daffiney

Last night, we were lying around reading a bizarre book that Rob bought me at Comic-Con. He’d purportedly gone only to bond with some of the guys at church (yup), and judging from the Buffy and Tori tomes he lugged home in a Big Frakkin' Bag “for Daphne,” those guys must now think I’m a complete weirdo. (Then again, we’re talking about a bunch of geeks who stayed up playing Magic instead of going to the Dr. Horrible Sing-Along with the cast, so I take such criticisms with a grain of salt!)*

Anyways, it reminded me again of how everyone is made of such quirky likes and dislikes. They're what make us the complicated and freakishly appealing creatures that we are! So here’s a new list of favorites, which I’ll sort by category (and friend).


Check these things out if you like:

Wildly Creative Kids Shows (you know who you are, Tel of MavTel): As a rule, I don’t love any tv shows until after they are good-and-cancelled, so of course I came upon The Upside Down Show a few seasons too late. It’s truly one of the most consistently hilarious and creative shows I’ve ever seen—whether for adults or kids. (If you click, you’ll see some samples from their show intros.) It used to be on at 4am—so I only watched it when I was working late. Now it’s on at 8pm, but we still can’t watch it then because the boys would never go to bed! Please, someone, release a DVD!!

Wildly Creative Kids Shows That Aren't Cancelled (mommaduck): Even if you don’t have kids, you need to watch Phineas and Ferb on Disney Channel. So so lackluster. And by "lackluster," I mean "totally lustrous fun for the whole family!" Of course, we most heart the evil Professor Doofenshmirtz and his Pinky-and-the-Brain-like plans to wreak havoc on the Tri-State Area. (Mwhahaha!) Believe me when I say Gitchi-Gitchi-Goo is this generation’s Eep Opp Ork Ah Ah.

Cookbooks and spunky asian women (pikasue): I’m always reading one cookbook or other for fun, although I have an Alice-like aversion to books with no pictures (sorry Mark Bittman.) My latest fave is Harumi’s Japanese Cooking. You may have heard Harumi described as the Japanese Martha Stewart. I don’t know the vastness of her empire, but in cooking, I think she’s just the opposite. Her recipes are so simple and appealing. (One of her recipes has you cook chicken thighs in the microwave and you inexplicably end up with hainan chicken!) She’s also inspired me to cook tofu in different ways. (When I was little, I only professed to like it because it was the one thing my big sister didn't like. Now I’m a die hard fan!) Everything is so fresh, clean, and simple. Allez cuisine!

Jane Austen and manga (miss BlueJ): When Rob came home one day, I greeted him by saying, "Forget the Great American Novel, I want to write manga!" I’ve tossed back the occasional backwards book in my day, but found the superpowers, short skirts, and non-sequitor bathing scenes were off-putting. Behold the joys of the Emma series written and drawn by a woman named Kaoru Mori. It reads like a sweet Victorian romance, but is told in such a cinemagraphic way that the story plays out in your mind as you read. Some of the scenes were just as touching as any novel or movie. (And If you’re near SP like us, you can get the whole series at the library!)

Too-clever YA novels and Nick Hornby (that’s you W dear, wherever you are!): I’d heard about Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist for a long time before finally getting my hands on a copy. It’s written by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn, who took turns writing respective chapters for Nick and Norah. I’m not like either of these characters. I don’t understand when they talk about music. And I don’t know if I’d be their friend if I’d known them as a high schooler. But—to their credit—they don’t say and do the right thing. They act kind of stupid. And they know that one night can change their lives forever. In short, they are real teenagers and you must love them. (Of course, now there’s a new movie coming out later this year with Michael Cera playing Nick. But we all know that Nick is not Paulie Bleeker. He’s Lloyd Dobler.)

Mysteries, Slashers, Westerns, and Shoot-em-Ups (I like NONE of these): For the sake of my husband, I put Hot Fuzz at the top of our queue. He kept swearing that I’d love it, but I preferred to spend my time scoffing at the title instead. Then, without knowing a single thing about the movie, we watched it one night and proceeded to laugh with delight through the whole thing. I’m not going to tell you more. Just watch it. For Rob.




* Rob would like it stated that he did not WANT to stay up all night playing Magic. He had never played Magic in his life before that night. Thank you.

Sometimes it gets tiring to keep warning your kids about every possible danger. But that doesn’t really stop me from doing it.

We have serious talks about everything from stranger danger (Don't go anywhere with anyone!) to touching wild animals (If you can catch a bird with your hands, for Heaven's sake, don't touch it!) In these cases, as with everything kid-related, honesty is always the best policy. It’s never “Don’t run around the house with a toothbrush in your mouth because we said so,” but “Don’t run around the house with a toothbrush in your mouth because I just read an alarming blog post about a six-year-old kid who was running around and got a toothbrush lodged in her throat and her poor mother had to yank it out, and—being a Chinese mother—I’m going to have to assume that it’s just a matter of time before that grisly fate happens to you, Mr. I’m-Just-Running-Around-Like-a-Looney-with-a-Toothbrush-and-a-Deathwish Guy!” (Well ... sometimes I abridge it to something simpler, like “because you could get hurt.” But you get the idea.)

A large percentage of my warnings are car-related in nature. Like we don’t approach a car until it’s completely stopped because the driver may not realize that we’re there. (I’ve cried too many tears over Steven Curtis Chapman's daughter already!) We hold hands in parking lots. We use our eyes and our ears to see if car lights are on. And we’re especially careful crossing driveways or stepping off curbs because drivers are very busy and might not notice a couple of erratically moving people who are less than 4 feet tall.

Once we were in a parking lot when Shane clutched my hand and pointed. There was a toddler a few yards away, crossing the car lane by himself. Because of the 3-foot-tall perspective thing, it must have looked like a huge SUV was bearing down on him. In reality, there WAS a huge SUV, but it was still a ways off. Shane put his hands over his eyes, shaking his head and sobbing “Oh no. Oh no!” I pulled his hands away so that he could at least see the car slow down until the child reached his mother on the other side of the street. Then we all breathed a sigh of relief.

But, as I mentioned before, the boys are testing their independence more and more often these days. We discovered last month that our summer school location was actually much closer than our regular school, so we decided to walk whenever I didn’t have to rush home for an 8am meeting. The first few days, we had a great time walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. Then I noticed they were gradually moving a few steps further away each day. And after awhile, they asked if they could cross the quieter streets without holding my hand at all. We did this, after carefully checking left and right a few thousand times. (Picture Marlin taking Nemo to school for the first time—only with less bulgy eyeballs.)

We were fine and I was very proud of my little guys. When it started getting hotter, I bought 99¢ umbrellas to keep us shadier, but it was no use. The thought of going out in the heat quickly outweighed the benefits of saving gas, getting excercise, and engaging in great conversations along the way. I started driving the 2 minutes to pick them up. Pitiful, I know.

But still there were dangers, and if you’ve ever been near a school crossing at pick up time, you’ll know the meaning of fear. There are swarms of minivans and SUVs tearing up and down the residential streets, fighting to park in the illegal spots, and executing abrupt u-turns in the strangest places. I'm so anal that I took to going to pick them up a few minutes early every day, so that I could get a closer space and minimize the number of streets (and crazies) we’d have to cross. My regular spot was just one house away from the crosswalk.

One afternoon, as we were walking to the car, the boys were laughing hysterically over some incomprehensible memory. (They are excellent chortlers.) David was walking ahead and nearing the driveway of the house I’d parked by. In that split second, I had a vision in my mind of a car backing out of the driveway toward one of my kids. But after calling out “driveway” so many times a day, I thought it was just a final sign of paranoia. I stepped closer, listening carefully for a car. When I didn’t hear an engine, I forced myself to not say anything.

Suddenly, two things happened: David stopped at the very edge of the driveway—and an SUV charged up the driveway from the street. The driver was making a three-point turn and came within inches of my kid. I could see the driver looking stunned and flustered at what she had almost done. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

She waved David over to cross, but he just planted his feet more firmly, stuck his hand out in front of him like a little Chinese Supreme, and shook his head grimly. He wasn’t goin' nowhere. Eventually, the woman pulled sheepishly back onto the street, and it suddenly occured to me: it was the image I had seen seconds (or maybe eons) before, only the car was backing out of the driveway from the wrong direction.

“Mommy,” David breathed, “that car almost ran over my foot. But I stopped just in time!”

I gave him a quick hug and put a smile on my face. “And I’m so so glad that you stopped just in time. Hey, great job being careful in the driveway!”

He smiled.

We all talked for a few more moments about the dangers of “getting squicked.” Then we got into our car and drove the half-mile home. I don’t know what the boys were chattering about in the back, but my mind was whirring. I was thinking about all the times I had warned them about the dangers of cars and driveways. And I was thinking about how I hadn’t warned David about this particular driveway (even though I’d had alarm bells going off in my head!) And I was thinking about how he had stopped, anyways, without a single word from me.

For a second, I blamed myself for not warning him. But then it occurred to me that I had warned him—probably hundreds of times before when I’d droned “Driveway!” even when there wasn't a car to be seen for miles. I don’t think David had been warned by any premonitions that afternoon, but he had been warned before—and, more importantly, he remembered when it mattered. Maybe that’s the secret. After all, I’m not going to follow him around for his entire life shouting “Driveway!” every few yards. (Well, maybe just for a few years more.)

After this, I had the ideas of paths and children googling around in my mind. Eventually, I found my way to Proverbs 4. In the past when I’d read the early chapters of Proverbs, the message had always been pretty clear: I needed to seek wisdom, trust God, lean not on my own understanding, and more generally impossible stuff. Lotsa things to remember, but I’d give it a shot.

This time, as often happens when reading the Bible, I noticed something I had never noticed before. All these proverbs (well, at least the first seven chapters or so) are all told by a father to his son. It all begins in 1.8 with “Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction, and do not forsake your mother’s teaching.” And then it goes on to say “Listen, my son,” oh, I counted about a few gazillion times. It’s like the Magic Eye of God—once you see it, you can’t not see the meaning: Now that I am a parent, my role is not only to listen to wisdom, but to point out the path of wisdom to my children.

Proverbs 4.10–13says:

Listen, my son, accept what I say,
and the years of your life will be many.

I guide you in the way of wisdom
and lead you along straight paths.

When you walk, your steps will not be hampered;
when you run, you will not stumble.

Hold on to instruction, do not let it go;
guard it well, for it is your life.

When I was younger, the hard part of this plan was being the “son.” It was so hard to listen to my parents. It was so hard to accept that anything they said was wisdom, when I pretty much thought they were talkin' crazy talk 24/7. Today, the hard part of these verses is being the parent. How do I guide my children in “the paths of truth,” as John says? How do I give them directions that are clear enough for them to follow when they are walking on their own?

It’s hard, but it’s not a choice, really. Just as parents feel compelled to teach their children about driveways and parking lots, I need to feel the same compulsion, the same urgency, to teach them about truth and God and wisdom—even as I’m still learning about these things myself. Then, when the SUVs of life come hurtling at them, they’ll be able to remember what I said, plant their feet firmly, and then decide which way to go.

In some ways, leading little ones is much harder than walking the path for yourself. Man, this parenting stuff is tough! And the stakes? WAY too high! But, thank Goodness, we are not walking alone, and we don't only have to rely on ourselves to lead the way. My mommy prayer is that God helps me to point my boys away from danger and toward the right path, for, as one wise daddy once said: The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn, shining ever brighter till the full light of day.

The other day, I got an email from an old friend. She’s moving to Santa Barbara (at last!) and asked for my address because she wanted to send me a CD.

This wasn’t just any CD. It was one I had actually sent her years ago. Back when we lived in Monterey, I randomly checked a Lorena McKennitt CD from the public library. I loved it because it put music to some Green Gablesish poems like “The Lady of Shallott” and “The Highwayman.” It even had a song about a YA novel I’d just read called Skellig (a kid-friendly riff on one of my favorite short stories). For several weeks, I listened to the CD at the office. I played it very softly in my gray padded cubicle when everyone else had gone. I played it very loudly on the roof while I ate lunch, knitted rectangular objects of various sizes, and watched the Carmel Valley mist burn off over the horse’s pasture next door.

I renewed the CD a few times, then eventually had to return it. I was going to buy a copy for myself, but decided that, instead, I’d spend the money on ordering a copy for my friend. I thought she’d appreciate the Celtic versions of some favorite poems the way I had, so I had it shipped to her on the east coast. Recently, I felt compelled to youtube some of the songs. (I’d gone to the office a few times in the past month, and somehow the hills and the fields and the fog came back to me in a wave of music.)

Then I got my friend’s email. Basically, she said that she’d never really understood the music, but she’d love to listen to it with me sometime. Until then, she was sending it back to me.

I spent about two seconds thinking Hey!!

And then I came to my senses and realized how much I value our friendship. Although I’d originally wanted the CD for myself, I had sent it to her because I thought she’d enjoy it, too. Then she’d sent it back because she thought I'd enjoy it more. She was happy to return it. And I was happy to receive it.

There are some friends you’re never sure about. You’re always one missed thank-you note away from scaring them off for good. Then there are others who know your heart—who couldn’t offend you even if they tried. You may not see them for years on end. You may suck at maintaining your friendship. But they’re lifers and there for you whether you realize it or not.

Thank God for old friends!

Some days, it seems like my little boys aren’t so little anymore. They’re finishing up their first year of school. They’re questioning why they have to hold Mommy’s hand when crossing the street. And when I open the freezer, I just narrowly miss knocking the tops of their heads off (although they still haven’t learned to dodge the bags of frozen fruit that inevitably roll out).

It’s more than just growing older and growing taller. They’re no longer little boys—they’re boys. This time last year, they were at a gentle, sheltered daycare where toddlers regularly ended fights by lisping: “I think we need to negotiate.” A few months later, they’re playing games that all involve pshiew pshiew laser noises, “accidentally” dismembering any bugs that have the misfortune to cross their paths, and living for visits with their cousins to play SuperSmash.

When you contemplate having kids, you picture how adorable it will be to dress up babies or play with toddlers. You’re busy making plans about how your kids will watch only PBS (just on their birthdays, of course) and eat only organic foods freshly cranked from your food mill. It never crosses your mind that someday you’ll need to make some kind of decision about when is the right time to buy them matching Game Boys.

But that’s where Rob and I are now—entertaining the notion of Wiis and debating the evils of commercial television. Fitz and Charlie are currently waging a whining campaign because they feel like they are ready to watch The Return of the King and don’t believe our assurances that after they’re thirteen, we’ll force them to watch it so often that they’ll be sick of it. (I guess seven years is a bit long to wait when you’re only six!)

Here's the problem that we've found: It's just not always so clear cut—what to expose them to and when.

So far, we've been playing it by ear—and getting pretty lucky. Fitz and Charlie just had their first taste of bubble gum this past week because they knew a friend was going to hand out gum at the end of the week, and they were worried they wouldn’t know what to do. (We practiced.) They have never had (or wanted) more than a sip of soda. They’ve never had shoes that weren’t velcro. They’ve never been dropped off in the school turn-around. And we still buckle them into their carseats. (I mean, if we get the straps twisted all the time, how could they do it right?)

Then, there is the wide and wooly world of entertainment. I was stricken with a solid week of food poisoning/stomach flu a few months ago, and Rob very sweetly took time off to watch the boys while I lapsed in and out of consciousness. Late one afternoon, I woke up, staggered to the living room, and realized that Rob and the boys had just finished watching Transformers. It’s not just that the movie is kinda violent, but my boys have really, really low tolerance for scariness. In fact, just last week, a friend commented that during a playdate, the boys were freaked out by watching her son’s Elmo DVD. (They have a thing about puppets.)

But there were the Liu boys, basking in manly self-satisfaction as the closing credits scrolled.

“Uh, what just happened?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over Linkin Park.

“They were fine,” Rob assured me. “The movie's actually not that violent. Things blow up, but you hardly ever see individual violent acts.”

I nodded. “Uh huh. Boys, what was your favorite part of the movie?”

“Ooh, there’s a scorpion robot and he stabs this guy in the back and the guy goes ‘aarurugh’ and then he dies! Let’s see it again and again!”

Well, I thought with some resignation, there’s no going back now. I mean, now that they’ve seen Transformers, it seems a bit silly to keep them from watching Sponge Bob!

My fears seemed to be realized later that day when I was back in bed again. This time I was listening to the boys “playing quietly because Mommy is sick” (otherwise known as: storming through the hallway, yelling at the tops of their lungs). They were, of course, playing Transformers.

“I am Optimus Prime,” Charlie boomed. (He already has a low, gravely voice, so his Optimus Prime is pretty impressive in the hallway.)

“I am with you, Optimus Prime!” shouted sidekick Fitz.

I moaned.

“Optimus Prime, where are we going anyways?” asked Fritz.

“To the Berry Patch, Bumblebee!" was the rumbling answer. "We need to get ready for the autobot birthday party, and we Don't Have Much Time!”

“Optimus Prime, I have a great idea. Let’s surprise everyone with goodie bags before they go home.”

“That is a great idea, Bumblebee! Autobots, roll out!”

I sighed.

Since then, my favorite pasttime is to stand back and listen to the boys play. A few days ago, their loveys were playing school and deciding who would get to be the door helper when, suddenly, their class had to be defended from a horde of evil knights! Yesterday, there was an elaborate morality play called “The Little Boy Who Forgot to Say ‘Please’” in which the eponymous character, as a result of living up to his name, is suddenly killed by a fiery laser blast from a passing dragon. "And that's what happened to The Little Boy Who Forgot to Say 'Please.'"

I see why psychologists are so interested in the way children play: You get a tiny view of all the different influences that filter into their consciousness.

As a parent, part of you wishes that you could be the only influence in your children’s lives. But then comes school and friends and Wii boxing and death rays. You’re all vying for your kids’ attention until somehow it all gets mixed in together. What comes out is a glimmering of who they will be in the future.

Someday, their play will shift again, and things will need to be rebalanced. But for now, I’m content with what I see and hear. Little boys need to grow into big boys, and I hope I’ll be ready to let them do it when the time comes. In the meantime, It’s not so bad to learn about transitions and transformations.

After all, I've learned that fire-breathing dragons need hugs and negotiating, too.

Just like little boys.

Life has been a bit whack-a-mole lately—no time to stop and consider the fifty million urgent things that needed doing—just enough time to swing at the biggest, closest buggers.

At first, each pesky mole seemed unrelated—work, family, church. But when I finally had a few minutes to step back and reflect, I realized that the moles were not so random after all. It was God again—whacking me over the head with a mallet lesson about what it means to serve others.

When people consider what it means to serve, they often throw around names of biblical characters like Mary, Martha, and, uh, Jesus.

I, on the other hand, always think about Ricky Zuniga.

Not so much because he’s a model of Christian service (which he is, of course), but because many years ago in the distant city of Manchester, we learned a really important lesson together about service, which I remember to this day.

We were there as part of our church’s mission team to England, and it’d been the latest in a string of hectic days. I think that we’d all led different workshops that afternoon. Mine consisted of spending 45 minutes helping a group of teens carefully create adorable masterpieces in FIMO clay, followed by 10 minutes of burning them to a smoky, toxic crisp. (The combo of gas ovens and Celcius was just too much for me.) But everyone good naturedly opened the windows and gently told me to stay away from British ovens.

Another group was learning to cook “American food,” which consisted of a three-course meal to be served to the whole church later that day. In the Manchester church, they had lunch together every Sunday after service, so the kitchen was fully stocked with about 100 bowls, plates, and the necessary cutlery. Since a lot of their members owned takeaways, potlucks were probably no brainers for them, and the hard-working young people took turns washing up afterwards.

So when the “England team” volunteered to cook the lunch, it only seemed natural that the “England team” would give them all a break and wash up for them. And that’s where Ricky and I made the first of a series of dreadful mistakes: We volunteered to clean up.

We started out fine, washing and rinsing. It sounded like the meal was going well in the other room. The first course came and went—100 bowls and plates, no problemo. The problemo, however, reared its ugly head about midway through the second course, when it started getting a little tiring.

“Wow, this is a lot of dishes,” I’d remark.

“Hey, I think I actually recognize that same chipped plate from before!” Ricky would say with a laugh.

Throughout the meal, Manchester kids were in and out of the kitchen, picking up clean plates and depositing newly dirty ones. A few would offer to help.

“We’re fine,” we’d tell them, smiling. “No problem. We want to help.”

We sloshed our way through the second course. Then the third course started coming back to us.

“Look, I think I’ve actually washed this dish four times. How is that possible?” I’d whine.

“I think they’re just taking out the clean ones, smearing them with food, and bringing them right back,” Ricky'd whisper.

We started grumbling, and our good-natured joking sounded less and less funny even to us.

“Hey, do you two need help?” someone would ask.

“No,” we’d chime through gritted teeth, “We’ve got it covered.”

Grumble grumble grumble.

Near the end of the third course, we were ready to start throwing the dirty dishes directly into the trash, but we went doggedly on.

“Need any help?” a chipper voice would ask.

“NO!” we’d bark. “We are just fine. We will wash the dishes!”

We snarled and chased them out of the kitchen.

By the end of the marathon of dishwashing, we were satisfied. We’d done it! We’d washed approximately 500,789,903 dishes (or the same dishes 5,007,899 times). And we’d done it all by ourselves, dammit! And they should have been really, really grateful because (behold us!) we were full-on dishwashing heroes!

Only ... they weren’t grateful. Isn’t that peculiar? They weren’t grateful! Because although we’d certainly served them by washing a truckload and a half of dishes, we’d done it with so very little grace, and such a bad attitude, that it had become a problem—and where there’s little grace, there’s little to be grateful about. If we’d have washed less, accepted help more, and had true servants’ hearts, our ministry would have been so much greater. Instead, all we had to show for hours of miserable work was raisiny fingers, soaking clothes, and a lifelong dislike of melamite tableware. A sadly missed opportunity ... but a lesson I’ll never forget.

So this week, while I’m winding down one impossible work project to start a new impossible work project, while I’m scrambling around trying to get everything done for the boyos and their all-important school projects, while I’m puzzling out the future of the children’s ministry of our church (and feeling like a triple-martyr for my pains), I happened to read Luke 6.39 in my trusty ol’ Revolve Biblezine. Here’s what it says in its awesome Revolvey way:

Give and you will receive. You will be given much. Pressed down, shaken together, and running over, it will spill into your lap. The way you give to others is the way God will give to you.

It made me stop my grumbling long enough to think: Do I really want God to treat me like another in a long line of pesky moles to whack?

Well, that is what I’m learning lately. It’s little about service, a little about working, and a little about giving all rolled into one. When you give with just your hands, you return with empty hands. When you give with your hands and your heart, you return with a bigger, better heart. It’s something I started learning more than a decade ago, and something I’m still learning today.

So, I was thinking about those peacocks, (of course, we search for them daily on the way to and from school now) when I realized something: I know those peacocks!

It’s a bit of a South Pas mystery as to where this particular pair of peacocks came from. Did someone raise them as pets? Did they escape from some exotic pet shop? No, sorry. They are actually visitors from my old teaching days.

In another lifetime, I worked at Continuation High which, for some reason, was also a farm. There was literally a farmyard between my classroom and the next. And on this farm there was a goat, a dozen chickens, some ducks, and two sheep—both named Dolly (haha). It also housed the meanest turkey I’ve ever met. (Well, considering that most of the turkeys I’ve met come shrink wrapped in plastic, that’s not saying much.) But take my word for it: this was one mean bird. He ruled the yard, keeping the smaller animals in line and intimidating the larger ones. We watched in horrid fascination as he nonchalantlly wrung the necks of innocent chickens. Random acts of turkey violence. I think this meanness stemmed from the fact that he was singularly ugly. I mean, I like animals, but there’s a reason Chinese restaurants don’t put turkey heads on their platters (and it ain’t just because Chinese people don’t eat turkey). It’s because turkeys are unappealing. Even alive, they look dried up, ornery, and their brains are on the outsides of their heads. And their feet! Oh, their feet ...

There were great stories about the farmyard. Every few weeks, it’d pack up into one of the teacher’s trucks and travel to the elementary schools in the district as a petting zoo. Kids would cuddle the rabbits and baby chicks. Of course, the mix of teenaged felons and helpless farm animals didn’t always work out well for the animal team. One favorite story was about the time a student fed one of the sheep a beef burrito. Apparently, the meat + sheep combo doesn’t work, because that poor sheep keeled right over and died on the spot. In the meantime, a troop of uniformed little kids from the school up the street was skipping happily through the front gate, holding hands and ready to see the cute little animals. There wasn’t much to do, so the teachers threw a tarp over the dead sheep and conducted the petting zoo as usual with a giant mound in the middle of the yard.

But I was talking turkey and peacocks.

Occasionally, people in the neighborhood donated unwanted livestock to the farm. I mean, if you think about it, what happens to all those baby chicks that are raised in primary classes? What happens to that wounded duck you rescued from the park? The chicken you impulsively decided to rescue from the Chinese market downtown? I’ll tell you what—they all went to Continuation Farm. And one day, sure enough, someone showed up with a pair of peacocks.

Everyone gathered around to admire the stately birds as they arrived. They really were gorgeous, although we were warned that they could be extremely noisy. (After awhile, you get used to trying to outscreech roosters while teaching class. And let me tell you, those birds did not limit themselves to dawn!) But we were prepared to not mind the additional nuisance. Peacocks would be the crowning touch on our happy animal kingdom.

The peacocks were introduced to the yard, the gate was locked behind them, and they all lived happily ever after. Well, more correctly, the peacocks were introduced to the yard, the gate was locked behind them, and the turkey charged. The peacocks had probably never seen a turkey before in their lives. They probably didn’t know that that turkey was given to sudden, violent rampages. Those peacocks were brand new, but they were no dummies. In fact, they were chickens. As soon as the turkey charged, they were up and over the chain link fence, leaping high over our heads. We all ran after them, transfixed by the flash of iridescent wings and tail feathers.

When last we saw them, they were heading southbound down the center line of Marengo Avenue.

So wonder about the Wild Peacocks of Monterey Hill, if you will. But I know the secret history of the mysterious birds. They’re not only the high point of the trip to school for a bunch of elementary kids. For three seconds, they were the pride and joy of Continuation High.

You know that feeling you get when you first put on an updated prescription of glasses or contacts? One minute, you’re living life like normal, assuming that you’re seeing everything as clearly as anyone else. Then you slip on some new lenses and, lo and behold, you realize that there are LEAVES on them thar trees—and not just leaves, oh no. You can suddenly see every single detail in sharp focus. The change screams out at you—and you can't imagine ignoring such precious clarity again.

That feeling of heightened superconscious is the same one you get when driving around a couple of soon-to-be-six-year-old boys. No, idealists. It’s not that being around them is an enlivening, enriching experience that makes you appreciate every ordinary miracle of life. It’s more that they literally scream about every single thing they see on the road.

The trip to school generally goes something like this (grab a friend and shout this in unison for full effect):

Matt: Bird tree tree tree flower purple flower blue flower pink flowers grass leaves leaves tree tree tree grass more grass grass.
Ben: Flower flower flower flower flower flower—uh, hedge. Hedge hedge hedgehedgehedge. Oh! I see a different flower. Flower flower flower.

The Monday after Easter, there was a slight variation in which they started “seeing” Easter eggs.

We’d drive by a repairman’s red tool box and Matt would shout: “I see a red Easter egg.”

Pass a yellow hydrant: “I see a yellow egg!”

Pink flowers: “PINK EGG!!”

Suddenly, Ben announced: “I just saw a peacock.”

Yeah.

“I saw one, Mommy.” He sounded so sincere that I turned to look at him.

“Did you see one really really?"

Vigorous head nodding. “Yes. I really, really saw it.”


Well, what can you do? You either believe your kid’s far-fetched story, or you don’t. I am a mother. It's my job to believe.

“Woah. You really saw a peacock? How cool! How big was it?”

“About this big.” (arms extended full width)

“Wow. That's big. What color was it?”

“Oh, blue and green and purple. It had a really, really long tail that was like a rainbow.”

“What was it doing? Was it sitting in a tree? Or flying?”

“No, just walking down the sidewalk.”

Yeah.

On the way to class, we ran into Rachael, my future daughter-in-law (if I have anything to do with it).

“Rachael,” Ben enthused. “Guess what? I just saw a PEACOCK on the way to school!!”

All three kids squealed and bounced with glee.

I smiled at Rachael’s dad, giving the ol' over-the-kids-shrug-and-smirk.

“Oh, yeah,” he told Ben. “I’ve seen them, too. Let me see ...” He whipped out his cell phone and started scrolling through photos. Sure enough, soon we were all peering at three different shots of peacocks—all apparently taken within a few blocks of school. They were blue and green and purple, had really long tails that were like rainbows, and were walking calmly down the sidewalk. “There are two peacocks that roam around the neighborhood,” he explained.

Ben squinted at the photo and nodded his approval, “Yup. That’s the one I saw, alright.”

He burst into their Kindercare class, where all the kids were gathered on the floor to start their morning routine.

“Miss Birdie, guess what?” he shouted from the doorway, “I saw a peacock!”

“Oh, did you see him, too?” the teacher enthused. “I saw him this morning on the way to school!”

Suddenly, the class was filled with kids claiming similar peacock sightings. Some had seen them "probably maybe a million times" already.

Yeah.


But then I caught myself.
Because with these kids—who knows?