Margot and Flynn turn 2.

Flynn and Margot are now two.

Margot continues to be an independent, curious and introverted little girl.  (I’m so thankful there might be at least one more introvert in this family to keep me company . . . that is, when I want company . . ..)  At two, Margot already has her own opinion about the clothes she’ll wear.  In the morning when I pull clothes out of her drawer she makes it very clear if the outfit I’ve chosen is acceptable to her.  She may not have many words yet (see more on that below) but she knows “no” and uses it often.  Because her shoes and pajamas are kept in bins she can reach, she brings to me the shoes she wants to wear in the morning and the pajamas she wants to wear at night.  Dora and Doc McStuffins are already her favorites.  Because I’m the easy-going dad who can barely get himself dressed in the morning, she gets to wear whatever she chooses. 

Margot likes to try new things; at grandma and grandpa’s house last month she was way more excited than Flynn to try out Coco’s scooter and bike with training wheels.  She likes to play with our iPhones, playing games and watching PBS videos.  She continues to be the helpful one, picking up things around the house that are not in their right place and pointing our any spills she might find (and she finds them frequently). 

Flynn is a shy, cuddly and rambunctious little boy.  His shy nature still surprises me.  When someone he doesn’t know tries to talk to him he’ll immediately reach up to Daddy or Papa to be picked up and then – this is the interesting part, to me – he’ll turn his head away and pretend like the person simply isn’t there.  It’s like he’s pretending that there’s something in the opposite direction that’s far more interesting and he’s been meaning to look at for quite some time.  I guess it’s kind of like when you’re on the bus or the train going to work and a crazy person gets on; everyone simply pretends it’s not happening.  That’s what Flynn does; he ignores the crazy person.  It’s quite remarkable.  At least he doesn’t burst into tears anymore. 

 

Flynn really loves to be picked up, to be held and to cuddle.  If Daddy or Papa is sitting down, then he wants to be in a lap.  He also loves to climb and hang on to just about anything.  He hangs on tables, on bathroom sinks.  Just about anything he can hold onto that will hold his weight.  His favorite sport is jumping on the bed.  It brings him unbelievable joy.  How is it that as a child you think jumping on the bed is the most obvious and natural purpose for a bed, yet as a parent you see jumping on the bed as the inevitable path to a cracked skull?

"You understand what I'm saying, right?"

Neither Margot nor Flynn are talking yet and, frankly, I’m getting impatient.  They use a few basic words: “no” (but not “yes” - although Margot is very good at nodding “yes” while Flynn just grins if he agrees with whatever I’ve said), “up” “juice” “shoes” and “more” for example.  And they’re both good with “Papa” (which they use interchangeably for both Daddy and Papa) and “Coco.”  “Coco” they say all the time and frankly they seem to say it any time they see something that reminds them of Coco.  Margot at least utters series of sounds and syllables that sound something like a sentence might sound if she knew words.  And then she gives you this look like, “You understand what I’m saying, right?” 

 

Flynn, on the other hand, is monosyllabic.  He is also remarkably talented at shouting.  He shouts for pure entertainment and he loves it when you shout with him -- and, yes, I like to shout with him because I also find it incredibly entertaining.  In the morning Flynn shouts from his crib like a rooster crows to the morning sun, “Papa!  Papa!  Papa!” on and on until someone finally comes to release him from his crib of captivity.  Margot is always awake as well, but she lets Flynn summon “the help.”

I’m not worried that they aren’t talking yet.  They have an older sister who does all the talking for them and for everyone else in whatever room she’s in at the time.  And of course they hear Spanish more hours than they hear English for five days a week and I’m sure they are still trying to sort that out in their little heads too.  I wondered if maybe they were talking to Mari in Spanish and I’m was just missing out, but Mari confirmed that, no, they are using the same words with her that they use with me.

But I am impatient.  I want them to start talking so that I can start talking to them.  I want to hear what they’re thinking, what they have to say. 

Last weekend, on the way from Port Angeles to SeaTac to fly home with all three kids and my mom (who was flying down to help me get the kids home after a month at "Camp Grandma and Grandpa" and then flying right back) Cornelia was as usual chatting from the back seat for nearly the entire trip, asking questions in her usual stream-of-consciousness way, making declaratory statements about whatever she was observing at the time, and singing to fill in any otherwise lulls in the conversation.  Now, I love chatting with Cornelia and I take it as a personal challenge to answer any and all questions she asks as best as I can - which of course only encourages even more questions.  (This morning on the way to school she asked if bats come from eggs.  We looked it up on my phone at the train stop.  They don’t.  They’re mammals.)  After nearly two hours of this banter I said to my mom (rhetorically), “What am I going to do when there are three of them talking to me from the backseat?” 

Actually, I’m ready for it.  I’m more than ready for it.  Flynn and Margot, I’m ready to hear from you.  Someday, a dozen or so years from now, maybe not so much; but today, I really want to hear what you have to say.  I’m waiting, impatiently.



"Hmmm . . . . what does this do?"

"So, if I just squeeze this part here . . .?"

 

"Hey, what the . . .?!!"

"So, what does this do again?"

 

"And then this happened . . . ." (July Fourth, 2015)

It was the Fourth of July.  We were at the house.  We had spent the early afternoon at the “Old-time Fourth of July Celebration” at the Mendocino County Fairgrounds.  Flynn was taking his nap, Margot was crying from her pack-n-play protesting the idea that she should take a nap, and Coco was playing with her trains not even feigning an attempt to take a nap.  Ken was upstairs napping or looking at Facebook or checking email or something.  I was in the kitchen facing my usual dilemma:  Do I work or do I take a nap? 

But I was distracted by the recurring thought that I could smell smoke. 

It was just a whiff.  It was faint enough that I thought I must have been imagining it or mistaking some dusty-dry-grass smell for smoke.  It was really hot after all, so it could just be a dusty-dry-grass smell, right?  And everyone knows that I worry too much.  It just couldn’t be smoke.  But there it was again. 

I stepped outside to look to see if there was anything to see.  Was that smoke over and across the trees in the distance?  It was white so it couldn’t be smoke.  It must be a cloud.  But something about it looked not-quite-right with the other clouds.  The shape of it wasn’t the same shape as the other clouds . . . and it seemed low, like it was coming up from somewhere. 

I stepped inside and on my phone I Googled “fire near ukiah california july 4^th”.  The results didn’t include anything that suggested there was a fire in the area. 

Outside a helicopter flew by in the distance, and then an airplane.  Standing in the kitchen I texted Ken who was in the bedroom above my head.  (When the kids are napping and we’re in different parts of the house, we text each other.)  “I think there may be a fire somewhere.  I was smelling smoke and now the aircraft.”  It was 3:45 p.m.

Then I heard a helicopter coming.  It was coming close.  And it was coming low.  Like, really, really low.  It was coming from the east.  I stepped outside onto the deck and looked to the east and then it came over the trees, paused and hovered.  Maybe a 100 yards from the house at most.  Fifty feet off the ground?  I could see someone in a helicopter jumpsuit (I guess that’s what they’re called?) and a helmet and visor looking out the side door of the helicopter.  He was very clearly looking at me.  From a helicopter.  Hovering.  One hundred yards from the house. 

It’s a strange feeling to have a helicopter hovering above your house with a guy hanging out the door looking at you.  It’s clear that whoever is in that helicopter is interested in you but you don’t know why they’re interested in you.  I remember thinking, “They’re looking for someone.  I wonder if someone is lost.  Are they searching for someone?” 

The helicopter moved away from the house, moving slowly away across the front yard and then over the orchard.  It’s nose was pointed downward, like it was looking for something.  And then I realized it was looking for a place to land.  It was moving toward a flat area on top of the ridge about a quarter mile from the house.  It was an old man-made clearing, cleared probably for some logging activity several decades ago.  Now it was the ideal helicopter landing pad.  Or at least the only useable one in the vicinity. 

As I watched the helicopter landing I saw the fire truck coming up the driveway.  The fire.  “Shoot!”  (Yeah, right, like that’s the word I used.)  I had forgotten about the smoke and my thoughts of fire.  “There’s a fire.  It’s here.  It’s somewhere here.” 

I texted Ken. “Come down.”  Yes, I realize now it was odd to text Ken from the deck when he was in the bedroom just behind me and there was a helicopter landing and a fire truck coming.  As if he was still upstairs napping or looking at Facebook or checking email or something.  Of course he had been standing on the deck upstairs watching the scene unfold just as I had been watching it.  Now he was walking out the door as I was texting him.

As an aside, we later learned that the firefighters in the helicopter and in the fire truck did not know we were there when they came up the hill to see about a fire.  They were a bit surprised to come upon a house and a barn and two men standing outside the house watching them from a yard littered with wagons and tricycles and such. 

The firetruck pulled up in front of the house.  Out of it came several firemen who clearly had things to do.  They immediately started walking around the house.  “Can we go into your backyard?” one asked.  “Uh, yes, of course.”  (Thanks for asking?)  One of them walked over to talk to Ken and me.  He told us that there was a fire and it was close.  It was less than half a mile from the house, to the northeast, down the hill toward the highway.  It was entirely on our place.  The only other parts of the conversation I recall are, “You don’t need to evacuate yet,” “You better get your hoses ready,” and “We’ll do our best to save your house.”  Six more firefighters arrived from the helicopter. 

If you look closely, you can see Coco
standing on the steps, watching.

I was thinking, “Uh, okay.  Thanks.  We don’t have any water.  And we’ll be evacuating now.” 

By that time Cornelia was on the deck in front of the house.  From her room upstairs in the front of the house, playing with her trains, she had had a bird’s-eye view of the helicopter landing and the fire truck coming.  I walked over to her.  “What’s happening?!  What’s happening?!” she asked with some urgency.  Alarmed but not yet scared.  I explained to her that there was a fire and that the firemen had come to put out the fire and to make sure we were safe.  She seemed satisfied with the answer. 

Off to fight the fire.

After a few more minutes the helicopter left -- I don’t remember which direction it went -- and the firetruck and the fireman all left, going north along the driveway towards the fire.  Ken and started packing.  We were going to a barbecue that evening so we weren’t homeless (not yet, at least).  We would simply go to the barbecue and wait it out.  We just didn’t know when we would be coming back and, when we came back, if there would be a house. 

Before we left the house Ken and I walked through it together to be sure we weren’t forgetting anything valuable.  (All three kids – the most valuable of anything – were already in the car.)  It was a little strange to walk through the house wondering if this would be the last time you would see your stuff.  And a little hard to believe you were even contemplating the question.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much to take.  We just packed up the kids, the groceries and a few mementos and left.  By that time, the smoke was very clearly in the air.

As we drove down the driveway and approached the last 100 yards at the bottom of the hill before the gate, we could see the entire scene.  The hillside in front of us, about a quarter mile away, was on fire.  The entire hillside was shrouded in smoke and there were glimpses of flames.  A few trees on fire.  There were a fire truck and a state patrol car on the highway below the fire and there were two more fire trucks on the ridge above the fire.  As we watched a helicopter flew over and dumped a load of water – or water and whatever else they dump – on the fire and then raced away to refill.  Then another helicopter.  And then a plane flew over and dropped a cloud of red powder.  And then another helicopter.  (We have video of the helicopters and planes but I can't get it from my phone to the blog!)

The entire scene as we saw if from our driveway. 

 

 As the firemen had left the house earlier, after saying “we’ll try to save your house,” I had thought, “I hope they try hard to put this thing out.  I know we’re only one house but I hope they try hard to save it.”  As we watched the operation happening in front of us I realized they were going to do everything possible to put this fire out as quickly as possible.  Otherwise, in an area that was already parched from the summer heat and a multi-year drought, this small fire could become a massive fire burning hundreds and hundreds of acres or more.  It’s not about our stupid little house.  We later learned that the fire departments from Anderson Valley, Ukiah, Hopland and Willits all responded to this fire.  Essentially, the entire Mendocino County fire department had turned out for this.

“We need to go,” I said.

We drove out our gate.  Ken wanted to see whatever we could see and try to get an update from the firemen, so we turned left out of our gate toward the fire rather than going right to Boonville and to our barbecue.  The highway wasn’t closed yet.  We stopped at the firetrucks along the highway below the fire.  Ken found a fireman who, once he understood that it was our land that was burning, was willing to pause and talk to us.  He was pretty optimistic about the situation.  He said they were feeling pretty confident that they would get the fire contained and under control.  He said about 30 acres were burning.  We gave him our number and asked him to call us if there was news and to let us know if we could come back to the house that night. We left for the barbecue.  It was 4:30 p.m.

As we were driving away we saw at the side of the road below the fire, a motorcycle that was entirely burned.  We knew at that point the source of the fire.  (We learned later that the motorcycle was stolen and the person who had stolen it was high on some controlled substance and had fled the scene.  He was later arrested.)   

At about 8:00 p.m. that night, the fire department called and said the fire was contained and that it was safe to return to the house.  There would be personnel on site all night long and through the following day watching the fire and mopping up, as they say. 

We did go back to the house that night.  As we came around the bend in the highway and reached our gate we could see the entire hillside – and it was glowing.  An orange glow from the embers left from the fire.  We didn’t expect that.  We could also see two firetrucks still on the ridge above the fire, with their headlights on.  The personnel staying all night to watch the fire.  We paused at the gate and decided we would go up to the house to see what we could see and then decide if we would stay.  We could drive back to San Francisco that night if we didn’t feel comfortable staying at the house. 

As we drove up the driveway we could see the headlights of a firetruck parked on the driveway.  More personnel.  We could also see that the fire had reached the driveway. 

We stopped at the truck and talked with one of the fireman.

“Is it safe to stay at the house?” we asked

“Oh sure, it’s fine,” he said.
“Are you sure?  What would you do?”
“I would totally stay at the house.  And we’ll be here all night.”
“There are three kids in the back of this car.”
“It’s fine.”

So we drove up to the house, put the kids to bed, and went to bed ourselves.  And about every hour or so through the night we heard a firetruck drive past the house.

The morning after.  The fire reached the driveway.

The pink residue from the fire retardant the plane dropped.

The burned hillside.  23 acres in total.

 

Coco at Four Years and a Bit

Cornelia is now two months into her fourth year.  And her imagination is in full bloom.  Every game we play together involves some sort of pretend play.  It always starts by assigning roles.  Coco does the assigning, of course.  “Okay, Daddy, I’ll be the [princess / mermaid / knight, etc.] and you be the [king / prince / bad guy, etc.].  The game usually involves someone being bad (usually my character), someone being good (usually Coco’s character), and someone needing help or rescue (which might be the good guy or the bad guy).  Often there is a trap involved, which is usually a ribbon masquerading as a snare of some sort.  Sometimes Coco changes the roles or scenario without any advance warning.  “Okay, Daddy, now you be the king and I’ll be the bad guy.  ‘Haha!  I’ve trapped you!’” she says as she wraps my wrist in a ribbon.  Then she turns around and is the princess rescuing me.  “Hi, I’m a princess.  Are you trapped?  Who trapped you?  I’ll help you.”   

So, you have a pirate-themed birthday party
for four-year-olds in three hours?
Not a problem if you're Ken Wingard.
Simply poke around in your craft box for
some random material, some felt and a needle and thread.
"Viola!"  A pirate outfit! 

We have been known to sword fight from time to time while waiting in the morning for the J Church to go to school.

 

Her favorite game is “Big Bad Octopus.”  I think we’ve played “Big Bad Octopus” every night for it seems like years, although I’m not sure exactly when it started.  The game is simple.  I’m the Big Bad Octopus (which is nice because all I have to do is lay on the floor which is, frankly, a welcome position after a day of work and when I'm in a constant state of mild sleep deprivation) and Coco is a mermaid who is swimming by and gets trapped by the Big Bad Octopus. 

 

“What is a mermaid doing in my ocean!  I don’t like mermaids!”  (grabbing her by the ankle)  “Now you are trapped with me at the bottom of the ocean and you must [read me bedtime stories / dance for me / be my friend, etc.] forever and forever!” 

 

Coco, as the mermaid, then asks me why I’m bad which leads to a bit of Big-Bad-Octopus-therapy.  “Because no one will be my friend and I’m lonely.”  Then she says she’ll be my friend and then I’m nice again and then we’re friends and everyone is happy. 

 

Flynn and Margot are usually in supporting roles.  Sometimes they are prince and princess mermaids I’ve trapped and must be rescued by Coco (also a princess mermaid, of course).  And then sometimes they are little Big Bad Octopuses who help me trap the mermaid. 

Last month we went through a period where Coco acted out scenes from Frozen.  She was always Elsa and I was always Anna.  It went something like this:

Scene:  The castle ballroom following Elsa’s coronation (the entry hall at the bottom of the stairs).

Anna (played by Daddy):  “Elsa, I want you to meet someone.  This is Hans.  I’m going to marry him.”

 

(Sometimes Flynn is cast in the role of Hans if he happens to be in the vicinity.  Fortunately, it's not a speaking role.)

"Today the role of Hans
will be played by Flynn"

Elsa (played by Cornelia):  (With the best scolding tone and frown a four-year-old can muster.) “You can’t marry a man you just met!”  (And, yes, I'm happy every time Coco utters that line and will be eternally grateful that Frozen taught her at the age of four that she cannot marry a man she just met.)

Anna (Daddy):  “You can if it’s love at first sight!”

Elsa (Coco):  “I said no!”  Turns away.

Anna (Daddy):  “Elsa, why do you shut me out?” Grabs her hand and pulls off her glove. (Coco sometimes uses a gardening glove for this scene.)

Elsa:  “Leave me alone!” Turns and blasts ice power all over the ballroom (the entry hall) and then runs up the North Mountain (the stairs) singing “Let it go!” She then crosses the great ice glacier (the TV room) and the bursts onto the mountain top (the deck on the back of the house) still singing “Let it go!”

 

Hopefully we’re getting all the drama out of the way early . . . .

Coco working the tiara and heels at the playground.

Lest you doubt me, here's a closer look. 
She's running up and down those hills in full-on heels.

 

Cornelia's Birthday, Duboce Park, April 26, 2015

We celebrated Coco's fourth birthday this year, and followed the neighborhood tradition of hosting the party in Duboce Park.  The park is a very popular spot for children's birthday parties.  So much so, we staked out our spot around 8:00 a.m., reserving a space under a tree with a banquet table that pretty much shouted, "Hey! Don't even think about sitting here 'cause there's gonna be a hoard of kids in this spot for a party today."  Shortly thereafter there were at least two other birthday party spots clearly marked for the morning and afternoon.

Coco picked out the color theme for her party this year: pink and green.  Ken decorated -- even in the park -- with not just helium balloons, but Coco's named spelled out in pink roses.  And, of course, there was a homemade cake.  Mari and Francisco brought a pinata, of course.  (The pinata was Elsa, of course.)  Grandma Mary and Grandpa Roy even made the drive all the way down from Port Angeles for the party (and then stayed a few days following). 


    

The birthday girl arriving!

  

Pinata's are a staple of the kids birthday party circuit around here, it seems.  I don't recall pinata's at birthday parties when I was a kid.  But, of course, I also don't recall gift bags for every kid either, and we have those too.

 

The kids all lined up for the pinata "beating". (What else would you call it?)  Pictured:  Cornelia, INSERT, Hollis Monberg, Elias Buckner, Stella Monberg, INSERT, Jules Buckner, Rose INSERT, Jack Miller, Margot, Grandma Mary. 

 

 

All lined up for the pinata "beating".

  

Coco takes her turn at the pinata.

  

Coco's not so sure how she feels about all these kids
beating an effigy of Elsa.

 

Mari and the kids



 

When you're Ken Wingard's daughter, what do you get for your fourth birthday?  A dollhouse your Papa made for you out of a vintage suitcase, complete with furniture and wallpapered, of course.

 

"Ta da!  I'm four!"

 

Easter Postcards 2015

 

"He's a total dude."

Flynn’s now 19 months old.  He’s our little dude.  Am I right or what?  Just look at him.  He’s a total dude.  And, while I don’t want to indulge in or promote gender stereotypes, he is 100% boy.  



"I call this my Abercrombie look."

Flynn has yet to demonstrate any interest in learning or using words.  He’s picked up a few of the most essential hand signals: “milk” (“I want some milk now and why is it taking so long?”), “more” (“More food, please. Preferably carbs.”) and “done” (“I’m done eating and now I want to sit in Daddy’s lap.”).  His preferred method of communicating is shouting.  It’s not a meaningful, creative or even variable shout.  It’s basically “Aahh!”  “Aahh” from his crib when he wakes up in the morning, “Aahh” from his high chair during breakfast, lunch and dinner, and “Aahh” pretty much any time he wants some attention. 




"Hey! Look at me!
I'm a hipster!"

“Aahh” is also Flynn's name for Margot, Coco and Mari.  He likes to shout for Margot, to get her attention or to get her to come to wherever he is.  The other night I was starting bedtime stories and Flynn was in my lap ready to go.  Margot was out in the hall and Flynn started calling her, “Aahh!  Aahh!”  I think the rough translation was “Margot! Get in here! Daddy’s got ‘Pat the Bunny’ open and time’s a-wastin!”

Flynn loves to dance.  He hears music – the radio, a video, a toy that places music of some kind – and he’ll start dancing around, waving his arms above his head, doing jazz hands (okay, not quite jazz hands, but you get the idea).  His dancing is mostly stepping sideways in a circle as fast as he can.  When he is in his high chair he’ll shrug his shoulders up and down and shake his head.

Flynn's also a climber.  He climbs everything.  Beds, couches, chairs, coffee tables, dining room tables . . . ..  And Margot is always right behind him.  Fortunately he understands the tone and gist of an order to get down.  But once he’s down he likes to climb back up again because he likes to hear me tell him to get down.  It goes something like this:  Flynn climbs something.  “Flynn, get down!”  He gets down, pauses, looks at me, climbs up again.  “Flynn, get down!”  He gets down, pauses, looks at me, climbs up again.  “Flynn, get down now!”  He gets down, looks at me and laughs and laughs and laughs like that was just about the funnest game ever.

"Can I keep him?!"

Every diaper change with Flynn includes wrestling, squirming and wiggling away from Daddy which he thinks is ha-larious! 

Flynn greatest talent - above all others - is his ability to sleep.  With all the energy he burns up shouting and dancing and climbing all day long it shouldn’t be a surprise.  He’s always the last to wake up in the morning, his naps are always the longest, and he never wakes up during the night (unless Margot wakes him up).  At bedtime he is like an Olympic gymnast.  From a standing position in his crib, in one fluid motion he arches his back, turns his head, twists his entire body around, puts out his arms and does a face plant right into his pillow.  He sticks the landing every time.