crazedparent

It's cold; I need coffee.

The season changed in name back in September but the weather finally caught up this week.

I don't make coffee in the summer, preferring to sip my latte at the local cafe where I spend my mornings making noise on my laptop. Once mornings begin with a chill, I crave the scent of freshly-brewed coffee in my kitchen.

We've an assortment of coffee makers in our home, from a French press to the classic Italian coffee pot. But my favorite, right now, is a Chemex. My husband bought it for me last spring as an anniversary gift because I am fascinated with different coffee brewing techniques. 

I only drink one cup of coffee, and with the Chemex, I can brew just that. Or enough for two of us. No wasted beans. No excess coffee that I end up pouring down the drain. 

Most imporant? The scent of freshly-brewed coffee in my kitchen. 

(Those are beans from Philz Coffee in the background. I'm fond of the medium roast blends; Tesora is tops on my list.)

Excuse me while I talk baseball: And the fog rolls in...

 

Eerie. Beautiful.

Slow rolls. Miniature drops.

Baseball by the Bay. 

(Wednesday, August 24, 2011. SF Giants v. SD Padres. And we win.)

 

And 1...

Hoopsters will know the phrase "and 1" refers to when a player shoots the ball, gets fouled in the process , makes the shot and also makes the foul shot.  "And 1" is the extra point he's given for making that foul shot. The shoe brand And1 is based off this term. (Also? And1, the brand, is the only one that  makes youth basketball shoes that fit wide feet. Which if your kid has wide feet? Sort of important. Buy a size up.)

I have been pulling a different type of "and 1" lately. It goes like this: Someone asks me my age. And I say I'm 40.

Only really? I'm 39.

And 1.

I realized this was becoming a problem for me yesterday. Since I write about parenting for Yahoo! Shine again, I was interviewed by a reporter for a story on lunch box trends. She asked me my age. I said I was 40. Then I had to clarify that, no, I'm, in fact, 39. And I believe she thought I was joking about being 39. I guess I'll find out when the story is published.

My husband hit the 40-whatever milestone earlier this year, and I think because I see us as the same age, I keep adding a year to my age. Even my kids are reminding me, "Mom, you are NOT 40 YET!"

It's sort of ridiculous, really. I have no hang ups about my age. I'm okay with turning 40.

But there's no need for an And 1 just yet.

 

It's the little things...

I'm a coffee snob. My nose turns a twitter when tickled with the scent of rich brews from Blue Bottle Coffee and Philz Coffee.  Blue Bottle baristas are also gifted with latte art, the craft of turning latte foam into an image so beautiful that you almost don't even want to drink the coffee for fear of ruining the art. Baristas from Cafe Venetia, Roy's Station and Coupa Cafe are also skilled at latte art. Our home is decorated with photos of latte art that I've photographed over the years. 

The three guys in this photo that my 6-year-old snapped on my iPhone are the men who make my coffee almost every morning. They know my order (medium non-fat latte) and on really hot days, know to ask me if I want my latte hot or iced. They save a chocolate croissant for my little kid and know which days he'll saunter in with me to claim his treat. And the female barista knows my big kid loves to cook, so she always asks him what he's whipping up in the kitchen this week. (She even brought in a cookbook for him to borrow.) Or we all end up talking about baseball or food.

The coffee is smooth. But the atmosphere is perfect for a writer. Just enough white noise to feed creativity. And without fail, I will always see at least five people from our 'hood, and we always stop to chat.

Whenever I get cranky about our Silicon Valley Shoebox -- and really, my biggest complaint about The Shoebox is ONE BATHROOM -- I always remember how much I love the fact that I have a local coffee house that feeds my soul every day. 

I wish everyone were as lucky.

 

Things I love: Little League Opening Day

I can say it doesn't get any better, but it does.

My guys kicked off their Little League season over the weekend.

The biggest change?

Q. is on a team. Finally. No more waiting. He's an official t-baller.

Seeing my littlest guy all suited up in his uniform, well, it caused this mama to sigh an awful lot.

And then seeing my biggest kid, all lanky with a true gamer attitude, watching the even bigger kids get ready to play? That made me sigh an awful lot too.

And I have to make an embarrassing confession. At his game later in the day, he made a move that made me jump out of my seat and yell. And I looked back at the other parents and realized they were all yelling too. The play? He was stuck between third and the plate, a true game of pickle with the gal on third base coming after him. And he hustled his way to the plate and scored a run.

I felt that odd mixture of pride and complete mortification: My kid just did something really cool and scored a run! But oh sweet Jesus,  did I really catapult my body that quickly and far?

Oh yes I did.

I swore to my fellow team parents I would try my hardest to never do it again.

I hope they did not see my fingers crossed behind my back.

Sounds that new parents can look forward to...

Nol sat at the kitchen table reading a book while I worked on dinner (Lentil soup, if you must know). Aside from the chop, chop, chop of my knife dicing carrots and celery, the house was mostly quiet. Nol erupted in laughter. I looked over and he was quiet again. Another cackle. Apparently Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw is pretty damn funny. The best part? My big kid gets the humour on his own.

The sound of your young child laughing while reading independently is melodic. It causes those parental feelings of pride, warmth, love and nostalgia to all gush around in your brain. Also? It makes you smile.

While Nol finished off his book, I continued to putter in the kitchen. But I also started thinking about all of those sounds that were new to me as a parent. Sure, kids can make lots and lots of annoying, loud noises. But also? They make unexpected sounds that bring such happiness when you hear them for the first time.

I have a few friends becoming first-time parents in the near future and while they're all stressed out about diapers and poop and babies crying, what color to paint the nursery, and you know, the laboring and delivering business, they're also excited about hearing their newborn's first cries. (I should add that typing that last line made me tear up as I recalled my boys' births.) 

Note to these soon-to-be parents: You'll spend an infinite amount of time watching your kids and you'll become wistful as you watch them grow up before your eyes. But you also need to spend an infinite amount of time listening to them from afar because holy cow, you will melt.

Do you know how much you have to look forward to?

Sounds that could stop you in your tracks, make you wax poetic when you hear them for the first time, and make you hope you will remember that exact moment years from now: 

• Your kid laughing while reading a book independently (see above).

• Your kid's imagination running wild as he/she applies new facts and ideas learned from preschool and books to toys/games.

• Your kid saying "Good Morning, Sunshine" and giving you a kiss on your nose when you wake him/her up one morning.

• Your kid telling you that his snot expulsion from a sneeze is still faster than Tim Lincecum's fastball.

• Young siblings conversing about how to structure a fairy house made out of twigs, leaves, buttons and flowers. And little cups so the fairies have swimming pools.

• Your preschooler trying to explain to you why he is upset because you didn't ask for a book nicely, you just took it, and that hurt his feelings.

• Your big kid trying to talk your little kid into doing something sneaky and it's so ridiculous that you have to see how it plays out because seriously, you want them to get away with it.

Do you remember first-time sounds -- beyond the newborn stage -- from your kids that made you smile?

When a Louisville Slugger arrives on your doorstep...

...baseballs and whiffles are strewn about the backyard after an afternoon of playing catch and taking BP (along with the tell-tale patch of dirt that serves as home plate)...

...and Easton cleats are left on bedroom floors exactly where they were removed from tired feet wearing dark socks covered in red dirt...

...one thing is certain: Little League baseball season has arrived.

Valentine's Day: Tiny hands, big hearts

I noticed yesterday that someone had added this photo of Nol's hands holding crayon hearts to a Valentines gallery. I remember the making of those DIY crayon hearts for his kindergarten class. He put such care into this project. 

I haven't seen that photo in a very long time. Two years to be exact. And when I clicked on the enlarged version, time stopped as I stared at those those tiny, gentle hands that belong to the little boy whose heart is always filled with such love, such joy. Even in moments of anger or frustration.

I went into Nol's bedroom as he was reading his bedtime stories and I stopped him so I could hold those same hands, bigger now, but still smooth but covered with little chips and scars from baseball and basketball and all those games that eight-year-old boys play.

And then I went into Q's bedroom as he lay peacefully sleeping in his bed, surrounded by his stuffed animals and Hot Wheels cars. I looked at his tiny hands, the same size as Nol's two years ago. The hands that sometimes hold my face as he gives me a kiss on my nose. So small, so sweet.

Today we will begin the creation of Valentine's Day treats for both Nol and Q's classes. Two different projects specifically chosen by each boy. I will, of course, post photos and tips for those of you needing last-minute ideas.

But really? Those photos and stories that I post will be for me. So when I go back and look at them, time will stop --  if only for a second -- while my mind floods with images and memories of their tiny hands and big hearts.

Things I love: Citrus in a glass...

The boys both came down with sniffles (I lie, big yellow mocoso noses) earlier this week. An afternoon later, I had that tell-tale tickle in my throat, sore neck, and that sneeze...the one that causes your head to feel fuzzy and you just know a cold is coming on.

I started to crave citrus. Thankfully, our CSA has been providing us with a generous amount of grapefruit and various types of oranges. And our lemon trees still continue to overwhelm us with their bounty.

Twice a day, I've been using the juice from three oranges, one grapefruit and one lemon (a la Mad Hungry), adding a teaspoon of agave nectar or honey and taking the mixture to task with my Cuisinart Smart Stick hand blender (a birthday gift from last year). The result is a frothy citrus drink that is sweet but tart enough to make you scrunch your cheeks. It's wonderful on a sore throat. It's also refreshing, which is why I always feel like a million bucks after I drink it.

I'm grateful that it's citrus season because I can have this blend every day. Lucky for me, the boys -- big and small -- dig it too.

A Birthday Tale: Always a contractor's daughter, cont'd...

I celebrated my thirty-eighth birthday over the weekend (the 17th, in case you want to know) and true to birthday weekend form, it was pure bliss. (The hubds and I had drinks here, dinner here, and my boys further indulged my baseball fever by getting me this.)

My parents joined us for a little celebratory dinner on Sunday evening and before heading over to the restaurant, they came to our house bearing gifts for The Birthday Girl. Two presents were disguised in pink Hello Kitty wrapping papper, their cute way of remembering my childhood love and collection of All Things Sanrio. Also their cute way of reminding that I am always and forever their little girl.

The gifts were heavy. The boys watched me open them with great interest and oooh'd and ahhh'd when my new toys were revealed.

My parents did not disappoint.

Several years ago, I wrote an essay for the San Francisco Chronicle about being a contractor's daughter. If you dared to not believe it were true, behold my birthday gifts:

My new power drill.

My old drill broke and will no longer charge. The new one? It came with three...THREE...18 volt rechargeable batteries. First very delinquent project: New hooks in the boys' closets.

Also, good things in small, Hello Kitty-wrapped packages:

Yep, a pink, flowery sheetrock knife (you non-contractor's daughters may call them utility knives.)

Because a girl needs to be able to cut boxes (for recycling and, hello, box castles, spaceships and stuffed animal mansions and crafty moments) with a little cuteness.

Good things--and lots of home projects--are clearly in store for my new year ahead.