Kristen Bruno, this is your life!

It’s just like they say in the book. At Kate’s age kids get really interested in hearing stories. Stories about when they were a baby. Stories about when you were a kid. Kate has even asked us to recount endlessly the story (if you can even call it that) of when our neighbor Matt came over after Paige’s birth to bring us some cookies and a rattle.

More often than not when we’re driving in the car these days if we’re not singing Farmer Jason‘s arrowhead song, I’m telling (or retelling) Kate some tale about my youth. The one about when the cop drove me home from first grade being one of her–and sure, one of my–faves.

So it only seems fitting that in the past couple weeks my youth is catching up with me. In part, due to my attempts to make that happen. Every now and again I get to wondering what happened to my friend Sydney Smith–my beloved ally and cohort from 4th grade until her parents ruthlessly decided to move to Texas before 8th grade.

Turns out that Googling the name Sydney Smith doesn’t get you very far.
Especially when names are changed through marriage. I need to get the good folks at Google to crack that nut. Search:
Sydney Smith. Search results: Did you mean: Sydney McCann? 

I’m sure everyone has their own Sydney. A friend who had a comforter
with peach-colored fuzzy lining that you envied? Someone you did an
elementary school gymnastics routine to the theme song of Rocky with,
and then forgot what you were supposed to be doing part-way through?
The person you used to walk to the downtown pizza parlor with, and
would see the crazy man with the dime on his forehead?

You know. That friend.

It was my wise old dad who brilliantly offered the best way to track Sydney down. Ask the school where we both went for her contact info. It’s true. Any time I’ve ever moved it seems some school or other that I’ve attended sends me mail hitting me up for money long before the thought of telling anyone my new address has even crossed my mind. If anyone would know where Sydney landed, it was Wheeler.

But it turned out that even The Wheeler School had lost touch with her. Lucky for me, they got their crew of former CIA agent PIs on the case, because within a couple weeks of my inquiry, I got an email from none other than Sydney herself. 

Of course I imagined that if we ever crossed paths again she’d still have that strawberry blond bowl cut and like to pass notes in class. But turns out some twenty-odd (!!) years later, she’s all grown up with a husband and three kids. What’s more, her braces are even off!

After some email exchanges and phone tag we finally connected, and amidst Kate’s endless interruptions managed to skim through some of our major life events from the past two decades. Now she and her hub are planning a trip to the Bay Area at the end of the month. Before I know it we’ll be sitting across the table from each other drinking wine! I hope our husbands don’t mind if we pass a few notes too.

Damn it, I want to call my mother and tell her all about this. I’m sure she’d remember some funny thing Sydney and I did together that with my dementia-grade memory I’ve forgotten all about.

So, on top of Finding Sydney (soon to be a major motion picture), after a Friday morning latte run in the ‘hood with the girls–back when I was still ‘on dairy’ (sniff!)–I got home to hear this message on my machine:

“Hey, if this is Kristen Bruno, this is Leah Katz. I think I just drove past you pushing an orange stroller on College Avenue at Hudson. Oh wow, I really think it’s you! If it’s you will you please call me back? And if it’s not you, I hope the McCluskys are doing great!”

Leah was one of my dearest friends at Kenyon, and my roomie sophomore year. She was a great integrating force for me when I moved to SF 16 years ago, but along the way we managed to fall out of touch. Last I saw her was at our ten-year Kenyon reunion and I think she was living in Berkeley and teaching. We still haven’t managed to connect over the phone, but I’m dying to talk to and hopefully see her, and learn all the details of her grown-up life.

It seems like it’s only a matter of time before my ornery second grade teacher, Miss Vermette, jumps out of the bushes at me. And when she does, I’ll be totally ready for her.

Pre-Nap Mutterings and Cogitations

After tucking her in and kissing her goodnight Kate looked at me solemnly and said, “Remember. There is a ukulele at preschool.”

Uh, okay… Noted!

Summer Has Arriven

Just when I consider cheating on the Bay Area with another city, it busts out a weekend like the one we just had. Glorious blue skies and temps in the 80s. It even stayed warm late into the evening on Saturday.

And on top of an exceedingly pleasant picnic at Lake Temescal, a fun and productive foray into front porch sprucing, and some classic neighborhood moments–including a swarm of kids sitting on my porch eating strawberries and watermelon and jumping off the wall into my friend Jennifer’s arms–on top of all that the fabulous weather afforded me an opportunity to bust out my Longs sun hat. Kate, in turn, got a chance to wear a swim diaper. As such, we were both decked out in some of our favorite attire. We were happy as clams, us two.

It seemed that, in mid-April, Summer decided to stop in early for a spell.

For all I know they’re having a fresh snowstorm in Minnesota right now, and Chicagoans are still pulling the hoods of their down parkas up around their faces when they venture outdoors. And God knows it’s pissing rain in PAWT-lend.

All I can say is, “Bay Area, I’m sorry!”

The Rain in Spain

Last night we returned from four delightful yet rain-sodden days in Portland. Oregon, that is.

At 9 weeks old, it was Paigey’s maiden air-travel voyage. She was a week older than Kate was when she had her first flight to Aunt Terry’s in Kentucky for Thanksgiving. And despite the absurd number of bags, car seats, portable cribs, lap tops, and strollers that we brought, we managed to get both children there and back without mistakenly having left one on a parking shuttle van.

So much about Portland is extremely cool. Lovely neighborhoods and big old houses that aren’t staggeringly expensive. Restaurants serving local organic foodie-grade food in a hip setting, and hostesses that crouch down and hand your toddler crayons when you walk in the door. World-class coffee and wacky donuts, and some of the best independent toy stores I’ve ever been in. And heck, the folks were downright friendly–even after having found out we’re Californians (who many of them have disdain for as if we’re illegal border crossers).

Kate was all hopped up about our vacation destination. (Well, vacation for Kate, Paige and I, and work for Mark, who had some press thingy at Nike early this week.)

On the plane there were a lot of questions. “They have toys in
Portland? They have books there?” And Sunday morning after ferreting a
pack if instant oatmeal out of our bag like a truffle-sniffing pig, she
asked hopefully, “They have hot water for oatmeal in Portland, Mama?” 

We were totally into how much her mind was blown by the concept of a rental car. “What this car?” “We not take the Subaru?” Once we explained that our cars were at home and this was a rental, there needed to be commentary on it every time we’d get in: “Dada have someone else’s keys.” “We take someone else’s car.” “This not the Subaru.”

When she’d hear someone on the radio say the word Portland she got all hopped up. “They say Portland, Mama!” As if the fact that they call this place Portland was something only we were hip to. ‘No way! The person on the radio knows this is Portland too!’

I guess it all could have been annoying, if it weren’t for the fact that seeing her try to grapple with these concepts was hilarious and sweet, at least to her adoring parents. Even the way she pronounces the word Portland–”PAWT-lend”–is excellent.

In Mark’s four weeks of paternity leave we had the old if-not-here-then-where-would-we-live conversation one morning when we were out for breakfast. Pondering the Utopian place where we aren’t but should (or could) be has become a bit of an obsessive hobby, at least for me. Of course, Mark loves his job, so my arm-chair pondering isn’t really steeped in any imminent plans to uproot. But that doesn’t stop my wheels from turning.

At that breakfast one city Mark tossed out as a possibly cool place to live–probably just to shut me up–was Portland. So it was fortuitous that he suddenly had a work trip up thar which gave us occasion to check the place out. Again, just something to feed my hobby even though we ain’t going nowhere no time soon.

Well even if we wanted to move somewhere tomorrow, four straight days of rain with only occasional “sun breaks” (as they call them) was enough of a taste of Portland’s nine-month rainy season to start mushrooms growing on my psyche. And, as anyone who’s ever had me over for dinner knows, I don’t do mushrooms. It is a great place to spend a weekend, but for the love of God, how do people live there?

On the traffic-clogged drive to the airport I proclaimed our foray into the great Northwest a success, but determined that I was one Californian the locals didn’t need to worry about moving in on their turf.

Me: “Yeah, so with this rain I could never live here. Though the way Kate says PAWT-lend is pretty damn cute. Maybe we should just move here because of that.”

Mark: “Well sure.”

Me: “But then, it’s probably one of those short-lived pronunciation things that we love, like the way she used to say apple and before we know it she’ll learn to say it normally and won’t be saying PAWT-lend any more, and then we’ll have made this whole huge effort to move here just for that and it’ll have gone away.”

Mark: “Yeah, you’re probably right. And then we’d just have to pick up and move to another place that she says cutely.”

Ah well. At this point it’s probably just prudent to stay put in Oakland. At least until the next time Mark and I get to talking at breakfast.

And Now, All Hell Breaks Loose

Miss Kate turned two-and-a-half today. I realized this a half hour into a duet crying session conducted by her and her baby sister.

Paige was crying because she is a baby, and was hungry, and I was too busy tending to her sick sister who had a 103 degree fever to feed her right away. Kate was crying because of the fever.

And just like that, I buckled. And turned on the TV for Kate. For the first time in her life.

Not only has she never watched a show, we’ve never had TV on when she’s been awake. It’s something some folks have marveled at our ability to do (since, much as I hate to admit it, I can get into a bit of boob-tube watchin’). The thing is, when it’s an absolute and you just don’t do it, it’s kind of easier than, well, than what I have just introduced ourselves to today. From here on out, if TV is even an option it’s one we can easily backslide into, even though we have every intention of being diligent about what and when and how much is watched. (By Kate at least.)

And, let it be known, that–unsurprisingly–the power of TV is mighty. Within literally seconds, a sick and miserable inconsolable toddler was sitting up with her back arched at full attention staring at the screen. She was silent and filled with wonder. It was a staggering shift in the collective mood of just moments before.

So, of course I had to obnoxiously pause the show every 5 minutes to have a conversation with Kate about what was happening down Sesame Street way. “See? Elmo wasn’t good at bowling at first, and he was frustrating, but he kept practicing, and then he got better!”

It’s comforting knowing that at least over time, I’ll likely stop with the annoying animated interjections to Kate’s viewing. See, apathy has its merits.

Product Development Chez McClusky

Yesterday Kate was watching Mark get ready for work and become enthralled with his hair product. I think part of the attraction was that when she asked Mark what it was, he said mousse. As it turns out, one of Kate’s favorite songs is about a moose. I can only imagine how her toddler brain parsed the concept that one word can mean a large horned beast, and a foamy hair product.

Imagine all those poor kids whose fathers aren’t metrosexuals who don’t have these experiences!

At any rate, on our walk yesterday there was much talk and questioning about mousse. “Can I use some?” Do you use it Mama?” “I like mousse!”

Of course, I made up some hooey about mousse only being from grown-ups. Though I guess, with the exception of kids like Jon Benet Ramsey, it really is.

This morning when Mark was again getting ready for work and Kate looked on in the bathroom, her fascination reached a frenzied peak and Mark relented to put some in her hair. (It’s acts like this that will no doubt lead to our financial ruin.)

Kate’s delight in having mousse (or was she thinking if it as moose?) in her hair led to her skipping around the house shouting, “I want Thomas [the Tank Engine] mousse!! I want Thomas mousse!!”

We may just have stumbled onto a brilliant get rich quick scheme. And the best thing is, Kate didn’t even have us sign an NDA.

Sheesh, Already?

Today when I pulled out my cell phone in the car to call Mark, Kate said from the back seat–and this is an exact quote–”Can you buy me a phone, Mama?”

What is the world coming to? My two-and-a-half year old wants a cell phone!

I was hoping that we could hold off at least until she was three.

At the Playground

Kate and I were inside a wooden train structure at the playground the other day with another mom and toddler. The other girl took the steering wheel of the train.

Other Girl’s Mom: Where are we going, honey?

Other Girl: To the beach!

Then Kate took her turn at the steering wheel.

Me: Where are we going, Kate.

Kate: Costco!

Clearly I’m taking my daughter on more enriching afternoon outings than that other Mom. But I’d hate to judge her.

Kate’s First Words Today

Of course, on days when Kate has preschool she decides to sleep in like a depressed teenager, and on weekends she springs from bed at 7:15AM.

This morning when Mark went in to rouse her the first thing she said was, “Did the baby come out?”

“No,” Mark assured her. “No baby yet.”

Perhaps it’s the four library books we got yesterday about being a big sister/having a new baby in the house that are breeding Kate’s impatience for her new sibling.

No, no baby yet. But I am starting to get on bodily alert. It’s kind of like the first time you smoke pot. (Well, what I hear from other people that that’s like.) Your mind races through a physical check list of sorts. “Am I high yet? Is it working? Did I just feel something?”

That’s kinda the mode I’m in now. Lying in bed this morning half awake I feel some kicks and some little pang of something rattling through my Buddha belly and think, “Yeah? What’s that there? Could something be starting?” And then I realize it’s just last night’s Taco Fiesta dinner making its way through my system. The hyper activated System Alert picked nothing up out of the ordinary, and I am left to use my arms to push off against the mattress and heave my big Mama self upright to launch into the day.

So, I am not high. (Though a Chips Ahoy cookie doesn’t sound half bad right now.) I am not in labor. And no, no baby yet. At least no external baby.

Thanks to all for the calls, emails, and smoke signals. We’ll shoot up a flare when there is news to share.

Toddlers Against NPR

The other day when I picked up Kate from school and loaded her into the car, she asked who was on the radio. It being 1:00, I was tuned into NPR for the early broadcast of Fresh Air–a program I listen to with relish.

“Who that lady on radio, Mama?” Kate asked.

“Her name is Terry Gross.”

“I no like Terry Gross, Mama.”

“Really? Why is that?” I asked, half-expecting her to bust out Mark’s comment about Terry Gross–which I disagree with–that she uses her interviews as a platform for showing off her own knowledge of a person or topic.

But no. Not so insightful. “I like Grandma Peggy,” she said.

Who knew about this link between Terry Gross and my mother-in-law? Here I’d been liking both of them and thinking that was okay. Clearly, in Kate’s world that’s not kosher.

Since her initial proclamation of dislike for Terry Gross, Kate has repeated this several times. While brushing her teeth: “I no like Terry Gross.” While making a Lego tower: “I no like Terry Gross, Mama.” And oddly the other day when walking with Mark, “I no like Grandma Terry Gross.” Hmmm. The plot thickens…

Of course, my greatest fear is that I’ll stumble across Rush Limbaugh on the radio some day and Kate will mutter a “Right on!” from her car seat. Oy.