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The Complete Life Of Hunter Rayne Uriarte
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Saturday, December 27, 2008

Upside Down Cake

Ok, it has been awhile... Just enough time to reflect about how much Hunter has grown since his first birthday. It seems like only a few short months ago. Oh wait, it was...


For Hunter's first birthday, I was expecting something momentous. I remember that his cousin starting walking on her first birthday, for instance, and since he had been walking for some time by then, I thought maybe he and I would go toss around a football, or something, like I used to do on my birthday.

So many of my memories of my birthdays when I was a kid revolve around football, as the Super Bowl used to be played on my birthday. Every seven years the Niners would beat Cincinnati. I remember one epic birthday where people were invited based on whether or not I wanted them on my team. Or if I thought you would make a nice patsy for the birthday drubbing, you also might get a coveted invite. Like the Niners, I always won the big game on my birthday.

Later, we continued the drubbings by engaging in the age old UCSB tradition of mud-slosh-football (don't believe me, listen to Jack Johnson...). During one of those friendly games, I separated my shoulder abruptly tearing a thirteen, fourteen year tradition at its joint. Trying to tackle Raf was like shooting myself naked out of hot cannon at point blank range into a sharp, brick wall. I remember the last time I tried, laying there as he was dancing in the end zone after stomping on me, the unwanted bug on the kitchen floor, and upon seeing my arm spool behind me as if it were extra yarn on a knitting needle, I began asking everyone, how do you know if your shoulder is separated? The best part was walking myself to the hospital because no one wanted to end the game. Next time I invite Raf to my party, he'll be put on my team.

So anyway, I thought Hunter and I might play catch. Rayne Droplet still doesn't even really think I know how to throw a football, as she was almost in shock that Thanksgiving in South Dakota when I threw a perfect spiral. At least when I played "quarterback" I actually quarterbacked, and THREW the ball to someone. As opposed to handing it off to the one real player on the team like she did to win her powder puff chicklet league when she was in at Davis. The entire opposing team ran after the one good girl she faked it to, leaving her alone to carry the ball into the end zone to win the game and now she thinks she's John Elway.

Something momentous did happen on the birthday; it was quite fun. We had many people show up to my parent's house and we were able to enjoy two of Hunter's favorites: pizza and beer. The white sun was shining brightly on Mount Tam in the background and just about everyone came baring gifts for our little man. We sat on the deck and laughed and imbibed and genuinely soaked up a perfect summer day. Heather and Gina decorated festively with sporty attire while the food and music were perfect. The highlight came when Hunter ate cake. Or rather, the floor ate cake.

The poor little guy was propped up in a chair in front of everyone and given his own little cake to eat. He usually is a great little show-pony, performing tricks and offering a friendly smile to anyone. But here, he sat confused for a second. Since he has never had cake before he did not know what to do, so he stared at it for a while. After some urging, he poked at it for minute, getting some frosting on his finger. Eventually a bit made into his palm. Heather had the wherewithal to get some paper placed on the floor beneath him while he was staring at the white frosting on the yellow plastic tabletop in front of him.

Luckily, too, because he suddenly reached up, grabbed the cake in the middle, squashing it into two large mushy pieces. Then he heaved both halves onto the floor to his left. The side opposite the carefully placed blue napkins. Upside down cake indeed.

Seeing him now, he has grown so much. Today he would eat that cake. Or fling many pieces around the house, showing off his great arm. On that day, he gently toppled over the cake barely reaching the side next to him. Today he would splatter the roof.

And at least once a day he stares at the door where the dog balls are kept and looks at me and says "ball, ball" hoping I will go play catch with him.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Rocky Mountains? Hi!

The first trip I took to Colorado, I remember as being a fun trip to Reno. And a miracle.

I think I had been to Colorado with my parents when I was little, but who can recall that? However, I did drive through Colorado when I was just out of college near the closing of a cross-country trip to visit a friend of mine who was graduating from Brown University. So my buddy Raf and I crammed into my junkie car (yeah, it sounded like a good idea at the time, I mean he is only like 6 foot 4 and really picky about everything...) and we drove three thousand miles to Rhode Island, via Florida. And I returned home, alone, via the Rockies.

Now this has nothing to do with Raf, though he is a notoriously awful travel companion - think Pig Pen who has to mooch everything - I just simply wanted to see different parts of the country and so he returned with another group of people. I, however, almost did not return, which brings me back to my story.

Nearly at the end of my trip, feeling the haze one might when on a "trip" from the hundreds of miles of oceanic nothingness that is space between Utah and Reno, my car died. Now I had previously broken down in Wyoming, something about a fan belt, but I grabbed a bucket of water, not wanting to wait the week it would take to get the part, and headed west. Like the great pioneers of yore, off I wandered towards the sunset, nothing but open sky and a dirty windshield in front of me. I made all the way to Elco (Elk? oh?) Nevada and plop, plop fizz fizz went the fan belt thing.

So there I was stuck on the side of the road. In Elco, a one exit town and I had just passed the exit. I could hear the tumble weeds and carrion birds. With no prospects, I was stuck, until a miracle pulled up. By "miracle" I mean a convict with a trailer who towed me to Reno. Some dude who was on his way to jail swung by with a trailer he needed because he had to tow his car out of impound before they locked him up. This guy was as you imagine, tatoos, tight jeans, big boots, rolled up arm sleeves and a dog named "Stoli". As is the vodka. Into his car I went. The same car he used to ram into people during a fight. Dents still in the hood. He was on his way to jail and if I had died 10 minutes later I never would have met him. And he was the nicest guy I ever met. Thus,... miracle. A little like the miracle at the end of the Mel Brooks' "History of the World" minus the cute girl and white horse...but a miracle none-the-less.

The ultimate spin on the Wheel of Fortune it turns out. He dropped me off at the Hyatt after dropping my car off at the dealership. He even bought me dinner and refused any payment I offered him. I gambled and won I guess.

But now my memory will be of a different miracle. Hunter, Heather and I enjoyed a wonderful trip to Colorado visiting his god-mommy and her family. They graciously put us up in their beautiful home and let Hunter play with all of their toys. We went to Casa Bonita of South Park fame - who knew it was a real place?- and we even went to a Rockies game where we marveled at the spot Bonds hit a legendary home-run above the purple mile high line.

My highlight, of course, will not be our visitation of the Moots factory, (where Heather let me by something fun) though I did bow and kneel before the appropriate places upon entrance, nor will it be our trip to Steamboat Springs in general, where we thoroughly enjoyed the outdoors and the beautiful little mountain town. Fun, but not quite the fun of learning about Rayne Droplet's early life in Colorado... the pizza places, the snooping, all of it.

No, of course the highlight is that now Heather and I have our own miracle to share together on our first family trip to Colorado.


Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Hunter/Destroyer


My grandfather passed down his fix-it gene to my brother, but I have Heather Jean. Well when I say "fix" it, especially in my brother's case, it is probably more accurate to think of a mix between McGuyver and the professor on Gilligan's Island, you know the one who could rig a bike to a coconut and make a power generator to electrify the whole island, but could not fix the tiny hole in the boat. Or perhaps Doc Brown, before the Flux Capacitor. Of course, as I said, I am not one to talk, because any handy-me-downs to Hunter will have to come from his mom.

That is not to say I was not shown how to fix things, I can fix a mean Martini with olive-- shaken correctly-- for instance, but I am not really into fixing broken things.

Oh, now don't get me wrong, I can fix a flat on my bike, say, but I would rather have my brother do it. And in our house, in preparation for Hunter's arrival, Heather and I worked to make his room nice and all, but she has put in all the baby-safe locks around the house and fashioned the Baby Gate at the top of stairs that required a wood fastener when we had only metal on which to fasten.

My brother, though, he can fix anything. Especially if you don't care if it ever functions the way it was supposed to function before. Yeah, I fixed the toaster! And now you have that automatic espresso maker you always wanted! And really especially if you don't mind a little duct tape and fishing string. Actually he has saved me countless times, always there with his Leatherman or bike tools. He lives by the Boy Scout credo, to be sure, prepared for anything. My grandfather was an inventor, and electrical engineer and fitterer, always fittering around somewhere trying to fix something and I saw my brother paying attention.

Since I got none of that Rube Goldberg ingenuity, I wonder how Hunter will be with that stuff. I see him now, teetering over to his book shelf to pull down his books, turn the pages and explore. So I know, at least, he will be curious, hopefully his mom can pass down the fix it skills. I can pass him the football, or fantasy sports advice, but don't ask me how to put his newest climbing toy together.

It is all very clear to me now, when I see him destroying things, where he gets certain skills. He is never faster than when he tears after the dog's bowl so he can topple it over and watch the water spill out. And, we have a new coffee table because he etched his autograph in the old one. Or, sometimes when I am in his room playing with him, I will frequently build a tower from his blocks, secretly growing more proud of my accomplishment with every new level, when, like a shot, he flies over and knocks over the tower and laughs.

I think his Tasmanian skills are most represented by his meals, when all that is left is a flourish of dust and shrapnel and shards of flesh and bread. Babies try to eat everything, so we give him everything to eat. Rice, beans and blueberries are good. So too are yogurt, chicken, Gold Fish and Cheerios. What a wonderful rainbow is left in his high chair for the dog to clean after we pick him up. If only the dog could come with us to restaurants as well. Recently we went out to dinner and I stayed late and tipped big, cleaning the floor under our table was like trying to clean spilled oatmeal with a fork. While eating that meal, though, we were so proud because he was able to color with crayons, understanding how to hold them correctly and everything.

So, when he gouges a hole inside my nose making me bleed or knocks a potted plant to the ground, I don't run for the Crazy Glue, look for some twine and duct tape, or even scold him for carelessness. Even though his mother might have nurtured this particular plant for years, I don't think to repair the damage. I get the camera and proudly take pictures of the Handy-work of my beautiful baby boy.


Below is the latest video of Hunter/Destroyer:

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Signing Bonus

One of the bummers of working this summer has been missing a number of activities that had become, if not traditional, then certainly, part of our routine. With less time comes more prioritizing, so while some of these habits have been altered with the arrival of Hunter some things have taken on greater meaning as they are helping form his background. One of the things we have started doing the last few years is create a memorabilia collection and because of that Hunter has been experiencing new variations of stalking. He is like a mini paparazzo already.

I am not sure where I caught the bug for collecting autographs and collectible souvenirs but I know much of it had to do with chasing Lance Armstrong around the world. The first time I saw him, I safely admired from afar, as he raced in the colorful Postal kit in the streets of France. A huge part of the cycling fan experience is chasing all the free mementos and roadside treats. It is the closeness of the athletes to the fan that is the main attraction. And I picked up all the candy and certainly drank the Cool-Aid, Jim Jones style, feeling more than a little entitled to encroach personal space while chasing a souvenir.

On that first trip we met some savory characters who had slept in their tiny Euro car in the hotel parking lot where the US Postal Service Cycling Team was staying and managed to have their pictures taken with the icon himself the next morning. I thought that was cool, to the point where we some how found ourselves on a couch in the tiny lobby of the new hotel in which the team was staying. Truthfully the whole thing felt awkward, poor Heather would have crawled into the couch cushions for shame if she could, but I was set on meeting the man.

We sat in that little hotel, in a remote non-toursity part of France, as long as we could, knowing we were not allowed. We tried to blend in, but something about the four of us gave away our intentions. I am not sure exactly what it was. It could have been the stench of replica Postal Team jersey the guy Heather and I dubbed "Mike Myers" was wearing. This thing had practically melded with the original skin of the man, forming a new smelly exo-dermis primed for stalking. (Of course this being France, the stench, oh never mind, too cliche.) Because of his quirkiness and odd resemblance to the "Wayne's World"/"Shrek" guru, I listened intently to his stories of sleeping in the back of the car filled with road signs and other schwag that he was going to bring home to add to the decor of his home which had been built into a mini Tour de France shrine, complete, somehow, with multi-stage venues.

Still, it did not seem weird to us (me?). Sitting in a foreign hotel, stepping deftly past the HUGE sign strictly forbidding anyone who was not a registered guest (written in perfect English), next to Mike Myers and his companion, a small, loud talking, one-legged cancer survivor wearing a giant, bright Yellow US Postal t-shirt that had not been washed for weeks, was just part of the Fan Experience I told myself. So I was angered when they came to remove us. I wondered what gave us away. I guessed it was because Heather was carrying two huge bags emblazoned with the Tour de France logo or that maybe she had been spotted in the lobby after hours of loitering. As they were removing us, of course, Lance walked by. I saw him, looked him dead in the eye. And froze. And then we were kicked out.

From that point I have taken on a new mission when meeting my heroes. I was going to get what I came for. So, I was so cool when I finally came close to Armstrong again, all the way in the foreign streets of San Francisco, where I shook his hand and took some pictures. Never-mind that I had no means for an autograph.

If that is the rationale for this new irrational hobby, my penchant for collecting clearly came from my baseball card collecting days. Kids in the 80's had to entertain themselves so, for me, baseball cards were the video games of our times until Video Game Arcades and Atari were invented anyway. During that time I could be found in the dark light of my room shuffling through cards and organizing them in a new way every night. So I guess this new form of collecting taps into that part of my childhood. And, that, perhaps is why I am dragging poor Hunter all around collecting autographs of local athletes.

This summer, besides the Hunter ball we secured, we have already been out to Candlestick Park getting signatures from coach Mike Nolan, Joe Staley and Justin Smith, three very important 49ers. And we met Matt Cain, the venerable Giant in the Downtown Macy's basement, where Hunter also met Lou Seal.

Though he is too small to appreciate any of this, I know he knows. I know he is picking up on the vibe, the tradition, the atmosphere so that someday he will not be intimidated by greatness, nor even chasing greatness, but rather achieving greatness in part because of learning good habits of family bonding and being raised correctly.


And for those who are tired of my Athlete Worship and worry for my son, I have made a new movie of Hunter incorporating months 5-8 (he just turned 9 months), where not only has he started his own memorabilia collection but he will be walking soon because he has crawled and climbed over everything in the house. Enjoy. (There is faint music in the background).

Monday, June 16, 2008

Caution - High Tide

There was once a period of time when I did not much like to swim, a time as far back as even two days ago, for instance. I grew up with a dad who was attracted to bodies of water like Norm to Cheers. Because of his affinity for most things maritime we often vacationed in places like Mexico and frequented the Post-Card Pretty like Santa Barbara or Tahoe. Still, while I always appreciated the water, I never really liked to swim so it is weird that I have enjoyed the pool so much lately.

Many of my early memories of swimming involved narrow defeats of death, like the time I was at the local pool across the street from my uncle's house with a pool and I went to take a nice refreshing sip of Coke and got lanced by a bee which had wandered under the lid only to sting me in the lip when trying to flee. My brother must be reading this because I can still hear his stinging laughter.

And then there was the time the family went rafting with friends and the kids were told not get out of the boat because there was a "bottomless pit" underneath. So there I was, singeing to side of the metal boat, searing in the 100 degree heat but refusing to get out of the boat even as everyone else swam around. (On a related note, this reminds me of the time my sister-in-law skinned her chin and knees clanking off the side of the boat when Maggie fell in the "water", but I won't tell that again.)

And of course, there was the time when I was much older and went to visit El Salvador after my grandma died and got in a fight with a rock and rip-tide, and almost got tapped out. That is not a story to retell now, because it would take way too long... but let's just say I was warned before I went into the water and almost never came out. It was one of those moments everyone must go through to prove their mortality, I guess. I mean everyone stands on a shore in an unfamiliar country, with family they have only met moments before, spends exactly two seconds pondering the current only to jump in immediately after being warned of the legendary danger brought by that break, right? Gabriel Garcia Marquez could not have written a more sublime, ridiculous moment. But he would just say I was stupid.

But none of these moments are the exact reason why I don't like swimming. Really, I can't say what is. Maybe it was the mandatory swim class we all had to take in high school where the girls were allowed to wear whatever suits they wanted. I mean, who could learn to swim in those circumstances? During high school I also spent a ton of time skipping class at the beach, and spent plenty of time boogie boarding or trying to surf. I love the sun and the beach and the inherent life-style. I guess I just never got the call the way Rayne Droplet did, say, when she steps up deck-side on a lake somewhere and enjoys a morning B - (She told me not say that is slang for "Bud Lite" for fear it would give the wrong impression. I said it makes her cooler. And besides she tried to make me swim in jelly-fish infested water in Mexico!).

I guess this is why I have never done any triathlons. Shawn and Heather's recent dolphin acts seemed to only reinforce how much I like to stay on shore, unless I need to cool off. Certainly, the competitor in me wanted to join them in their recent tri's but the preceding open swim in the local slew slushing through flotsam, jetsam and detritus confirmed what I already did not want to do. (Though Shawn's wrong turn was certainly inspirational in the "funny" way.)

Anyway, recently my enjoyment has changed due to how much Hunter really seems to love the pool. He is fearless, I guess, because he has been pushing physical limits since before he was born, and the pool is perhaps a new vehicle for him to drive to the limits. He has ridden every bouncy chair, crawled up every stair and tried to climb every dresser and book shelf in the house, so maybe he just wanted something new to explore. There is a certain freedom and exhilaration involved in playing in a pool when you are kid, for sure. But this is more than that, I think he loves discovering. The joy and outright giddiness in his laughter while in the pool has been matched only by his magic sleigh ride in the snow. And there is a certain amount of danger involved in each, which should be concerning but instead is a familiar feeling.

Watching him reach out and jump off the side of the pool, or stand on the second step, or do a pull-up over the edge, or kick his legs and splash around joyfully and without any regard for his youth is so wonderful I can almost ignore the Dork Hat his mom makes him wear. She is right, his almost translucent white skin needs to be protected from the sun, but still. At least from under that hat emerges a boundless joy. The smile on his face as he carelessly splashes around or lowers his face into the water is surreal.

It's the look that at once says What's That and Let Me Have That with raised eye-brows and is often accompanied by an O-shaped mouth and curious noise. He does this when he sees things he cannot have like the dog dish, his mom's computer, all the electrical cords, kitchen knives or whatever else he can get his little fingers on. You place him away, at a nearby table say and he gives a grin and a little slap on the table while he searches for something new with which to play.

So I wonder if he will grow into loving swimming, or ever learn boundaries, or fear fearful things and then I wonder if I want him to learn those things, or at least, when. The newness seen in his face as he crooks his head slightly and gets wide-eyed when looking at something he does not recognize, I hope never goes away.



And maybe someday, on vacation, he will swim like a dolphin with not a care in the world, heeding all warnings, except those to maybe to stop exploring.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Hunting for a Hero

Tom Cruise makes one or two film appearances a year. A baseball player can be the hero or the goat one hundred and sixty two times.

As an English major it is appropriate that my quote about what makes a hero come from a retired baseball player, Hall of Famer, Dave Winfield. I particularly enjoy this quote now (he said it in the early 1990's) because not only is Dave Winfield like 6 foot 6 and a mountain of a man, but the idea of Tom Cruise as a "hero" is almost as comical as the image I have in my head of Winfield standing next to Cruise, Cruise with his puckered, smushed, smug mug muttering "Matt... Matt...You don't know history" appearing so impish and elfish, looking like something Winfield found squashed under his shoe.

But the scholar in me is reminded that, like Jim Morrison stated, many of my heroes are actually artists and writers, and so it is here I remember Oscar Wilde quipped, "In every first novel the hero is either the author as Christ or Faust."

And that is reason number 200, 212 why I have not written a novel. I could never live up to that.

But I do have a story to tell about a new hero in the making. And while I have so many rants I could use here, the beautiful and talented Rayne Droplet would prefer this to be light, so I will skip the anti-war prattle for the day and talk instead about Hunter's Second Giants' game.

As usual we arrived early and having learned a few things from the first game, we were actually early enough for Giants' batting practice. The plan was to take a baseball Heather had received at a previous game and see if Hunter Pence, the Astros new young star, would sign the ball for our new young star. Then I saw the Astros had taken the field.

And so Heather was left comfortably reclining in a luxury box with her pre-game meal and a foot massage while Hunter and I were ordered to go hang out in our seats to give her a moment of peace. They are really doing great things to make the park more fan-friendly nowadays.

Uh, really, what actually happened was poor Heather was ditched in a wake of peanut shell dust and Cracker Jack wrappers as I scurried Hunter down the right field line, leaving Heather somewhere behind home-plate tethered to the stroller.

Hunter and I had to go down the right-field line because that is where our seats are and they don't allow you in the preferred section if you are not preferred, no matter how cute and properly dressed your baby is. I thought I might sneak around when I saw Hunter Pence was actually shagging flies in right field directly in front of me. Since he was out of ear shot, I asked a player who happened to be on the fence-line if he could ask the outfielder to sign my ball since my son's name was Hunter.

A few minutes later I saw the reliever talking to Pence and pointing our way. I had the ball but we had to borrow a pen, and when he hurriedly came over, I stammered some false sycophantic flattery about how Hunter was named after him and he said what a great a name and then grabbed Hunter for a second! I guess he sensed my panic because he quickly released the baby and smiled and asked if I wanted him to personalize the ball, which he gladly did. Then he had to go hit, so, like Superman he was off in a flash. How cool, I thought. He came over just to make an infant's day.

I remember when I was a kid going to a Giants game to "see" my then hero, a player named Jack Clark, hoping he would make my day special. But the difference was when I went to that game, I was wearing an eye-patch because some hack doctor thought it could fix my hereditary eye problem. As if having terrible eyes were not bad enough, they thought public humiliation would make it better. My dad took me to the game, in part to help me feel better. Instead, all game, I had to endure the screams and cheers of adoring fans screaming adulations for each successive play. It was like the players had transformed into dueling evangelists, every play a bigger miracle to top the previous. I see your blood to wine and raise you a walking on water!

Suffice to say, the agony of not being able to really see what was going on was worse than torture. I am sure I heard someone say, "THAT was the greatest play I have ever seen!" and that was it. I was pissed. I was like 7, but I was man-sized pissed. Eventually, in that game, Clark actually homered and I only really know this because I sneaked a peak through the patch just in time to see him high five someone at home plate amid astonishment about how far the ball had traveled.

Now here I was was with my own son, who has good eyes, watching a new hero being born. The man could have ignored us, or been upset that Hunter had on all his Giants gear, but instead he smiled, and gladly signed the ball, a childhood dream come true. And he made Hunter's day too.

I don't even care that Giants lost because someday I will tell Hunter the story of this ball, and how I was able to part the Red Sea to make it happen, as it will surely be told in my first novel, and we will always be able to look at the inscription and know for one day, out of 162, what a hero can do.

Saturday, May 3, 2008

No Laughing Matter

One of the great joys of fatherhood so far has been to see the joyfulness and wonderment in Hunter. Recently we went to a work party where many people finally got meet 2.0 for the first time. And like the little Show Pony that he is, he did not disappoint. He pulled himself up on tables, and crawled as if he knew people were watching. And, he spent much of the time growling, and smiling at people, because ponies, um, growl? Anyway, he had fun.

I did not get any video of his growling, and I thought that is OK because I never posted any video of him laughing either, so, I figured, why would I want video of him growling? Well, damn it, I wish I had videoed it because just seeing him smile and discover brings an unspeakable joy. And sometimes we need unspeakable, frivolous, just because, joy. And Hunter blesses us with such joy that we cannot even begin to share how lucky we are. Each day... some new heights and promises of more. Just as he crawled so early; and sits up so early; begins each day with a wonderful smile, I promise him daily to raise him to continue do great things. Today's world needs some greatness.

With gas prices soaring, and home values flooring, and countries warring, thinking of the world we are leaving for Hunter can be such a bummer. The people in charge don't care to change because they are part of the .1% making fortunes off my son's future, and, since they were purposeful in their destruction and terror, they see no need for change, especially since their plan, like so many working family's livelihoods, have been executed with precision.

Watching giant corporations get swallowed by mega-corporations- Yahoo! is in so much trouble that they can be bought by Microsoft?, uhoh!, Starbucks is closing stores, Yeah?!, Home Depots are going Kaputs, an oil company reaped billions of dollars in profit in one quarter and it was deemed a "loss,"- one can only shake in fear over the future being stolen from our kids.

I teach my students everyday, small ways they can retake their futures, their dreams, their planet. Each person has to do something small to benefit another. And change the goals and perceptions of our nations leaders. Because right now Nero is in charge. In his chariot, speeding away. And while he may not actually have the brains or foresight to execute his mother, he appears to be decent enough to eat his own children, as Swift suggests. I have a proposal for him.

And it starts with a vision and promise of a better future, and wonderful little things like a baby's growl, or funky haircut or beautiful smile. When I think of Hunter's future, I know he will achieve greatness in his way, because each time I see him, all this oil-tinged paranoia fades with a laugh.


Saturday, April 12, 2008

You Gotta Love These Kids

When I was kid, the Giants were terrible, (wasn't it a 30 year period?) and one year they rolled out an add campaign pleading the fans to like the group of Never-Knowns, and Couldn't Be's they were calling "kids". This year should be so good.

So it is very difficult not to rant about how awful the Giants are. The team that is supposed to be going young, regularly plays more old people than the penny slots in BoomTown, Reno. It is not so much the oldness, but the, how should we say it gently, overall crappiness, that is the problem. If the Giants were Hunter, they would be the part that gets hosed about every two weeks when things go really, really wrong.

With that wonderful attitude, we headed to PacBell Park with the renewed vigor of a promising new spring and the wide-eyes of our beautiful baby boy.

Unlike the Giants, we had a Game Plan to maximize our time at the park, knowing Hunter would need to sleep before the game ended (and secretly thinking the Giants a great cure for The Incredible Sleepless Baby): get there early, park in our favorite free off-site parking zone, go buy Hunter a new hat because he had outgrown his, check-in our stroller, get to the seats with our burritos and watch batting practice before catching about an hour of the game. (Luckily the Giants BP is before they open the gates, so I would not have to explain to Hunter why a professional team could be swinging and missing during practice.)

The whole thing went as well we could have hoped. The Giants played crisply on their way to victory, the weather was chilly but not Candlestick cold, and our seats were still great. There was a concern the ambiance of the seats and the proximity to the back wall would be encumbered by a new section down the line, emphasized during the previous games we watched. Those concerned were allayed as they allowed us to huddle against the back wall that becomes the right-field ally, as before, so there were no problems there.

The only bummer was that they don't sell our favorite burritos anymore but we did not know that until we went to order them. Oh, and we made a sign to get on TV, to no avail, in spite of our cuteness, heightened because we did manage to find Hunter a new pro-style hat, and when we styled him in it, along with his Giants onesie and his Replica Jersey, he received many compliments, coos and even a few random people who came over to try and touch him due to excessive cuteness.

He was all smiles, did not fuss much and enjoyed the splendor of the park. The park is as beautiful as ever, and for all their faults building a winning team the Giants have assembled a very family-friendly venue even providing an official "First Game" certificate.

When it was said and done, we had a great experience, and it is very clear just exactly which kid we gotta love.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

The Ketch Versus the Vikings



So Hunter was treated to his first trip to Emerald Bay, and he got to experience the family favorite, Fresh Ketch. It is difficult to say which he preferred more.

The day was passed on a long hike, spent mostly watching Mija run around like a little puppy in the open space near the house. She was in and out of snow drifts, sniffing creek sides, generally running unhitched; a dog in her natural element is beautiful to watch. After a couple hour hike, in beautiful t-shirt weather, despite the snow on the ground, we made our way to dinner at the family favorite restaurant, The Fresh Ketch.

Much like his cousin Blake, Hunter really seemed to enjoy the party atmosphere. Though it was crowded, we seemed to just beat the after skiing dinner rush and got a fine table over-looking the lake. There was a live musician ably playing soft-rock cover-songs along with generally good food. The highlight, though, had to be how much Hunter lit up the place. Nothing lights up a room like a beautiful baby. He was smiling at everyone, drawing rave, unsolicited, comments from all around, including one ill-suited gentleman who issued numerous thumbs-ups, and was in a great mood despite his obvious lack of fashion sense. I won't get specific. Let's just say, if you are over, say 55, the tight UnderArmor shirt, mixed with tight jeans, snuggly belted, just under your rib cage, is not the best look.

Emerald Bay was at its glorious, picturesque best; the classic glimmering jewel of so many post-cards. There is the Vikingsholm Castle at the bottom, which houses neither vikings nor castles, but it is gorgeous nonetheless. It was a sunny, if windy, day and there was snow on the ground. However, there were a number of tourists around, as the pathway down from the parking lot was relatively easily navigated. Hunter was "iglooed", as one ogling tourist noticed, as if Hunter were the attraction, bundled in fleece, jackets, hats, hoods and dad's sweatshirt as he rested in the bjorn. Heather enjoyed the castle grounds before we made our way back up to the car for chow.

These are a couple of the little pleasures that make visiting lake Tahoe precious.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Hunter's First Haircut




Yes, before he was even six months old, we trotted our beautiful, shaggy-haired boy to the Panda Room for his first official haircut.


Okay, it wasn't like he had a full mane or anything but his "faux-hawk" was getting out of control. Damon was very skeptical but we're both pleased to say that we prefer his new "do!" Here are before and after photos as well as a photo slideshow so you can judge for yourself...



First Trip to Tahoe: I Shouldn't Be Alive





So our first trip to Tahoe was a nightmare for Heather and Hunter. We went up in between the worst two worst storms in years, I mean we are talking Minnesota conditions, and we were not at all prepared.

We watch this show on TV called "I Shouldn't be Alive" and it is always a tale of people who survived harrowing events, like you know, hiking. I mean they all start off the same about a guy and his buddy, say, who set off on a lazy little hike through the Grand Canyon, in flip-flops with only a half filled canteen between them. Shockingly they get lost. And they suffer from severe dehydration and hallucinations. Hours later, when they are crocodile-skinned from the 110 degree heat, and talking to cactus plants about the best place to get a drink around here, they are found sucking sand by a group of Girl Scouts who rescued them by happening six feet off the trail, wondering just how long these nomads have been wandering the Colorado River banks...

Anyway, I thought we were going to be the next subjects of that show. A scant 15 degrees outside, wind chill of like minus 400, the pass was closed, not enough heat for us or the baby, Heather was sick, the bed was lumpy, Hunter would not sleep on the porta-bed, we couldn't give him a blanket, (what do you want, he's like 3 months old at the time?), we only had snack foods, and worst, there were no sports on. And it was cold. The Donner party was better prepared.

To be truthful, it was cold and stormy and uncomfortable. And we left after like 20 hours, but it was the right choice. Grandma Cindy was wonderful in trying to set up the house to be accommodating for the next time. And the next time we went up, Hunter had a much better time. We walked him around South Lake Tahoe, in the Heavenly Village, where he caught snow flakes on his tongue. Most importantly, he got to wear his puffy suit and sit briefly in the snow, with Heather nervously standing beside, as a good mom should.

Heather and I were also able to go snowshoeing because my mom was able to watch little 2.0. We were grateful. On our way out, we stopped at the Adidas Outlet, and styled the whole family in new shoes! (I am glad I talked Heather into liking Adidas clothes! ;)

Thanks again, to the Pattersons for the birthday gifts!

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

After the New Year, at the Tour of California '08

Last year, Hunter was at the Tour of California, but only as a marsupial, so this year was the first year he got to go to the race. We were excited.

At what is becoming an annual Uriarte/Nelson Birthday Bash, we attended the Black Tie Tour of California Gala in Sausalito, where Heather got to inbibe and even cozied up to Olympic Gold Medalist Bobby Julich.

(Note the fuzzy photo taken by her star struck husband...)

Before laughing with Robin Williams we also got our customary signed jersey. Shawn and Katie were there as well having a great time, mostly laughing at me for being such a dork. Look Shawn, Floyd Landis!

For stage 1, set to go through Marin, Heather and I intended to go to our favorite spot along the route down Highway 1. I explained to Hunter how much cycling events and traveling the world have been an integral part of his parents' relationship. Being veterans, we had it all down pat.

However, having not spent a second looking at a map to figure out where to go, -- I am going to the same spot we always go to, what do I need to look up?--I got us there late and lost. (We figured out the correct route for the way home and it took under twenty minutes. There is a word for that, but this is a paltry little blog, where words come up short...).

Once there, you can see by his face, he had a great time as the riders passed by in the blink of an eye. El Patron to be sure!

PS

Below are the directions we should have taken, but did not. Hunter, was amazing and slept through the entire magic carpet ride. (Scroll from 101, south to San Rafael and around to Samuel P. Taylor Park before getting out to Point Reyes Station, to know where we went.)


View Larger Map

Next year he'll drive, and his mom will teach him how to read a map!

The Hunter Man Video Series

For Christmas '08 I made a video of Hunter's Life Story. When the video became 10 minutes long, that was my first clue that I might become That Guy. That dad trying to find the perfect light to film every diaper change, or whatever. Honey, it's Orange! Let's blog! (Email if you want those photos. Seriously).

I remember watching the click-clacking soundless videos of my mom's family projected on my grandparent's wall when I was a kid. They annoyed me. Papa in his long-shorts boxers and no shirt and my grandma in her formal dress and hair all made up, my mom and uncle flitting around some old brownstone with dusty old ladies in horn-rimmed glasses, indelible images flickering away against a soft brown, faded wall. But as with all things, I am sure, as I got older I began to appreciate those memories even more, and when they were finally archived onto a DVD, many years later, we watched them again as a family. That's cool.

Now, I have this for Hunter, and I am sure he will be salty about it like I was. Just as I am sure Heather's month would be made if she came home one day and found me sobbing joyously over our wedding video but I am not That Guy. (Although I do almost cry time every time I see my drivel, er, rambling wedding "speech" and try to comprehend what the heck was going on there.)

This year, we watched the Hunter Man movie as a family for Christmas after we got back from the Pattersons. I was not in just my boxers during the making of this film. Hopefully you will enjoy in spite of the typos...

Looks like I had to post this in parts.
Part 1:



part 2:



Part 3:




Part 4:



A special thank you to my beautiful and talented wife, Rayne Droplet, for consenting the use of these videos.

Welcome To Rayne Droppings!

I spent years promising I would never be "that guy", blogging about endless "Baby's First"... he drooled today!...

But, turns out I am that guy. Or rather Hunter Rayne Uriarte is The Guy, and his friends and family DO want to know. So, rather than pool his greatness via some cumbersome 600 photo email, it seems posting in small ripples is easier.

Now you can see every new hit the second it drops, puddled here, in little Rayne Drops, slicker and under one umbrella.

Enjoy the Rayne as much as we do!