Middle Eastern Stars Go Rafting!

Elk Rock Island is a magical core of an ancient volcano 5 minutes from our house. In the summer, the river drops and you can walk across dry land to the island. But in winter, the river rises and Elk Rock Island becomes a tantalizing and inaccessible river island complete with bald eagles and old foundations from buildings of a bygone era. In short, it begs the adventurous to find a way across the moat.

Espen and I knew the water would be high when we visited. We were prepared to gaze longingly at the elusive island and sail pieces of bark towards it. Well, I was. Espen kept trying to haul logs to the shore to make "bridges". We did not however, anticipate the arrival of two grown men bent on constructing a raft to float across on.

Granted they were young men, but clearly adults, who busied themselves gathering sticks of wood and lumber that had washed ashore on the winter tides. Espen saw them abandon the sticks as too short and swooped down to annex them for his bridge building.

However.

When Espen saw them hauling tires filled with Styrofoam to the shore, any trace of shyness or interest in building his own project evaporated and he sidled closer for a look.

"Hey," he said casually, aiming for his best grown up voice.

They looked up and saw the little man hovering by their pile of  scavenged goods. One of them smiled and stepped closer to Espen.

"Hey," he said back.

"Whatcha buildin' there?" Espen questioned, hoping beyond hope that they would say a device that would carry him to the island.

The young man crouched down. Looked at Espen earnestly.

"We're building a raft. That guy there is an engineer."

Espen stepped closer.

"I can help you find boards and stuff. That will float."

The guy smiled again and the engineer looked up from arranging his tires. Sized up Espen.

"That would be great!" they said and Espen was off and running.

We salvaged lumber and boards, hell we even found a length of rope that Espen trotted back very proudly.

"You can TIE THEM TOGETHER NOW!!"

The engineer looked excited. The other guy bent down to Espen.

"Do you think we can make it, little man?"

Espen nodded furiously, his dreams coming to life before his very eyes.

The engineer now began to drill holes in the Styrofoam with a stick so he could loop the rope through and lash the tires together. Other guy, Espen and I started chatting.

It turned out that he was an airline pilot out with his good pal the engineer for an afternoon adventure.

He asked Espen's name, which the Bear happily explained meant Bear of the Gods.

The pilot nodded solemnly, "That's a good name."

"What's your name?" Espe asked the pilot.

"Sohail" replied the pilot.

"Is that Iranian?" I asked.

He nodded and added that he'd lived here since he was 5 or so. I apologized for our current administration.

"What does YOUR name mean?" I asked, curious.

"It's a special star. Really, it's kind of a Persian thing."

Espen looked impressed.

We asked the engineer what his name was and where he was from.

"Tashi. It's Pakistani."

"What does it mean?" asked Espen.

"It means the stars of the heavens."

I was excited now. "So you both have names that mean stars?! How lovely!"

They looked at each other and stared. Sohail laughed.

"We've known each other for 6 years and this has never come up."

Sohail and Tashi kept building and lashing their raft together which was looking more dubious by the minute.

When Sohail stepped aboard to test it, he nearly capsized himself before being hauled back to shore.

Espen was full of advice.

"Guys, guys," said the Bear wisely, "You need to LAY DOWN ON EACH OTHER AND PADDLE."

They stared at him and slowly nodded. It was a good point, but not one they were prepared to implement.

As we stood there watching the sun fade, Sohail got more enthusiastic about the venture while Tashi the engineer became increasingly reticent.

Espen was actively trying to throw himself onto the raft while they debated.

Finally, much to his chagrin, I had to extricate him from the grand scheme because I was due to teach yoga pronto.

Sohail and Tashi promised to leave the raft on the shore when they returned so Espen could find it if it succeeded.

Two days later, with stars still in his eyes, Espen and I returned to the scene of the scheme. There was no boat to be found, but the legend of the Middle Eastern Stars would live on....

Wilderness Pooping

When I was a girl, my grandparents lived on a farm in Molalla, Oregon. Sometimes, when we would visit, my grandfather would take us out to the barn and solemnly hand us empty chicken feed sacks and cut a length of baling twine he'd saved from hay used to feed his long-ago eaten cows. We would trek through the back field, wade across the crick (that's country for creek) and approach the sacred fence dividing his property from the neighbor's field, wherein lay the treasure we dreamed of.

For geological reasons unknown to us, this field was a graveyard of petrified wood and brilliant chunks of jasper. Grandpa had discovered its presence during one of his forays about the countryside and talked it up like Shangri-la.

"You gotta stick to the gullies," he'd rasp in his voice hoarse from years of smoking. "That's where you'll find 'em." This was of course, the rich stuff. Long dead shards of trees turned to stone that set us through the wire and under the barbs faster than grandpa could pull them apart.

We would spend happy hours sluicing through the gullies and leaping towards anything that looked like it had a grain or crystallization showing. For those of you following my adult obsession with rocks, behold its headwaters.

January 2, 2018-The year of balance and joy dawned bright and promising. I scooped Espen up from Grandma's house intending to run errands like buying food for the week.

But then I got to dreaming. Molalla was on my mind and an idea started to take shape.

Grandma and Grandpa sold their old farm years ago and I had been by several times, watching it fall into disrepair and neglect. But now I started to wonder...

Espen loves stories about my childhood and his favorite imaginary creatures that I made up one day on the way to forest pre-school--Roarfire and Windshadow the dragons...but today it was pure non-fiction...the glory days of prying petrified wood out of the ground with Grandpa.

Before I knew it, the car was headed out to Molalla, past the old mill in Mulino and the school where  I had attended pre-school taught by my aunt years ago.

We hit the main drag of historic downtown Molalla with the White Horse Saloon on the left and stories galore of the magic of driving to grandma and grandpa's place. Espen was eating it up.

And frankly, so was I. My imagination, sparking until we reached town, now burst into a full on inferno. What if I could get permission from the neighbors who owned the field to go on a walkabout and visit the old treasure grounds?! WHAT IF!!!!!

We cruised by grandma and grandpa's old place. I regaled Espen with stories of the bridge over the crick we'd fish for crawdads from, the high bed in the guest room where I'd sleep on over-nighters, the barn where the chicken feed sacks had lain waiting for us...

And there was the neighbor's house, still blue, still split level. My heart sped up a bit. Just beyond the house lay the field. The field of dreams. The field of childhood wonder and magic. Soooo close.

A woman watched us inch up the long drive, waiting for us to arrive. I rolled down the window.

"Hi! I don't mean to disturb you, but I'm Jaime Mathis and I am Jim and Pat's granddaughter. I don't know if that means anything to you, but they used to own the place right next to you and my grandpa used to take us rock hunting in your field." I smiled my most friendly smile.

The woman smiled back and nodded. "Oh my goodness! Of course I remember Jim and Pat! We've been here for 30 years...that place really has gone downhill since they sold it." She nodded sympathetically.

We exchanged pleasant memories of my grandparents and neighborhood gossip for a few minutes before she spoke about The Field.

"You know, we don't actually own that field. It belongs to the Deardorffs."
"Oh! Well, where can I find them?"
"I think they're on Sawtell Road, there might be a brick fence or some such...."

I had no idea where Sawtell Road was, but from her body language I figured I'd just drive....that way. We chatted for a few more minutes with her husband and then bounded back down the lane...in search of the mystical Deardorffs.

Following instinct, I headed in the general direction of Deardorffland. Espen had been quietly observing up to this point and now he wanted answers.

"What now, mama!"
"We go in search of Deardorffs!"
"Why?"
"Well, they are the keeper of The Field. We are going to ask them if we can poke around and pick up some rocks."

Now, as luck or fate would have it, I just so happened to have an old piece of petrified wood from the Early Era of Rockery in my pocket. That's a whole different story. The plan that hatched in my mind however, was to offer the rock to the Deardorffs and say, "Hey! This rock is from your land! Can we go find some more?"

The road we were on came to another road. Sawtell. Adventure told me to go right, which placed us smack dab in front of a majestic sign next to a gated drive that read "DEARDORFF".  Bingo.

It seemed very, well, gated, however and I'll admit I paused for a moment. But only a moment.

"The worst they can say is no!" I sang out and pulled up to the call box.

No call button. Hmmm.....I started examining the numbers looking for signs of wear. Perhaps to what, crack the code right then and there? Who knows!

"Mama, look!" Espen chirped from the backseat.
"In a second, honey. Mama is trying to figure this out."
"No, mama, LOOK!"

I looked. The gate swung placidly open.

ANOTHER SIGN.

We cruised through and rolled up to the house. Espen opted to stay in the car and watch his intrepid mother at a safe distance. I rang. I knocked. No answer. And then, I noticed a small sign.

"UPS deliveries please take to green barn."

Okayyyyyyy!!

Back in the car, we cruised down the long and winding drive past rolling fields holding lovely horses to a huge barn big enough to hold an aircraft carrier.

I wondered what kind of horses they had. Pulled into the parking lot. Grabbed Espen and headed in. No one in the office. But lots of photos of Saddlebreds. A good sign considering my horsey past. I knew this scene.

We walked further in. A groom approached carrying Christmas stockings with a fat doggerel mushing alongside.

"Hi!" I said, walking cheerfully up to him. I felt unstoppable. Joyful. Excited.

"Hello," he said kindly.

We stared at each other for the briefest of seconds.

"Are any of the owners here?" I asked politely.

"He will be at 2. Are you here for the lesson?"

"Nope! This may seem a bit random, but I'm the granddaughter of one of their former neighbors and we used to go rock hunting in one of their fields and I'm hoping I can get permission to take my son for a walk down memory lane."

He smiled and nodded his head. "Why don't you come back at 2 if you want and ask him then?"

"I will! What's his name?"

Another smile.

"Don."

"Thanks!"

And with that Espen and I walked back outside. Only we didn't leave. Because horses!!

15 minutes later and mannnnny horsie pats and kisses, we spotted a silver pickup cruising up the lane. A cowboy hat sat in profile.

"ESPEN! It's DON and he's a COWBOY!!!!"

We ran/walked towards the barn just in time to meet him coming towards the barn from the opposite direction. I waved. Cause, you know, that's what I do. He cocked his head to the side and then waved back.

"Hi!" I said, "Are you Don?" and extended my hand.

He took it, bless his heart.

"Sure am."
"Well, Don, this may be a bit unexpected, but I'm Jaime Mathis, Jim and Pat Mathis' granddaughter and I used to wander your field that bordered their property, picking up pretty rocks with my grandpa as a kid."

He stared for a minute and then chuckled.

"Well I'll be damned. How about that? I remember your grandpa. Liked him quite abit. He was fun to talk to. Grumpy old guy, but I enjoyed out conversations."

I filled him in on grandpa's passing and we talked abit about their place.

"I probably should have bought that when they sold it." he said.
"Yes, it probably would have fared a bit better," I agreed. "But on another note, I see you run Saddlebreds here and I had Walkers and Morgans as a girl so I'm very aware of the Saddlebreds..."

His face lit up. We talked about horses for another while, Espen waiting patiently. Turned out he knew one of my childhood friends and heroes, Jake Price, who had boarded and trained me and my Morgan when I first got her.

"Not much money in horses, you know" he laughed, "So we still teach lessons here and there."
I thought this would be a great opportunity to ask him how young they would teach, since Espen and I had decided we needed to take riding lessons together while meeting the horses.

"How old are you young man?" he asked Espen kindly. Espen held up 4 fingers.

We were all fabulous friends by now, so I held out the rock.

"Say Don, I was wondering if you'd mind if I took Espen down to the old field we used to explore and poke around abit for rocks?"

He accepted the rock and turned it over in his hands. Handed it back and smiled.

"Live it up. We got plenty of rocks around here."

Shangri-la, here we come.
I thanked him, shook hands and headed out to find the best way to get into the field.
We settled on sliding under a big gap in the bottom of the fence along the random road that connected Sawtell with grandma and grandpa's road. Grabbed a cloth shopping bag and a length of rope that Espen insisted on as the stand-in for baling twine.

"Come on, Mama! Let's GO!" We were both super excited. As you might imagine.

We came to a run off creek very soon and I sank to my haunches. Sweet lord. The color in the stream. I reached down and picked up a shard of petrified wood. My brain was melting with happiness.

Meanwhile, Espen was hollering futher down the field.
"MAMA LOOK WHAT I FOUND!!!!"

And I'm thinking, "Holy shit, what ROCK has he discovered! Wheee!"

So I race down to find him standing over a massive, whitened...cow skull. He is stoked. Like, gold discovery stoked.

He wants me to put it in my rock bag which already has several good sized chunks of jasper and wood in it. I politely decline, but suggest that perhaps we could extract several teeth and take those instead. He accepts and I manage to yank out 4 enormous cow molars. But by then, he has grown attached to the WHOLE SKULL and refuses to leave it. We negotiate back and forth and finally he suggests that we use the rope to tie the skull around his waist so he can drag it along with us. This seems like a great compromise, so we get it hitched on and away we go.

We are now halfway down the field, closing in on the original gully, when Espen shrieks again.

"MAMA! THE COWS ARE WATCHING US! AND LOOK!!! MORE BONES!"

Sure enough, in my head down, rock hounding fervor I have missed that there are bones lying EVERYWHERE. It's like a graveyard for bovines AND ancient trees....and a viewing gallery for living cows too. Who are watching us anxiously from a tight cluster on the far end of the field. Mostly Espen, actually, who keeps shrieking his bone lust to the heavens.

We are both overcome by some of our deepest loves at this moment. He is racing around to each bone, the skull bounding around behind him. I am hunched over, my hands in water no doubt laced with cow urine and god knows what else, happily dredging up specimen after specimen of wood.

And then Espen stops. Hollers at the top of his lungs. "MAMA I HAVE TO POOP NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!"

The last time I tried to get Espen to poop in the woods he went into hysterics and tried to run away from me whilst pooping all over his legs, shoes, socks, etc. But we were straight up in the middle of NOWHERE. No Potty. Nope.

So I lay it down. "Buddy. We need to do a wild poop. I'll show you how."

I led him over to some bushes. He wanted to choose a blackberry bush.

"Ok, honey, watch. See how mama, squats down? That's what you want to do. And just hang out there until the poop is all done."

He must have really had to go because he rapidly agreed and stripped down to his skivvies. He has this thing about not wanting to wear much of anything while pooping. Which is fine in the house, but it was COLD outside in the cow field. Oh well.

To his credit, he stayed in one place for the entirety of the poop. Good job, Boo. But then, wiping, right?

I went around collecting leaves while he watched.

"Mama, get the soft ones. Not the hardy ones. No, not those. Those." So now he's pooping and ordering me around to the "right" leaves for wild wiping.

I thought for sure wild pooping would shorten the time he normally spends pooping. Mais no. He just started complaining that his legs were getting tired. Tried another squat position. Liked it better. Settled in again.

FINALLY he allows me to leaf wipe him. Retie the skull around his waist. Hunt for bones to cover the poop pile. Proceed to the Original Gully. Amazing.

But now we are getting a bit tired from lugging the heavy cow skull across the mighty field.

"Mama. HELP ME."

I try to convince him to abandon the skull. Refuse to carry it back because my rock bag is grossly full at this point.

Nothing doing. He starts to drag it back slowly, but it keeps flipping over, tooth down and grabbing into the earth like claws. He takes one step and gets pulled up short by the teeth. I have mercy.

So now I am carrying 40 pounds of rocks and 10 pounds of cow skull tied to a grumpifying four year old. Our progress is slow over the uneven ground of the field. The cows have stampeded as far from us as they can possibly get.

And I'm deliriously happy. And tired. And SO EXCITED. And ready to be back at the car. And then Espen stops.

"Mama, this is HARD WORK." He is carrying exactly himself and a rope around his waist. I stare at him. Remind myself he is four. Still, I'm really fucking tired. So I stop and just stare at the ground.

"Look at that rock, mama!" he says happily.

And I am. And it's big. AND. It's. an entire cross section of a petrified limb. Sweet Mother Lode.
What's another eight pounds?

We make the fence, Espen slides under and drags his cow skull through. I toss my bag over the fence, cow rib bones poking out (Espen insisted we take three as our "knives") and slide under.

We collapsed in the car and started to drive back, exhausted and full of victory.

I called my Dad later that night and he casually mentioned that at one time the Deardorff family was the largest property owner in Clackamas County. Well, I can tell you, Don was real nice and I bet, if we ask him for riding lessons in a few years, he'll probably be happy to oblige.  And maybe throw in a free rock safari to boot.

I Love Your Boo-boos, Mama

Espen has been experiencing a rekindling of affection for his Original Sources of Life.

We have a pretty relaxed home when we are sans guests, so it's not uncommon for "nudies" to be seen walking to and from the shower or streaking down the hall. (Usually that's just Espen. Usually.)

And for those of you who have followed the antics of Espen over time, you'll recall that he is a rambunctious, joyful little being full of zest for life and throwing his parents curve balls on the regular.

This particular morning, he was in top form-zinging to and fro in the bathroom, asking me to write his name on the steamed up shower glass I was inside.

I've gotten really good at writing from right to left with all the letters backwards. Leonardo Davinci would be super proud of me and I admit to having a certain level of satisfaction at being able to reverse my "S" and "Z" without batting an eyelash. I also have a new found gratitude to the letters "A","H", "I", "M", "N", "O", "T","V","W", "X" and "Y" for being symmetrical.

After I finished writing out his name, I turned off the water, dried off and started brushing my teeth. Nudie. Very normal. Espen padded over and stood in front of me. I continued to brush my teeth.

He reached his hands up, high overhead and placed them on my breasts. Well, on the bottom of them anyway. Bowed his head and put his forehead against my stomach. He inhaled deeply and sighed. Was reverently still. And then whispered.

"I love you, boo-boos."

Then he dropped his hands and ran to my bed, ripped off the comforter and threw it to the ground like a wild dog with a fresh haunch of something within its grasp.

And that's about how life is here, these days.

Feel free to provide your interpretation of this event below.

Panting for Gold

Espen has learned about pirates and treasure and parade candy.

Also, that the three can be effectively packaged to great effect. 

For example. 

We have a sawdust pile in our yard that is both easy to dig in and also relatively clean. Wesp has developed a dear love for getting his kid sized shovel out and zestfully flinging dubiously filled spade-fulls of sawdust into his little red wheelbarrow. 

"Come WORK, mama!" he will yell joyfully, hurling sawdust into the air like a self-generating blizzard.

So I will come and shovel load after load of sawdust into his barrow until he decides there must be something magical in my digging tool that lets me get so much MORE sawdust than he is, and demands to switch.

Now that he knows about pirates digging for treasure, he is shoveling with a PURPOSE. 

"Mama, let's go dig for ARGH, treasure!"

(Thank you pirates and mermaids theatre camp for introducing him to the instant pirate-cred phrase,"Argh")

Around this time period, he also attended the 4th of July parade in Molalla. 

This is an amazing spectacle where people ride longhorn cows with saddles and there are semi-trucks of candy to rain down on the children. 

Neither Espen nor I were expecting this windfall, but fall it did and a month later we are still staggering under the weight of uneaten candy (That's my fault for not letting him have candy every single day.)

I have relocated it several times in an attempt to throw him off the scent, but he is a bloodhound for the Sweet Stuff. 

So when he suggested that we "Dig for treasure" together and meaningfully pointed at the small chest I had a feeling we were in for it.

"Let's dig for THAT treasure there, mama!! ARGH!!!!"

I thought back to my childhood and the treasure lust that possessed me regularly. How many times I had gone hunting for gold with my cousins in the stream by our house. The hours of unmitigated revelry when we thought we'd struck it rich.

"Alright. We can bury the treasure chest."

Espen whooped with glee and began furiously launching sawdust in all directions. I stepped back and waited. He was not impressed.

"Come ON, mama!!! Pant for gold!!!"

I waited on that one, just for a second...channeled my inner pirate and realized that I probably WOULD be panting for gold if I were a pirate and that treasure chest was full of my favorite booty.

"Ok, buddy. Let's pant."

He continued to dig wildly while I started breathing heavily. Espen stared at me.

"Mama. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DIG!!"

"Buddy, I thought we were panting for gold!"

"WE ARE, MAMA!!! You have to go like THIS."

And he picked up his shovel, took a load of sawdust in it and started shaking it back and forth.

And then I remembered that my mother, his beloved grandma, is the Queen of Treasure Lust. She has been known to take her gold pan with her on camping trips JUST IN CASE she might get lucky. It is also known that she is particularly skilled at getting little kids jazzed about such things.

I looked closely at Espen.

"Espen, where did you learn to pant for gold?"

He didn't miss a beat and just kept swishing his sawdust.

"Grandma, ARGH!! KEEP PANTING!"

And so we did. Until the very last piece of treasure had been exhumed and celebrated.

Frightenbush and the Nudies

First of all, I'd like to state that there are a lot more people who would wander around nude in public if allowed than you might think. And it's not necessarily the traditionally "hot" people either. Or just young ones. Or the Europeans, though they definitely have a cultural pre-disposition to casual social nakedness.

Now I've always had a nose for sniffing out socially transgressive ideas and experiences, so it was no surprise when an old high school friend invited my family along on a "Summer Solstice Retreat" at the wilderness destination, Breitenbush Hot Springs.

I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon so a little weirdness is in my blood. Notwithstanding that, I was also raised in a pretty culty religion, so the idea of nature, vegetarian food and celebrating the sun with other similarly inclined naturalists suited me fine.

Tobias being Danish added just the dash of European liberalism needed to make this a great idea for our family's summer solstice. Espen, being a captive audience and fond of his parents, was loaded into the car and shuttled off towards The Wild.

On the way down the road, we briefed him on the impending festivities.

"So we are going to Breitenbush, honey. It's a very magical place in the old trees where people don't wear a lot of clothing and there are hot pools of water from Mother Earth to play in."

Espen looked out the window and nodded benignly. "Ok, mama." No big deal. Cause you know, when you've been around the world and hung with Naked Danes in the Dead of Winter, a little temperate, summertime nudity ain't no thang.

After hurtling down I-5 for approximately 10 minutes, Espen decided he no longer wished to be captive. Howling commenced.

As a fun aside, I've been retraining my brain to come out of a limbic cycle of perpetual fight or flight for the last two months and while I've made a great deal of progress in the process of re-educating my brain to believe that life is not actually trying to kill me constantly, my four year old princeling can make my brain forget everything it has learned in about 5 minutes of solid hollering. I am always amazed by this.

In went my earplugs and up went the volume on his manic Danish kids music. And so we progressed towards our Forest Frolic.

An hour later, we drove alongside the North Santiam River, Espen hollered out by this time and stuffing his face with Tobias' Emergency Trail Mix--which now glittered the entire back of the car and much of the front due to his newfound skill of hurling projectiles and general disdain of his Errant Parents.

I love the drive up this corridor. As a child, Hwy 22 marked the coming of Saturday Jesus summer camp at Big Lake. As an adult, the soon appearance of Mystical Breitenbush.

The mists were hanging low over the river and trees clutched the sides of vertiginous canyon walls. I pointed this out to Espen. He demanded that the explosion of trail mix be removed from his space immediately.

"Mama, take this AWAY!" he gestured meaningfully around his lair.

"Babe, you did that all by yourself. You can do it again when we arrive at Breitenbush."

He was not impressed by my laissez-faire attitude about housekeeping on the road. Somehow, however, he decided to refrain from commenting until we turned onto the Breitenbush road.

This road is part of building the Breitenbush Experience. It's very rustic and very gravelly and very filled with potholes of indeterminate depth and intention. Espen was thrilled.

He craned his neck to look at the towering trees above.

Whispered with church like reverence.


"Mama, is THIS Frightenbush?"

Tobias and I looked at each other. Tried to keep straight faces while simultaneously attempting to determine if the other had planted such a seed in the child. We both shook our heads. That was all him.

But an answer must be had. So.

"Uh, well, yes honey. I suppose it is. Nearly."

Espen sighs happily.

"I love Frightenbush. I want to stay here with the nudies forever."

And of course, I'm imagining him declaring his fidelity to Frightenbush and The Nudies with great feeling and volume in the midst of all the bushy nudies in the hot pools. Clearly so is Tobias.

And yet. From the mouth of babes...

We said nothing.

But Espen sure did.

A day into the adventure, we're on our way to the hot springs pools and there are a lot of Very Impressive Bushes. I mean, it's the middle of the ancient forest for Hippiesake and people are clearly proud of their hirsute values. Espen is once again transfixed.

"Mama, look at her hairs! She's so fuzzy!"

I should have been prepared, but he had a point. She is. They all are really.

You know it's one thing to see a single lion but another thing entirely to see an entire GROUP of them all together at once. You just have to behold the glory. No talking. Just glory.

Espen pulled on my hand.

"Mama, why are there so many fuzzy people at Frightenbush?!"

If I'd had a mic, I would've just dropped it there and called it a Good Solstice.

How To Get Your Kid Drunk

Pay Close Attention:

1. Let Your Child Try Your Home Brewed Kombucha Very Infrequently As A, "Special Treat"
2. Allow Time To Pass
3. Invite Other Parents and Children Over
4. Buy Much Cider
5. Crack One Open and Pour it Into A Common Drinking Vessel
6. Drink Half and Get Involved in A Conversation
7. Place Vessel On Counter At Kid Height
8. Fail To Realize Cider Looks Much Like Home Brewed Kombucha
9. Walk Away To Check Out Something Interesting For 5 Minutes
10. Return When Your Wife/Partner Yells, "Espen (insert your child's name here)! STOP!!!!! That is an ADULT Beverage!"
11. Witness Your 4 Year Old Saying, "But I LIKE Kombucha!" and Your Wife Responding, "It's not Kombucha, It's beer!"
12. And Your Child Saying, "Well then, I LIKE BEARD!!!"
13. Remove Your Empty Glass From Your Child's Hands
14. Take Him Outside
15. Water Him
16. Pray None of the Parents Notice Anything Odd With Kid
17. Wait Patiently For Parent Of The Year Award To Arrive

S(h)itting on the Eiffel Tower

Tobias ran the Shamrock Run last Saturday, Espen and I hovering at the finish line at 8AM in solidarity. Our family unity was undeniable. After a mad dash to the trees for an emergency pee that COULD NOT WAIT, Espen decided that he was as "fast as Dada" and proclaimed it loudly to amused bystanders in running tights. Then, he announced that I should carry him as he was tired after watching Tobias cross the finish line.

I should have taken this as a sign for the day's impending festivities.

After heading home and changing into more sedate clothing, Tobi, Espen and I headed down to Milwaukie on our bikes for some fresh air and fun. We dropped Tobi at the Warrior Room where his fellow kettle bell rats and Shamrock runners were assembling to celebrate their ferocity.

Espen and I headed over to the Portland Waldorf School to romp around their grounds and get up to shenanigans.

It was a lovely day, the sun was out and blue sky punctuated our unusually rainy winter.

We frisked about in the sand pit for quite some time, digging for treasure and making bmx tracks to leap around-more Espen leaping than me. I was like the nanny car making sure he didn't impale himself on his digging stick.

I'll admit, I started looking for a new environment after about an hour of wild sand play so we headed over to the playground. But that is right next to the most enticing structure on the property. Again, I should have been a bit more aware. But no.

Imagine the Eiffel Tower if you will. Its stable base tapers into a needle like tower that rises skyward. So elegant. So timeless.

Now imagine that same Eiffel Tower, but this time, made out of ropes connected in geometric configurations that allow the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower to emerge while simultaneously providing the opportunity to scale it from bottom to top. Now shrink it from a couple hundred feet to about twenty and you'll have a working concept of this playground witchery.

Espen has seen this structure before and has had the sign read to him that says something like, "For children age 10 and up"

But Espen Camino cares not for numbers and ages. He cares about climbing into the rarefied air of rope towers.

He dashed towards the tower, hollering behind him as he went. "Momma! I'm going to climb ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP!"

Tobias recently had to scale said structure to get him down so I wasn't worried about him being incapable...it was more of a test to see if he'd listen. I've been conducting trials over the last few months to see if there is any noticeable movement towards acknowledging my voice as other than background noise-so far, nothing indicates this is the case.

Just so, when I asked him to return to the playground he kept hauling ass to the Eiffel Tower at top speed and hit the first level of ropes laughing.

Up he went with admirable speed and confidence.

"Come up and get me, mama!" he teased.

"I will not. You come down." I countered.

"Ha ha, mama! I'm going to the top!"

And so I waited at the bottom, ready to try and catch him if he fell.
Which would have been sad, but just the TINIEST bit satisfying to say "I told you so".

But he did not fall. He just climbed right up to the top like a spider monkey. And then proceeded to cackle with delight at his accomplishment.

"Ok, Boo. You can come down now." I acknowledged.

"Nope! I LIKE it up here, mama!" he hooted.

And then two blonde wonders ran up and launched themselves at the tower. They were probably 6 or 7 and man were they fast.

They shimmied up that rope geometry faster than I could shout cosign. Espen was ecstatic.

"HI FRIENDS! COME ON UP!" he encouraged, waving his hand happily.

Come up they did. And then proceeded to leap onto the center pole that is 20 feet tall if it's 2, and slide to the bottom, hugging it like a plump grandma all the way down.

I could see the amazement in Espen's eyes as well as a healthy dose of awe. He was not ready to attempt such a feat, but he would sure cheer them on.

"Come on guys! Let's race!" he shouted. And the boys were happy to oblige.

My eyes were racing back and forth like it was a top level Tetris game. No way could I keep up with all that movement. The boys' adult didn't seem particularly concerned as he checked his phone and ate the kids' sandwiches so I focused on Espen.

The boys soon tired of winning every round and raced off to new distractions. Espen however, moved into a blissed out contemplation high atop the tower. He hung his legs over one of the ropes and leaned forward to rest on another. Looked out over the playing field.

"Momma, it's real pretty up here." he smiled.

"I'm sure it is, love. Why don't you come on down and we can go ride our bikes a little more?"

He gazed across the field again and then looked down at me benignly.

"I'm peeing, momma."

"What? Boo. No. Just come on down and pee here."

He smiled and stayed put.

"It's ok, Momma. You can just change me in the car."

"No, honey. I can't. We rode our bikes here. Come on down and pee."

He shook his head slowly.
"I already peed, momma."

I considered my options and realized we would be riding 2 miles back home in pee-pants. There were no clothing stores. No way I was putting him on public transportation. And now he was putting his hand down his pants...and then rubbing his eyes....his...nose...oh, god...nooo...his mouth.

"Espen! Get your hands off your face! That's really germy! Now come down here! Mommy is leaving."

I turned to walk away, because really, that's the ONLY thing that seems to shake me out of "background noise" role.

He scooted down the tower, but as soon as he hit the ground, he began to waddle.

He put his hand down the back of his pants before I could open my mouth. But he opened his and inserted his hand.

"I pooped, momma."

Espen had some great poop stories as a baby. They were messy, inconvenient and public, yet I was fine. He was a baby. Poop is a given.

But this was something else entirely. This was, "I'm having too much fun to pay attention to my body so I think I'll just poop my pants rather than inconvenience my play/contemplation/activity."

On the one hand, I get that. Bodily functions are pretty inconvenient as a general rule. But use a damn toilet or tree if you have the wherewithal to do so. Just please. But no.

"Espen, get your HAND out of your MOUTH. It's germy. It's gross. You could make yourself sick."

He rubbed his nose.

"AAAAA! STOP!!! WITH!! THE!!!! FACE!!!"

He smiled at me.

I check his pants, planning on just throwing the undies into the trash can and getting home as quick as possible.

But no again.

No usual well formed poop greeted my eyes.
Only slurry. And corn. I think.
Every. Where.

Yay for parenthood.

But not yay for me. Boo. BOO for me.

I realized I couldn't take off his undies because he'd soaked through not only undies but also shorts and was moving on to his sweat pants. Poop soup. Gah.

"Welp. You're going to have to ride home in your poop pants Espen. I haven't anything to put you in."

He looked at me in disbelief.

"JUST CHANGE ME IN THE CAR!!"

"We rode our bikes."

We stared at each other silently for a moment, gauging sincerity.
I moved towards the bikes.

"Let's go."
He tried to follow but well, his heart just wasn't in it. Imagine.

I shot off a quick text to Tobi.
"Your son just shat himself."

Then I looked at the clock and saw we had about 4 hours of daylight left to go 2 miles. And suddenly I was back in the land of story problems.

If Espen moves at .2 miles per day, how many hours will it take him to cover 2 miles? Please show your work.

Cue theme music from the movie, Alive.
It's go time, Mama. What are you gonna do? What are you gonna DO?

So I grabbed Espen, ran back to the garbage can, popped off his shoes, his socks and his sweats and threw them to one side. Then. I peeeeellled off his shorts and undies. He was yellow. And chunky. And smiling with glee.

"Good, momma! Let's go!"

I swabbed him once. Twice. And that was all the clean fabric to be had on his shorts.
Into the trash can they went.
Towards his bottom flew his hand.
But mine was faster.
I tried not to think of all the things his hand had touched.
Put his slightly pee/poop damp sweats back on. Socks. Shoes.

And he was off at a run towards his bike. Free at last. Or freer anyway.

Tobias showed up at that moment with the promise of wipes at his kettlebell studio but I was done. The germs had been spread, the ecoli likely burrowing down and getting acquainted with my son's immune system.

"We're going home. You go back to your party."

To his credit, Tobias walked us as far as the river, pulling Espen back from riding into traffic at every intersection. Yes, Espen knows better. But clearly this was Freedom to Give A Shit Saturday, so what the hell.

For the next two miles Espen alternated between licking his hands and dragging his feet until we were home. Somewhere around the half mile mark, I stopped caring if his feet were tired.

We rolled into home and he bolted for the door. I caught him mid-stride.

"Strip."
"I want to get in the hot tub, momma!"
"Not until you're sanitized. Now strip."

I probably should have burned all our clothes, but I had Lysol handy and I was tired.
No, I did not Lysol my child. But maybe I should have.

He has never been so thoroughly cleaned in his life.
And for that matter, neither have I.