday, she pulled out her Birdhouse kit. Once she got it all put together, fit all the pegs into their respective holes, tied the string and inserted the dowel perch, I went ahead and hammered in a few tiny nails 'cause, you know, we got some heavy fowl out here in Northern Cali.

Then it was time to paint. And, after a little coercing, she very generously allowed her brother to help. But he was relegated to the right and back sides of the house ONLY. And, even then, she repainted it when he was done. Man, she is SUCH the minime.

The final product, I thought, was pretty darn great. Her colors were gorgeous. Her designs were really creative and fun. She even wrote "Welcome" right over the door. What bird wouldn't want to come hang out here for a while?

Then it was time to paint and plant the garden stone. This one, she didn't allow him to touch. But we sprayed it with varnish so the rain and sprinklers wouldn't wash away all her hardwork, and she even dug the hole herself, which, I know, at this point is really not a shocker with this girl.

Awesome 'possum, I tell you. Indubitably.

...

CUBIST DRAGONS ARE FOR SQUARES

For his final project this art session, his art teacher thought she would challenge him a little.

His task was to create his own version of the Picasso-esque dragon on the left.

This rendition on the right was his final interpretation of it.

God, I love this boy!
...

HOW WE (almost) FAILED WACKY TACKY DAY

They were so excited last night.

They didn't even want us to lay out their clothes before bed because they wanted to be able to dream up something c-r-a-z-y for today.

It's the end of Spirit Week at school, you see, and today is the grand finalé: WACKY TACKY DAY. The possibilities were endless, right? Uh, yeah, shoulda been. Coulda been. But not for our monsters.

Try as they might, they just COULD NOT mismatch this morning. Everytime they came out with what they thought was the perfect clashing combo, I would say, "Wow, that's a cute one. You should wear that next week." And they would stomp off to try again.

He came out in his khakis, then in blue jeans, and even in a pair of camo shorts, and I'd just shake my head, "Not wacky enough, Bubba. Try again."

Huff. Puff. Stompstompstomp!

At one point, she even came into my room giggling at her own zany "wackiness" as she presented to me a plain white ankle sock AND the same exact sock BUT it had a pink and blue diamond on the top.

Wooooo! That one just about blew me away!! Not. (Bless her little fashionista heart.)

Seriously, it was everything I could do to contain myself. They just couldn't -- COULD NOT -- throw something together that just didn't work. And yes, I may have been beaming, but just a little. ;)

Finally, realizing that this was completely our fault, that we were asking them to go against everything we've ever taught them about colors and patterns and style and pizzaz, I got down on my hands and knees in front of their dressers, rifled through their drawers and dress-up boxes, and started giving them a mini-lesson in tackiness, including how to accessorize inappropriately -- "It's pretend dress-up," I would say. "You're TRYING to look silly and ridiculous and over-the-top," I would insist as they gave each other sideways glances and looked at me like I'd lost my marbles.

"It's okay to just go with the craziest things you can possibly imagine," I said. But no one was buying it.

"You don't need to be shy or embarrassed or anything," I tried.

"This should be fun," [forcrissakes]. "Let's just do this, okay?"

And I think they kinda sorta got it (sorta, kinda, but not really), and they were over-the-moon thrilled to the gills excited to have finally come up with this WACKY TACKY combo.

And Mommy did a great job with their wacky do's. The cherry on top that sealed the deal for them.

"I am sooo wacky tacky," she was telling him on the way to school.

"Nuh-uh," he retorted. "I'M the wackiest AND tackiest!"

And no, I don't believe we will be apologizing for the fact that they still look pretty damn stylish, in spite of themselves. ;)

...

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY: ME VOY (JULIETA VENEGAS)