The View from Nicco's House

Nicco and his Daddy are making great progress on the treehouse. Last night the boy got to climb up for the first time to see the world from his perch.

"This is awesome!" said he. "I can see the whole world from up here!"

I needed my boy's big bright eyes and ear-to-ear smile yesterday. It helped to bring me off my own precipice, from which I saw nothing but the burning and crumbling of the world.

My sister shared this thought with me from the super-preppers' SHTF plan:

"Evil is walking the earth, chaos, human suffering, impending war, confusion, destroying religious freedom, devastating fires, flooding, extreme heat, hatred, greed, lack of conscience, declining morals, etc. etc. This was written long ago and is coming to fruition now. Pray, turn off the tv, read and love your Family and God. In the end good will always conquer evil."

Faith, Family, Friends and my boy's smile will get me to November.

It's On

Armor on, to arms, Patriots.
Next battle is in November.
To quote Captain Picard, A line must be drawn HERE. This far, and NO further.
To quote John Paul Jones, I have Not.Yet. Begun. To. Fight.
To quote Arcade Fire, you better look out below.

Filed Under "Who Came Up With That??"

This afternoon for the second time in my life I got stung by a bee. (I did not die.)

We were in the pool and as I was climbing out I felt a sharp sting and looked down at my arm and discovered the offending stinger. I was secretly glad it left its stinger in my arm because most likely that means it was a suicide attack.  HA! Die, bee! Die!

Within just a minute or two I had a raised and splotchy welt about 3 inches in diameter. When the initial sting died off, a burning sensation followed.

Nicco looked at my arm and said, "That's terrible, Mom! It hurts me more than it hurts you." Well, I doubt it, but thanks for the empathy.

Patrice suggested vinegar.

I took to the internets and saw a few different places that suggested taping a penny to the sting for 15 minutes.

Huh. A penny. I figured I had nothing to lose. If it worked, awesome! If not, it probably wouldn't get much worse.

I secured a penny to my wound with a band-aid and took it off 15 minutes later.

Believe it or not, the swelling went down, the splotches disappeared, and there was no more burning.(You'll just have to take my word. I tried to take pictures, but it was difficult. None of them turned out.)

The spot is still a little tiny bit tender and who knows whether the symptoms would have lasted beyond the 15 minutes I had the penny on my arm. What I do know is that with the penny, the symptoms disappeared.

So the question of the day is, who was the first person to come up with that solution? How and why did someone think to tape a penny to a bee sting?

Someone should make a Real Men of Genius commercial about Mr. Tape a Penny to a Bee Sting Guy.

Queen of the Night

It has a hallowed place in Tohono O'odham storytelling, has inspired folk songs, paintings, thousands of photographs and even a perfume. The Night Blooming Cereus, the aptly named Queen of the Night, creates an elusive flower, blooming en masse for only one night of the year. Opening slowly at dusk the beautiful flower is wilted within a few hours of sunrise.

I like to learn new things and experience new things. I diligently check the goings-on around town so I can have new experiences and share them with my boys or visiting family. I learned about the Night Blooming Cereus at a visit to the nearby Tohono Chul Garden this spring and I immediately signed up for e-mail updates on the progress of the Queen of the Night so I could go to the garden on Bloom Night.

The e-mails were getting more and more frequent and two days ago the message was, "Be ready. Bloom Night will happen within the next three days. You won't know it's happening until it's happening, so check your e-mail frequently." I was very excited to get the official announcement yesterday afternoon. I was even more excited that when I told Nicco about it HE was excited and wanted to come along.

See? Excited.

Waiting for a tour guide

Pretty lights

We packed up some water, our flashlights and our camera and headed out. The parking lot was pretty full--I did not know what kind of crowds to expect, but I was not surprised that it was more busy than usual for this event. The gardens were festively lit and luminarias lined the paths indicating the proximity to the night blooming flowers. This garden has the largest collection of the plant in the world. It is native to Southwestern North America and it looks like a bunch of dead sticks most of the year. This species does not self pollinate so the plants must bloom on the same evening to ensure pollination, usually by hawk moths. Although, there were a bunch of bats flying around the garden...I know the bats pollinate the saguaros, so they probably help with this flower too. The true mystery, says the plant curator, is how the majority of the plants know when to bloom.

When we found the first bunch of blooms, one of the garden docents was telling the Tohono O'odham legend of the White-Haired Old Woman. The legend says that a girl married a Yaqui warrior and moved across the desert to live with him and his tribe. She became pregnant and her husband became ill and died. The rest of the tribe were just waiting for her to have her baby so they could take him away and make him a warrior, but she wanted him to grow up to be kind. Her mother, an old woman, sought her daughter's spirit each night since she left home and one night, she got the message that her daughter and grandson were in trouble. She went out across the desert to rescue them, with the help of the birds, coyotes, and other desert creatures. The girl had her baby but she did not survive. The old woman managed to rescue the baby and keep the soldiers from stealing him back, but her journey made her weak. The coyote returned the baby to the Tohono O'Odham to be raised, but the grandmother didn't make it back. Her thin, weak bones were sticking up out of the ground and because she was a good and noble grandmother, one night of the year, she is the most beautiful thing in the desert.

Nicco, listening to the legend

After listening to the story, Nicco and I followed the lit paths to find some more blooms.

Making our way along the path

I really enjoyed the evening. I'm glad we went. I'm especially glad we went kind of early. As we left, the crowds were bigger and I heard someone say "You think it is bad now, just wait until after the 10:00 news!" The parking lot was packed and an arriving guest followed us slowly and patiently so he could take our spot. The street was lined with cars on both sides for at least two blocks at the entrance and exit to the garden.

I'm also glad we didn't get bit by a rattlesnake. I was a little worried about that. Not worried enough to change out of my flip flops, but still. A little worried.

French Camp Art Class Update

Here are some new art projects from French camp:

Matisse Cutouts

Nicco Cutouts

Arcimboldo, Summer

Nicco, Summer

Klee, Arrival of the Groom

Nicco, Arrival of the Groom

Picasso, Picasso's Son

Nicco, Picasso's Son

There's a little too much Madame Bolesta in some of these projects, but mostly I lurvs my kid's art!

P.S. I Suck

Great googily moogily, why in the name of all that is good and holy can I NOT.REMEMBER.MY. ANNIVERSARY???

Three out of the past four years.

It's a good thing Patrice is building a clubhouse outside. I may have to sleep there tonight.

I love my husband. I just can't remember the date I married him.

Let the public shaming begin.

My Two Dads

The family is ordained of God...By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families.

I am lucky and thankful for the two dads in my life, for their love and protection, dedication and influence on me and my family.

I remember my dad saying that his friends often wondered if he wished he had a son instead of four girls. His response was something along the lines of What, to have someone to hunt and fish with? Someone to watch football with on Sunday afternoons? Someone to play catch with, to hike and climb and build forts with? Someone's high school sporting events to watch? My dad didn't miss out on any of those "boy" things by having daughters.

A few snapshots of the daddies:

The Father of Me

My dad, my grandpa, and me at my baptism in 1980

A Daddy-Daughter date in about 1983

Graduation from Brigham Young University, 1995

The Father of My Baby

Nicco's blessing, 2005

Power Tools

Rough Stuff

Kindergarten Program (I REFUSE to call it graduation)

I love that Patrice involves Nicco in projects. It teaches him the value of hard work and all the skills of planning the project and carrying it through to completion. It also teaches him to have ownership and pride in his work. He will enjoy his clubhouse that much more because he helped his daddy build it.



Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there!

Copy Cat

To borrow a trend from my cousin-in-law Rachel, today's run (not long run...I'm no marathoner!) brought to you by Songs That Make Me Smile In Tender Mama Reminiscence Of My Little Boy.

John the Revelator, Depeche Mode.
When Nicco was about a year old, he would get all giddy and happy when he heard the garage door open, signaling the arrival of the Papa. He had a tradition. I would take him to meet his daddy and he would sit on Patrice's lap, pushing all the buttons in the cockpit of the car, jamming to whatever rockin' tunes Patrice happened to have been listening to on the way home. They would stay out there for quite some time together. Once I stole a video of this little ritual and the song was John the Revelator. I can't listen to it without seeing my small boy pounding the steering wheel and nodding his head to the rhythm.

Numb, Linkin Park
A.K.A. The Baa-Now. When Nicco was two and a half-ish, he Obsessed (with a capital O) over airplanes. We found some airplane videos online for him and he watched them over and over and over and over again. His favorite video was a compilation of photoshopped crazy airplanes set to the song Numb. He watched the video so many times that he memorized the song and he got to where he would watch the video and belt out, "Baa, now now now" and "I've become so numb I can't feel you there...every step that I take is just another mistake to YOOOOOUUUU." Same thing. I see my little boy singing the baa-now when I hear that song.

I Gotta Feeling, Black Eyed Peas
A year or so ago, that song was overplayed on the Disney channel. Such a catchy little tune. At the height of its popularity it came on the radio while I was driving the boy somewhere and he hollered from the back seat, "Mom, turn it up! I love this song!" That made me feel a little like my itty bitty boy was growing up some. It was like a miniscule peek at future Nicco somehow. I have a pang of bittersweetness when I hear that song, but still, it will always make me think of five year old Nicco.

Flag Day

Oh, say does that star spangled banner yet wave,

O'er the Land of the Free,

And the Home of the Brave!

Shameless Plug: Oro Valley Eye Care

A month or so before the end of the year, Nicco's school had optometrists come in and screen the kiddos for potential vision problems. Considering his genes, I was not optimistic about Nicco's chances of coming out of the screening without potential vision problems.

When I had my own exam, the doctor said that since Patrice is far sighted and I am near sighted, maybe Nicco's genes will cancel out and he'll be fine. But sure enough, a week or so after the screening we got a note sent home from school saying that Nicco could probably use a more thorough exam. (What, more thorough than the 5 minute training session the screeners had before being bombarded with rambunctious 5 and 6 year olds? Nah...)

I took Nicco to see Dr. Mitchell of Oro Valley Eye care (full disclosure, he's a friend.) Dr. Mitchell and his staff were absolutely fantastic with my boy. He was nervous and discouraged and very much in the anti-glasses camp. We were a little early so I had Nicco try on frames for fun, overplaying my enthusiasm. After a while he decided glasses might not be so bad.

Then one of the assistants pointed out the other wall, the one with all the fun colors. Nicco chose bright orange frames. I tried to gently convince him of the coolness of some other frames, but the boy was hooked on orange. Fine, I told myself. If orange frames will encourage him to wear his corrective lenses, orange frames it is.

Dr. Mitchell took Nicco back to the exam room and made him feel very much at ease and encouraged at the prospects of seeing better. By the time we left, Nicco was asking how long it would be before he got his new glasses. When the daddy got home from work, Nicco told him all about the  appointment and the awesome orange frames he liked. Patrice looked at me and said, "I never want my boy to think he can't be different." I agreed, and thought once more, orange frames it is.

Patrice stole the boy away that evening for a boys' night out, stopping by the eye doctor to check out the frames. When they got home, I was informed that they ordered Nicco's glasses. I asked if they were the orange ones. No way! Patrice said. Nicco can be different, but he can't look...retarded! (We're totally P.C. in my family.) So instead of the orange frames with the adjustable ear-hooky-things (it's a technical term), they chose cool blue Nike frames.

We picked them up today. They were presented to Nicco on a silver platter with his special box, cleaning cloths and cleaning solution, and a gift card to a local restaurant.

Nicco put them on and looked around and pointed out all the lines he could see on the mountains and trees.

I realize I'm advertising to a very limited audience here in AZ,  but spread the word... (I'm talking to you, Crystal!) for pediatric eye care (or grown-up eye care for that matter), you can't do better than Dr. Mitchell of Oro Valley Eye Care.

Their motto is true: "We care. You'll see." 

Love/Hate

I love and hate French Camp.

I love the car talks Nicco and I have.
I hate that our rides are 60 miles a day.

I love hearing so many different accents as I walk through the halls, and the small voices greeting their teachers with choruses of "Bonjour, Madame!" and "Hola, Señora!" and something in Chinese.

I hate the "Think Globally" motto of the one-world liberal fantasy land of unicorns and rainbows this particular global community subscribes to. When I "think globally" I think of the UN's
despicable attempts to undermine the sovereignty of other nations to gain money, power, and control. If that is One World Government, I'll pass. I think of the ongoing slaughter of Christians in Egypt. I think of the subjugation of women in Arab countries under sharia law. I think of the denial to the Jews by the "global community" of a homeland in Jerusalem. I think of the collapsing Euro-zone...Greece is what happens when you "think globally." America is far from perfect, I know, but I'll think locally and stick to my Bill of Rights here in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, thank you very much.

I love Nicco's art projects. I love that he is learning about famous artists and their ideas and techniques. I hate that the "Tree of Life" was explained as the exchange of gases that takes place in the leaves of trees, providing us clean, breathable air rather than the actual significance of the Tree of Life, an important symbol in many cultures. With its branches reaching into the sky, and roots deep in the earth, it is a link between Heaven and the Earth and is symbolic in Judaism and Christianity of the word of God and eternal life. But no...when we think globally, we ignore religious implications. Otherwise, we might offend somebody.

Tree of Life, by Gustav Klimt

Tree of Life, by Nicco

I love that my boy is learning and growing and making friends and practicing his second language.

Mostly, I love that he is pleasantly surprised. "French Camp is fun!" he said. "I had no idea!" When I picked him up on Friday afternoon he asked me if he was going to do French Camp every year. I said I don't know, we'll see, and I asked if he would like to do it again.

He enthusiastically replied, "YES! I love French Camp!"

A Mouse Tale

We have some mouse animosity at our house, resulting from what I presume to be a mouse living in our wall. Also, the recent hantavirus deaths I heard about in Utah prompted nightmares and an appetizing breakfast conversation. I told my husband about my nightmares and Nicco asked, "Mice can kill people?" Yes, I said. They are filthy dirty rodents that carry nasty germs that can make you really sick and their poop can kill you. Patrice, ever so helpful, told the boy not to eat mouse poop. I told him not to eat it, not to touch it, not to smell it.

On the way to French camp today the topic of conversation on the radio was government overreach and hyper-regulation choking the economy and strangling small businesses. People were calling in and telling real life stories and experiences of hyper-regulation. One guy told of his experience at the pet store he's been going to for two years to purchase mice to feed to their pet snake. Last week for the first time ever the man had to fill out a form which included his name, address, and phone number pledging that he would humanely transport the mouse to his house where it would promptly become SNAKE FOOD.

Even my boy recognized the insanity in this. He asked what humanely means. I told him. He asked why anyone cares if a mouse is treated kindly. I said that's a good question. He said, "Besides, that's exactly who you should sell a mouse to. A mouse killer."

Indeed.

Mouse killers of the world, unite!

(At my house, please.)

How Old Would You Be If You Didn't Know How Old You Are?

I took a walk with my grandma when she was in her sixties. I was a young teenager, full of the vibrant, energetic vitality of youth. She was pretty spry for a young old person but I still had to slow down for her to keep up with me. She noticed. I tried not to let her notice, but I suppose it was inevitable. She commented on her relative aged body saying, "In my mind I still feel 18."

My Grandma and me, in roughly 2000, taking a walk.

I pretty much think every grown up I associate with is roughly 5 years older or younger than I am. Sometimes I'm right.

Nicco thinks everyone is older than they are.

There is a girl at French camp who looks like Jackson's sister Audrey and "she's pretty much grown up. She's way bigger than the rest of us kids." I think she's 10.

On our way to French camp, an elderly gentleman was crossing the street in a power chair. Nicco said, "When Grandpa can't move, I hope he gets one of those. It will be so much easier than walking really slow, going 'ooohhh, uuuggghhh, aaaahhhh...I...can't...mooooove.' Plus, it's better than a wheel chair so he doesn't have to be pushed everywhere. But I would push him. I like to be where he is."

I have no idea why my kid thinks his grandfather is on the verge of wheel chair confinement. He hiked the Swiss Alps! He climbed the Great Wall of China! He climbed the stairs to the top of Bruneleschi's duomo in Florence! (Which is no small feat, I can tell you. And I was 20-ish when I did it!) He still walks miles every day and travels around the globe. He's pretty spry, like his mama was at his age.

Nicco has commented on my Dad's age before. He said, "You know, my grandpa's not old, he's just silly." 

Old really is a state of mind. I just hope for my dad's sake he refers to his own state of mind and not that of his grandson.

Creepy Crawlies

Look what Patrice found when he blindly reached into the cupboard last night:

Yep. Inside a pot. Ugh. Those creepies are really crawly.

My psychotic cat is going to lose her mind (or give herself a concussion) trying to find the source of the tell tale scritchy-scritch behind the wall.

I remember once when my parents were out square dancing on a Saturday night my sisters and I were eating ice cream with forks straight from the gallon bucket and we saw a little light brown blur scurry into the pile of wood near the fire place. We didn't have our cat at the time. We were left to defend ourselves by squealing and throwing wooden Little People at the terrified little nasty filthy rodent.

This morning, our brave feline huntress captured a critter. It was a bug of some kind, about 3 inches long, maybe a quarter of an inch wide with big nasty pinchers at one end and a bazillion legs all along its body. It was the same color as the scorpions I've seen. Nasty. Nicco came over and asked, "What is that thing? It looks like a penelopede to me."

We're being invaded! And I don't even have any Little People!

One Day Down, Twenty-Nine To Go!

Nicco successfully finished his first day of French Camp. He and I both survived.
There was a small bit of confusion at the end of the morning session when a bunch of the kids went home and Nicco did not, but he did not have an afternoon class assignment. We worked through that hiccup and all was well with the world.

We arrived early to get him. (Patrice wondered aloud why he rushed. I reminded him that while I am not my dad, I am my dad's kid.) We got to spy on him in his art class for a few minutes and when the clock struck 3:30, went into the classroom. My boy was all smiles and both his teacher and the director complimented us on his character and behavior. He is a good kid after all!

He spoke a little French to the Daddy in the car on the way home and the Daddy responded by telling him the more he practices, the quicker this project will get done:

The garage is a bazillion degrees (roughly) and the heated up cedar of the cabane smells oh so good. I walk through the garage like I walk through the coffee aisle at the grocery store, inhaling deeply and getting a nice, brief high from the scent. Mmmmm...ahhh.

Nicco wanted to get tools and get to work, but Patrice explained all the prep work that needed to be done first. They went out and surveyed the plot, measuring and planning. I guess we'll never know how long it would have taken for our little lemon tree to produce fruit again after The Big Freeze.
Goodbye, lemon tree. ~sniff~

Nicco cleared rocks to make room for his tree house. It was only a moment or two before he asked me if I would like to help.

If we work together, surely we'll move this tree, said Nicco to his dad. Surely enough, teamwork got the job done.

The space is cleared, marked, and ready for the next step.

After the day's work was done, Nicco enjoyed a cold delicious treat and a dip in the pool.

There are twenty nine more days of French Camp...any bets on whether the boys can finish the project to coincide with the end of camp? Knowing my husband, I'd put my money on him getting it done. However, there is the matter of Nicco practicing what he learns...that depends on the small boy (and me). 

First Day

I dropped my baby off at French Camp this morning.

Last night Patrice asked me how I feel about tomorrow. I told him I didn't want to talk about it because I don't want Nicco to pick up on my anxiety.

When I snuggled my baby for sleep last night he asked if he could just do Rosetta Stone if he didn't want to go to French Camp. He has been suggesting for months that we should go to France on June 5th. He moved it up to June 12th the other day, so maybe he was willing to give French Camp a week. He's nervous.

I dropped him off, walked him to his class, talked (in French! yay me!) to his teacher then left him there. Far, far away. In a place he's never been with people he's never met. I planned to go to the gym this morning on my way home but my phone was dying. I cannot be incommunicado on my baby's first day! So, I'm home, near the phone, sick to my head and tummy hoping that all the anxiety of the day is mine and not my baby's.

He'll be fine, he'll learn a lot, he'll have fun.

But still.

I.Can't.Wait. To pick him up this afternoon.

Echo

Yesterday as Nicco and I got ready to go to the Kids' Workshop at the Home Depot, I couldn't find my car keys.

I asked Nicco if he had seen them anywhere.

He said, "No, Mom. I'm not responsible for your things."

Touché, buddy.