About Nicki

South African by chance and Californian by choice, I live in the California Bay Area with my husband, four kids and Pretzel, the aging dachshund. As a reluctant yet full-time, barely-at-home mom, writer, avid reader, country music lover and wannabe surf diva, I write it like I see it - with tears, humor, skepticism, and truth. Keeping it real, for me. And hopefully for you too. I wear my red cowboy boots whenever I can - they make me feel like I can do anything, and when I do it, I'll rock it (that may or may not happen, depending on the day and also if it's raining - cowboy boots do not do well in the rain). They have come to represent the part of me that does not love being a stay-at-home mom, the part that wants to wander, explore and discover, and that sometimes does get to do all of that - both in real life, and on the page.

Koala Bear-y

Posted on April 12, 2014 by Nicki

“G’day mate,” he says to everyone he passes, in a perfect Australian accent. He is walking around Oakland’s Lake Merritt. Some people are amused by the friendly ten-year-old chirping out Australian greetings in the midst of Urban California, while others just ignore him. He doesn’t care either way. He loves his Australian lingo, and loves to use it whenever he can.

koala He’s really nothing like a Koala, except for his love of Australia. We have Paul Hogan to thank for that. Nothing like a little Crocodile Dundee with that shark tooth necklace round his neck to inspire romantic notions of the Outback. And a killer Aussie accent. He also eats constantly (my koala that is, not Crocodile Dundee), but thankfully not eucalyptus leaves. Koalas are a little on the lazy side – those leaves don’t provide a lot of energy – and I guess he is somewhat more lazy than the average growing boy his age. He doesn’t like to help clean up, would rather tool around on Instagram than go for a hike or a bike ride, unless it’s round the lake where he can practice his Australian. Or somewhere on a skateboard.

He calls himself the “true middle.” I don’t know how he figures that when he’s the second of four – there are really two middles, or no middles – but he says he’s the true middle. Maybe it’s because he was in the middle first.

Whatever it is, it seems like a tough place to be for him. Easily frustrated. In search of excitement all the time. If we don’t have a fun agenda for every minute of the weekend, he’s mad and disappointed. He nags to have his friends over every day. “No play dates today,” I tell him. It’s already a busy afternoon, and more kids means more chaos. “Fine,” he yells, clearly disappointed, obviously frustrated, feeling many things but definitely not fine.

He worries that plans are going to change without his knowledge. Wears me down with his questions. “Can we see The Muppets Most Wanted, Mom?” “When can we see it?” “Are we going to see The Muppets Most Wanted?” No matter how many times I assure him we will see it, it’s not enough. He wants a firm commitment, a day, a time – preferably today, right now. I can’t commit. “We’ll see it, I said we’ll see it.” My jaw is tight. “But not today. And stop nagging.”

“Fine!”

Oy.

But he has the best sense of humor. Cracks jokes, laughs so hard he cries. Loves to rap, and dance, and play DJ in the car, spinning the dial from channel to channel until he finds the just right song. No alt rock. No Billy Joel. We fight over the radio. He usually wins.

The most friendly. The biggest heart. Compassionate. Sensitive. “What did you do today, Mom?” he asks every afternoon. The others don’t even notice I have a life before 3pm.

Koalas are not actually bears. They are marsupials – like kangaroos and wombats – with a pouch for their babies. A pouch where the young ones feel safe and secure and taken care of. My koala throws his arms around my neck, squeezes me close. I know he’s frustrated when he does that, worried about something, wants to feel safe with me. He plants big kisses on my cheeks every morning.

And yesterday he did something amazing. I wasn’t home, and an elastic band came off his braces. He called me. Here we go, I thought. I’ll have to schedule an appointment, find the time…

“Mom, I called the orthodontist and told them what happened. They said it’s not a big deal and I can just come in tomorrow morning, but I said I had to ask my mom.”

Did I mention that he’s ten? I think he might be leaving the pouch…

I wonder if he spoke to the orthodontist in an Australian accent?

Koala Bear-y by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Jinx!

Posted on April 11, 2014 by Nicki

“Jinx! Double jinx! Triple jinx! Personal jinx!”

They scream this out every time two or more of them say something at the same time. I used to play that game as a kid. There was something thrilling about being in sync with my friend or sibling. Like: how cool that we’re thinking about the same thing AT THE SAME TIME! No. Way.

It’s still cool.

I don’t like to feel alone (I wonder if anyone does really…?). I feel scared and sad, forgotten and neglected, when I feel alone. Like I have to face the big wide whole world by myself and it overwhelms me. Feels impossible. I am much warmer, calmer, happier when I know that someone is thinking of me, someone has me in mind, someone is empathetic toward me. And it’s even better if they’re thinking of me at the same time as I’m thinking of them. But that doesn’t happen often. No. Way.

Sometimes it does. It does happen. And when it does I am that eight-year-old kid again – thrilled and happy with a great big grin on my face because how cool! And also because I’m reassured that I’m really not alone.

The song a faraway friend mentions to me that is suddenly playing on the radio. The adorable muppet-like video saying hi I love you you’re awesome I’m so glad you’re my friend that shows up in my inbox on a morning that seems impossible – Toronto now feels like it’s round the corner, and suddenly the morning is not so impossible.

“So weird, was just thinking of you and wishing you were down the road and I could see you…”

She is my best friend from life. We’ve known each other since first grade, which is my whole life – I remember very little before then. We’ve been silly together, cried together, confided in each other, been mad with each other, and laughed and laughed and laughed together.

When I received this text from her, my heart filled with warm and happy. She had been on my mind, so I sent her a message. Asking how she was, when could we talk? And she had been thinking of me, at that exact moment. She was not alone. And I was not alone. Jinx personal jinx!

Our phone conversations are long and deeply satisfying. I wish we were lying on the carpet listening to Depeche Mode together but this is a close second. The time zones and miles between here and there fall away, and if I close my eyes and just talk, she is right here with me.

“Nick, remember when we sent Mr B a…” “Valentine’s Card!” I finish for her.

We are both shrieking with laughter, our words falling over each other’s. We giggle together for many minutes, remembering that gigantic card we sent our English teacher in high school. We took a proud photograph of ourselves with it, and somehow that photograph ended up in his hands. Busted!

She remembers a 16^th birthday party we had together – the social event of the year, she said – and I remember a Saturday night hitchhiking in Johannesburg (I know, so not okay). Sometimes our memories overlap, and sometimes they don’t, but always they are special, binding us together above the broadband that connects us.

Thinking of you. Sending love. You ok? Had a feeling, just wanted to check in… Messages like these join hands and hold me close. Whether it’s a day of smiles and sunshine, or one that is dark and difficult, these missives to and from those I love and who love me feel all kinds of wonderful. As if I stretched out my hand, and felt those warm fingers interlace with mine – from across the Bay, from down the road, to the North and down South, and over the ocean.

Jinx!

Jinx by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

I brake for manicures

Posted on April 10, 2014 by Nicki

I spend a lot of time in my minivan. I call it my office. It’s a Honda Odyssey and it can seat eight. It’s the perfect car to move my large family and all our gear and groceries around.

And on a daily basis there’s a lot of moving around – some days I drive nearly 100 miles, going almost nowhere. The kids’ activities are no further than two to five miles from my house, but somehow the up, down and around many times a day adds up. I barely stop the car to let one child out and another in, and don’t forget your backpack, and please don’t eat those crumbly cheese puffs in my car, and I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up so be ready bye!

Daily life might be a non-stop whirlwind of crazy carpooling, but I do slow it down on occasion. As is obvious by my A to Z theme, I love color and I love it on my nails. When I am blowing about in my whirlwind, with my hair unwashed and my shmootzy leggings, it does feel good to have fingers and toes that look somewhat cared for, in colors that make me smile.

“Pick a color, honey,” one of the manicurists calls out as soon as I step through the door of the nail shop. There is not an empty seat in sight but I am assured that in five minutes I’ll be relaxing in one of those big comfy chairs, with my feet in soapy hot water. “Five more minutes,” Tony, the owner, says every five minutes. That’s how he rolls. I roll my eyes.

In four sets of five more minutes I am escorted to my spot. As I sink my tired tushy into the chair, my manicurist and the one next to her start talking in rapid Vietnamese. I know they’re talking about me. About how impatient I am to wait. About the last time I was there, and didn’t like the color and she had to change it. I have no idea if that is in fact what they’re saying – it’s possible and probable they’re not talking about me at all! But there is always that little twinge of insecurity (or self-centeredness) that they are – it’s my “Elaine” moment every time!

I make friends in the nail shop – the mom who has her 3-week old in tow. Their first time leaving the house. It’s her second, her oldest is at Temple Sinai preschool, do I know it? They recently moved from Chicago.

“That’s fishy,” says the woman on my right. She’s having a loud cell phone conversation with… who I wonder? “And that’s fishy… and that’s fishy too. The whole thing is fishy.” What on earth? But she’s not that chatty off the phone, so I’ll never find out what was so fishy. Probably just as well.

I glance over at the woman sitting across from me. Suddenly she grabs her boobs and looks straight at me. “They still there?” I ask innocently. “Just making sure I’ve paid everyone,” she huffs. Okaaay.

It’s like being in a choose-your-own-adventure story, inside that nail shop. A micro-world of plot lines, and characters, and words. Mom-from-Chicago and I exchange email addresses. Fishy Lady tells me she likes my toe color (Fly, of course) and decides to paint hers the same.

My minivan and whirlwind are waiting… but for now, I brake for manicures.

My nails wearing I Brake for Manicures by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Hot and Spicy

Posted on April 9, 2014 by Nicki

“Haaaa,” we all exhale, like dragons breathing out fiery breath. Heads tipped back, hands clasped tight together, elbows touch… breathe out every last drop. Inhale.

We move as one. Breathe as one. Eyes fixed straight ahead. It’s quiet, except for the sounds of our inhales and exhales. And the instructor’s soft, predictable directions. Quiet. Deliberate. Meditative.

And hot as hell. And kinda smelly. And is that guy really wearing nothing but tighty-whiteys to a sweaty yoga class?

“Inhale 1, 2, 3… suck your belly in, see your ribcage in the mirror, take in one last sip of air, and exhale… haaaa.”

Shit. It’s hot.

Bikram yoga is hot yoga. That’s the point. The room is heated to 100 degrees fahrenheit (or so they say), and the heat keeps turning on and off, on and off throughout class. Which is 90 minutes long. The sweat drips off your nose even if you just sit on your towel and don’t move. Which is not the point. The point is to move your body in this furnace, through a fiery series of 26 poses all of which have been carefully choreographed to positively affect your organs and systems and bones and muscles, and to thus change your body and the way it works (or so they say).

Funky Door Yoga
http://www.funkydoor.com

The room is hot. It smells. People wear far too little and make funny noises. The sweat pours out of every crevice on every body. No drinking is allowed for the first 30 minutes, and after that only very small sips. It’s definitely some kind of torture. And every class is full. Everywhere.

I’ve been doing Bikram yoga on and off for about 15 years. More off than on. Because it really takes a particular mindset to get myself over that hot and spicy threshold. And women can’t do it if pregnant – internal body temperature rises much higher than is healthy for a developing fetus (that should tell you something right there!) – so that was three years of no Bikram. But really I must add at least two years per child onto the no-Bikram period (the mindset thing), which brings it to 11 years off. So then I guess I’ve been sweating it out intermittently for a grand total of four years. Doesn’t sound as impressive.

But anyway – I’m back on. Desperate times like aging, achy joints and a stiff back call for desperate measures. And today I thought I really must be quite desperate.

It was hot. Inside and outside. The room was full of spicy smells and spicy sounds and spicy costumes. The instructor was okay, not great. People seemed unfocused – including me – and the energy was erratic.

The woman on the mat next to me had a lot of hair, held back by a bandana. She was wearing brown yoga pants, a faded black long-sleeve hooded sweatshirt, and SOCKS. She’ll take those and that sweatshirt off soon, I thought. I hoped.

But nope. I couldn’t look to my left for fear I’d get even hotter than I already and uncomfortably was, just by looking at her.

I couldn’t keep my arms and legs kicking and stretching in equal and opposite directions during Standing Bow pose. “If you kick and stretch equally you can stay like this forever,” they say… not me! I couldn’t do two sets of Triangle, and I couldn’t do Toe Stand. It hurt to twist my arms and legs like ropes during Eagle. But I managed to stay in Cobra. And in Full Locust. I kept my back bent the entire duration of Camel. And even Rabbit felt good today.

There’s no judgment in yoga, of anyone else and definitely not of oneself. It’s time to let it all go. To just breathe (through the nose – don’t gulp air or you’re feel sick). To empty the mind. To let the heat and the postures work their magic. And they are magical. My back aches less, just since last week. I encouraged myself to stay focused today. To not push it, but to do what I can. And to not look to my left – her sweatshirt is her business. (I did notice that in a head-to-knee pose the hood of her sweatshirt was all the way over her head and she looked very cozy. And happy). Namaste.

Hot and Spicy by OPI

*This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Getting Acquainted

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Nicki

Given that I only have one daughter, I like to think that I know her pretty well. One daughter, three sons. I like to think that I know them all pretty well, but her especially. Because the two of us are the Girl Power in our testoterone-heavy family. We are a natural duo a lot of the time: she runs errands with me, we get our nails done, go shopping on rare occasions.

She is as boisterous as her brothers, has water balloon fights and nerfgun wars with them, eats as much as they do, and watches whatever they’re watching at full volume (I’m pretty sure they’ve all blown their hearing by now) but every few days their loud, intensely wolfpack boy-energy overwhelms her as much as it does me, and the two of us retreat. Either alone, or together.

She keeps the door of her bedroom closed. Whether she’s in it or not. She says it’s because she doesn’t want Pretzel the dachshund to shuffle in and pee on the fluffy cream rug, but I rather think it’s to keep her she-domain to herself. When she’s nowhere to be found, I quietly push open that bedroom door, and see her dark head bent over her desk, where she’s drawing or making a card for someone or writing a story.

During her seven years with me, I’ve come to know that the only fruit she really likes is pears, and that she loves art and writing. That she wants to be an actress and go to college in New York City. She is shy but social. Good at karate and mediocre at ballet. I know she loves clothes that feel soft. She cuts out the tags because they itch her neck. When she reads to herself she actually says each word out loud in a soft, barely audible undertone that is not a whisper. I know that she loves to take care of her little brother, but is almost always irate and exasperated with the one just above her and a little in awe of the one above him.

But sometimes she reveals herself to me in ways so full of unexpected wonder I feel like I’m meeting her for the first time.

Like when she told me during my library shift at school today that she’s checking out a picture book because she is reading two chapter books at home – I had no idea. Or when she exploded into uncontrollable laughter watching the little guy inhale my skin (he has some kind of olfactory connection with me) – it surprised me that she found it so funny, and her laughter was so completely uninhibited that soon all three of us were hysterical. She makes witty comments now and again, in a voice so dry and deadpan if I’m not watching her face and her lips move, I would miss them. She is not a jokester like her brothers, and it seems out of character yet so perfect when she delivers these one-liners.

The other day she read my post about Dutch Tulips. And she said, “Mom, I like how you have the word ‘tulips’ at the end of the first paragraph, and then you end the whole thing with the word ‘tulips’.”

I stared at her in wonder while my heart skipped many beats and my brain tried to figure out who this girl, with the green-gray eyes and smattering of freckles across her nose, was exactly. Her intuitive insight into an apparently insignificant detail seemed far beyond her seven short years of life. Because of course it’s not an insignificant detail. It’s so significant. And deliberate. It’s how I tied the piece together, and I made a conscious choice to use the word there. And again there.

My little girl has a killer sense of humor. Can read two books at once, and knows her limits. And is developing an intuition for the written word that she is just discovering. And so am I.

My girl and I – we’re still getting acquainted. I hope the “getting” part lasts forever.