Since our house revolves around all things Star Wars it was only fitting to serve Gordy Yoda pancakes on his special day.  Nothing says I love you dad more than a Storm trooper cut out of fluffy pancake dough or Darth Vader drenched in syrup. 

When Luke and I procured the pancake cutters we also discovered a kid-size Star Wars apron for him to serve them in.  Super cute, plus I figured it could be his standard apron.  Yeah, like aprons get a lot of wear around here…nonetheless he strutted around in the apron and delivered breakfast with flair.  Later in the afternoon, Gordy was surprised to find Luke sitting quietly by himself in his room and his apron stuffed into his garbage can.

Gordy asked, “What’s wrong bud?  What’s your apron doing in the garbage?”

Luke held back slight tears and said, “I threw it away.  It’s your day dad.  I shouldn’t have a gift on your day.”

Gordy scooped him up, removed the apron from the garbage, held him tight and said, “You’re the best present ever bud.”

With a wink to me, they proceeded to check on the world they’re building online.  I think they’ve built a pretty good one here.

Here’s the issue, Gordy is animal whisperer. His gift isn’t limited to one species or specific breed.  Wherever we go animals find him, or better yet he finds them.  I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many dogs we’ve returned to owners over the last decade.  Stray cats and raccoons know they’ll find food on our front porch. Vacationing in Cozumel last spring he rescued a turtle crossing the road.  Yep, I said turtle.  So, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that last week while driving home from a leisurely Saturday lunch, Gordy slammed on the brakes, stopped the car in the middle of the road and came back cradling a tiny wild bunny in his hands. 

To compound matters, Luke seems to have inherited the “speaks to animals” gene.  The pleas began the moment he saw the bunny.  “Please, oh please mom, can we keep it?”   There were promises of warm bottles, a covered cage in the backyard, and late night bunny feedings.  Gordy’s sheepish, begging eyes didn’t help, “You know Kate, it doesn’t have a chance out there.”

Oh great, so either I add a wild bunny to our collection of animals or I become know in our house as the bunny killer.  What’s a mom to do?

Enter Google.  And let me just say thank you Google.  Turns out wild bunnies don’t make good pets.  In fact upon further investigation, I discovered that wild bunnies have less chance of survival in human hands than when left to perils of nature.   I further consulted the emergency vet, who assured me the best solution was indeed to return the bunny to the wild.  Probably in an attempt to make us all feel better, the vet suggested we create a nest for the bunny out of a cardboard box and fill it with leaves and twigs.  Luke took this idea to heart, adding baby carrots to attract the older bunnies.  We tucked the nest under a bramble of blackberry bushes and within seconds the little guy hopped back into the vines.  “Go little guy, you’re back home!” Luke shouted.  Yes, he was, and I gotta say I was just a little sad that his home wasn’t ours.

A few hours later, he snuck into his rooming, hollering for us to stay out because he had a big surprise planned.  He emerged in his “fancy suit” just in time for pizza night on the basement couch.  Go figure.  And, come on who doesn’t want to knock back a grape soda and slice of pie in a suit and snap-on tie?

From the suit to the camo tee and Johnny Cash tunes to almond flavored Easter cookies our house is eclectic.  We don’t walk in a straight line every day.Of course none of these things go together.  But, I wouldn’t want them to.  And, maybe we’re just recreating a 2010 vision of the new Rockwell generation.

Luke eagerly posed for pics with the massive collection of Star Wars memorabilia on hand, with the exception of the Stormtroopers which apparently were a little too true-to-life for his taste.  While they cheered to the iconic scores of the Imperial March complete with lasers and exploding light shows, I ran a hot bath, poured myself a lovely glass of red wine and tucked in with a mystery.  Since Luke first discovered Star Wars, he and Gordy have carved out their own “boy zone” around the classic saga.  There are no girls allowed when they break out Lego sets on Luke’s bedroom floor, or battle with foam light-sabers.  I’m fine this utterly sexist mentality.  I love that they have their own traditions, and let’s face it a night by myself in the bath is a very good thing.

[singlepic id=154 w=125 h=125 float=] [singlepic id=156 w=125 h=125 float=]When we originally planned our Batter Up to Battle Alzheimer’s event last fall we debated about whether to host the game in June or July. Oregon weather is notoriously rainy in June so we opted for late July in order to ensure the best chance of sun.  Well, sun was not on short supply last week.  In fact quite the opposite, we blazed all week under the hottest temps ever recorded in this part of the country.  As Friday loomed closer, just looking at the forecast made me start to sweat.  The lead singer of the band we had lined up to sing at the game ended up hospitalized with heat stroke.  The celebrity champions we had lined up to throw out the first pitch and make on-field appearances weren’t up to weathering the heat.  What’s a girl to do?  Simple.  Pimp out my family of course! 

[singlepic id=158 w=125 h=125 float=] [singlepic id=160 w=125 h=125 float=] Luke and my dad stepped in to pinch hit at the last minute.  And fortunately despite the heat over 6,000 fans came out to watch the poor Beavers get slaughtered by Vegas, but connect with a great cause right?  My dad has been perfectly humble about his lightening fast pitch and yes, for the record, it did cross home plate.  Luke, on the other hand has boasted all week about his experience on the mound.  Now he wants a trophy.  Uh Oh!

Last year Luke and a few of his friends staked claim to a small chunk of sidewalk in Northeast Portland for the Rose Festival’s Junior Parade.  They clapped along to Louis Louis and waved to junior princesses in glittery crowns.  It was a delightful afternoon, minus one major problem:  NO CANDY!  Not a single Jolly Rancher was launched from passing floats or clowns in crowded cars.  My girlfriend, who originates from Minnesota, talked the kids up about her memories of dragging home a sack full of candy after summer parades near the lake.  I too remembered running into the street to collect piles of candy tossed along the route.

Why no candy?   For the last year we’ve dissected this issue at length.  A skilled therapist might suggest too much energy has been invested, but we’ve formulated a variety of practical theories.  For instance could it be that in today’s society parade organizers are concerned about being sued?  Imagine the publicity if a Reece Peanut Butter Cup landed in the hands of a child allergic to peanut butter!  In classrooms across the country peanuts have been elevated to levels much like those of controlled substances.  But, the simple solution would be to follow suit and ban any peanut bearing candy from the parade.  Maybe it’s that parade organizers are worried that launching a Blow Pop from a passing float will take out an eye.  Unlikely, but it could happen and the news crews would air that footage for weeks on end.  I’ll stop here with my candy conspiracy theories, but feel free to email if you’re craving more. 

This past weekend we unfolded lawn chairs and liberally applied sunscreen along Highway 99 in anticipation of the Hazel Dell parade.  I warned Luke not to expect candy.  The parade was slow to start, consisting of homemade floats, middle school marching bands, and local school board candidates.  Luke skittered into the street when a Chevy full of little league-rs began pitching (wait a minute while I rub my eyes) candy to the crowd.  It didn’t stop with baseball teams, but literally rained down on us from every passing politician and float for the next two hours.  Candy flew so fast Luke could barely scoop up a pile before he was pelted with more.  By the end he’d amassed more candy than last Halloween.  I’m not sure if somehow Vancouver is immune to parade code of this new century or maybe just behind the times, but either way I’m happy to see that some traditions live on.

In Luke’s classroom this week the Leprechaun expertly evaded the traps  set out–made skillfully of shoe-boxes and baited with chocolate gold.  He left a trail of shamrock footprints and treats, but not a single clue on how he might be found.  Luke and his classmates strategized for hours on contraptions for next year, sketching designs on construction paper like an architect on a drafting table.     

For some reason this escapade with the Leprechaun left Luke convinced that the mischief maker would pay a visit to our house as well.  I began to explain that St. Patty’s Day has its roots in Irish tradition.  I began to explain that Leprechauns aren’t like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.  They don’t scatter about the county or scour local neighborhoods looking for gold.  And then I stopped myself.  I noticed that Luke’s shoulders had begun to sag and that twinkle in his eye was starting to fade.  Why does it matter? I thought.  And frankly how much longer will he believe in all things magical?  Probably not long.

So, what a surprise to arrive home yesterday after school to discover the Leprechaun paid us a secret visit.

“I told you Mommy, I told you!” Luke shouted, bounding over tipped chairs and sideways lamps.  “I knew he’d come.  I just knew it.”  He raced around the house, looking in cupboards and under the basement stairs, sure that he’d be able to catch the Leprechaun before he escaped.  Once he was satisfied that the Leprechaun was no longer on the premises, he turned to me and said, “Well, I bet he found a crack somewhere and snuck out.  He is magic after all.” 

Luke’s right.  He is. 

[singlepic id="95" w="100" h="100" mode="" float="" ]The reader in me couldn’t resist chefs in white hats serving cocoa while effortlessly turning pages as we bounced along the tracks. The traditionalist in me soaked in the scent of musty train cars, ginger cookies, and the wet dark air. But, the mom in me saw it all through Luke’s eyes–peeking out the foggy windows for a glimpse of the North Pole, craning his neck in hopes the big man might have boarded the train, and the look of brimming belief as clutched his bell and wave goodnight to Santa Claus.

If you’d like to hop aboard the Polar Express check out your local reading railroad here.  If  you’ve somehow never read the Polar Express click here.  Or, if you’d like to pass the magic on pick up a copy and drop it off at a local shelter.