I Know Somebunny Who Loved That Eggstravaganza

Though we never do all that much around our house for Easter anyway, the holiday really caught us off guard this year. Kelly was traveling in the weeks leading up to it, leaving me in single parent/just get through the day mode. Then we were preoccupied with trying to solve Zach's arm issue that threatened to derail his final season of Little League. Throw in Zoë's school's open house and various other commitments, and it wasn't until Saturday that we realized that—yikes—the springtime celebration of sugar consumption was almost upon us.

Considering that Zach and Zoë are too old to believe a rabbit enters our house and fills garishly-colored baskets with candy—and like me and Kelly, are not particularly keen on coloring eggs—we briefly considered blowing off all aspects of Easter except the "don't ask, don't tell" (for Zienna's sake) baskets. But then, early Saturday morning, the "don't rob the youngest kid of her childhood" part of my conscience took over, and I found myself scanning the paper for local egg hunts. Kelly agreed to take Zienna to one taking place across town, and in exchange for her sparing me from dealing with the crowds, I assumed my customary Easter roles—meal planner, shopper, cook, basket stuffer, and home-based egg hunt organizer.

Unfortunately, said hunt was a complete bust. Though it apparently wasn't as bad as another later that morning—where an estimated 2,500 people showed up to fight for 15,000 eggs dropped from a helicopter, with adults knocking down children and grabbing them from the kids’ hands—it was bad enough. Staged at a very large park, Kelly estimated there were at least 300 people and 150 eggs. Those eggs were snatched up—and in some cases, snatched from younger children—in less than 60 seconds. Zienna got a grand total of one, and that was only because Kelly positioned her directly over it and told her to dive as soon as she heard the word "go." Zienna didn't seem to mind. She got an egg, and she got to swing for a bit afterward. That was good enough for her.

Next stop, since they were out already, was a trip to the mall to see the Easter Bunny himself—or whoever they had posing as him, since we all know he was busy preparing for the big night. Most likely, it was some teenager making minimum wage inside of the cheesy costume, but Zienna didn't care. She'd spotted him weeks earlier and had been begging ever since to visit him (or her, since in fairness, we really had no idea what lurked inside the oversized costume of bad synthetic). That no one else was there when they arrived, even on the day before Easter, didn’t matter to Zienna. She jumped on his (or her) lap and enthusiastically posed for an overpriced photograph. And she got a bag of gummies. So far, so good, as far as Zienna was concerned.

The next morning, Kelly and I...er, the Easter Bunny…left what I'd deem practical but generous gifts in the baskets set out for the kids: See's bunnies, Jelly Belly beans, and appropriate non-candy gifts. For Zach, it was a Transformers shirt he'd been wanting badly—a traditional Easter gift if there ever was one. For Zoë, Ol' Floppy Ears left a Webkinz dragon (though not the exact one she’d wanted—oops!). And for Zienna, there was a DVD featuring Pocoyo, the latest object of her kid-video adoration. All three kids were pleased—especially Zienna.

Later in the day, I set up our traditional Easter egg hunt, with goodies and levels of difficulty specific to each Z Kid. Zienna's eggs, filled with M&M's (or "M's," as she refers to them) and a few coins, were simply strewn around the lawn so she could find them easily and—in part to make up for the fiasco the day before—in short order. Zoë's eggs, filled with money instead of more already-too-abundant candy, were hidden a bit more thoroughly. And because he'd mocked how openly I'd hid them last year, Zach's "stealth eggs"—in colors and textures resembling concrete, wood, and vegetation—were hidden in such difficult places around our yard that after an hour or so, I finally had to go out and help him locate them. By that time, Zienna was inside playing with her eggs, ridiculously happy as she emptied and re-filled them over and over.

The rest of the day was full of simple pleasures—hanging out, playing with friends, and eating an uncomplicated, barbecued veggie dinner. And no one was happier about it all than Zienna, who was thrilled to have an afternoon with nothing better to do than play with her pal from down the street, Faith. Kites were flown in the spring breeze. Conversations were had. And memories were made. And throughout it all, Zienna had a smile on her face, oblivious to everything but the fact that a pretend rabbit and a few pieces of candy had brought about such joy.

Oh, to be that innocent and carefree again. At least I can be, in a sense, as I experience such things vicariously through Zienna's eyes—and in this case, mouth.

The Big Switcheroo

Though we're old as dirt and have been together forever, I'm here to say that Kelly and I spent our twenty-eighth Valentine's Day in our bedrooms. Yes, bedrooms plural—as in Zach's, Zoë's, and Zienna's. Oh, sure, we made it to ours eventually. But by then, we were exhausted, sore, and ready to collapse. And why not? We'd engaged in vigorous physical activity all day. Because on that over-marketed Hallmark holiday, we shuffled all three kids' rooms, furniture and all.

For a few years now, Zoë has been experiencing major Bunk Bed Envy, since shortly after Zach's eighth birthday, we'd purchased him a loft-style bunk and she'd begun begging for one of her own. Her envy turned into unadulterated jealousy after we moved into the house, as three girls on the block had bunks of their own. It became routine that every time Zach went away for the night, Zoë would, despite boy sweat and dirty sheets, sleep in his bed. She loved it, and Kelly and I wondered, since we still struggled to get Zoë down at night, if having a bunk might motivate her to turn in with fewer hassles. I located a cute, feminine model at Bombay Kids—but then Bombay filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors, just as we hit some financial snags of our own. So, the topic was shelved.

Then a few weeks ago, Zach made an offhand remark about feeling like he was outgrowing his bed. Hearing his concerns, a light bulb went off above my head: Would he be interested in switching beds with Zoë? When he said yes, I told him to mull it over and that Kelly and I would do the same.

Talking it over, Kelly and I recalled that when we'd moved in, Zach had expressed an interest in the small bedroom at the front of the house. We'd vetoed him, convinced he should have the largest, quietest room. But with Zach facing baseball games ending at 10:00 pm this spring and 7:00 am band sessions next fall, didn't it now make sense for him to have the room next to the front door? He wholeheartedly agreed that it did. And since Zoë was a slam dunk, I knew the deal was done. Now all we had to do was pull it off.

So it was that on Saturday morning, I got an itch to be productive and decided to move the kids before we changed our minds. But to do so, I faced the daunting task of disassembling and reassembling the bunk bed, which is no small feat. Debating myself mentally, I felt another light bulb go off: Why not leave the bed where it was and move Zoë in there? Presented with the idea, Zoë went from excited to ecstatic. And thus, the move was on.

Though it took most of the day, we managed to clear the rooms one by one, relocate their contents, and toss a bunch of stuff out along the way to boot. And then, figuring that a change of scenery might be a good luck charm, I got really ambitious and dug the pieces to our toddler bed out of the garage, intent on giving it a try. I had to fight to keep Zienna off the bed as I assembled it, and when bedtime rolled around a short time later, she was only too glad to climb on and tuck herself in. Moments later, Zoë did the same in her bunk. Wow. I could hardly believe it.

So, the big move was a win all around. Zoë got her bed, Zach got his room, and Zienna got to ditch her crib. And as for me and Kelly, it appears that after years of nighttime battles, we finally have a smooth nighttime ritual for all three kids. It may not have been a candlelight dinner or a moonlit walk. But as fortysomething parents with three young children, we'll take it—especially since now, we can actually go to bed at a decent hour ourselves.

Talk about a gift that keeps on giving. At that point, who needs Hallmark, anyway?

It's Easy Not Being Green

I started hearing it the minute we had Zach: "Oh my gosh, what beautiful eyes!"

Typically the speaker would simultaneously be sneaking glances at my drab, grey orbs with a puzzled expression on his or her face.

"They're Mom's," I'd explain, as a look of relief mixed with apology greeted my words. "Hers are big, green, and really amazing."

This scenario has played out too many times to count during the past twelve years. Hearing the same sentiments so often, it's been tempting to take them for granted. But when I stop and really look at my kids' eyes, I appreciate them what they are: updated versions of what attracted me to my wife in the first place. And on that level, I can say without embarrassment that yeah, they are pretty gorgeous.

Before I met Kelly, I was, frankly, partial to blue-eyed blonds. But the moment I set eyes on her, those amazing, clover-colored peepers drew me in and wouldn't let go. They hypnotized me, and overnight, I became a green-eyed lady kind of guy.

So, when my first kid came issued with carbon copies of Mom's peepers, I was neither surprised nor disappointed. Hell, I was grateful. And overnight, I couldn't take Zach out of the house without receiving constant compliments on his eyes. Never mind that he had long, luscious lashes any model would die for. That only sweetened the deal. That they were the hue of fresh-cut grass reminded me every time I looked at him that I'd married the right girl.

When Zoë came along, she emerged the same big eyes and long lashes as Zach. Soon, I was getting compliments directed at her as often as I was about Zach, even if, for a time, it seemed Zoë's eyes might stay blue, as they had been at birth. But as she reached toddlerhood, they began to mimic her brother's. Blue became turquoise and then green, and that's where they stayed. The Middle Z's eyes are expressive beyond belief, and though I'm biased, I've got a feeling some lucky guy is going to fall as deeply into them one day as I did into her mom's.

With me outnumbered three to one, I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if Zienna had joined me in a blue-eyed coalition of two. At birth, she did just that, though her eyes were as big and hard to miss as her siblings'. Of course, I knew that most Caucasian babies' eyes start out blue before gaining pigment that determines their ultimate color. Yet, as her second birthday came and went, Zienna's eye color had deepened, giving them a sapphire-like appearance. Fairer skinned than Zach or Zoë, it was looking as if she'd be the kid who most resembled me, tone-wise.

But it was not to be. It was Zach who, a couple of weeks ago, noticed quite out of the, um, blue that his younger sister's eyes had suddenly followed his and Zoe's lead, taking on what has by now become a Z Kid trademark: an emerald-like cast. I was startled when I saw that he was right, given how quickly—and late—they'd changed. But change they had, and it suddenly seemed well and right that the kids I adore should share the physical trait that had first attracted me to their mother. And overnight, people who knew us—neighbors, the checkers at the grocery store, and the like—were suddenly noticing Zienna's new look, often with surprise.

Early in my parenthood, I felt left out when people made comments about how much The Z Kids resembled Kelly. Over time, though, I've come to realize what a huge compliment it is. Yeah, I see a bit of me in each of them. But given the choice to look at mini mes or variations on my gorgeous wife's appearance? That's not a tough call. So, as I've said to Kelly so many times before for so many different reasons—and I'll say many times more before the story we're writing together is done—thanks, sweetie.

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day, too.

Boo who? Boo whomever!

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Redding that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the pumpkins that struggled against the darkness.

—Borrowed with liberties from Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

And so began Halloween in The Hamilton Zone, 2008 edition. Though we'd expected the mood to be gloomy with Kelly en route from a speaking engagement at a conference in Southern California, the weather forecast, at least, had called for just a 30% chance of rain. And yet, as the sun set, the clouds opened up and the winds let loose. I begged the kids to stay home and watch a movie, offering an entire Costco-issue bag of candy as a bribe. But they wanted nothing to do with it.

And so we set out, with Zach and Zoë in recycled costumes since we'd scrambled at last minute to pull this Halloween together, with pumpkins uncarved, our traditional meal of pigs in a blanket uncooked, and our yard undecorated. Only Zienna sported her choice of attire, a Baby Bop costume purchased off eBay for the unbelievably low price of $10. The down side was its foam rubber construction, which absorbed the rain like a sponge.

The other complicating factor was that, living in Redding, trick-or-treating options are, to put it mildly, limited. When we moved here, we learned the hard way that due to religious beliefs, many families don't celebrate the holiday. With its arrival just two months after we settled into our house in August 2006, we attempted to introduce "booing"—a ghoulish version of May Day—to our new neighbors. We painstakingly hand-selected treats for the families we'd selected, then left the loot on their doorsteps, only to learn with some embarrassment that one of them didn't celebrate Halloween.

Undaunted, we persevered last year by choosing two different families. But again, we unknowingly chose a household that held Halloween heretical. Then it dawned on us that—duh—only one out of every five or six houses on our block had its lights on for the big event. If we'd doubted to that point that we were one of the few families on the block celebrating Halloween, the preponderance of dark dwellings was all the proof we needed.

Such was the scene as we set out Friday night. And yet, as if candy karma had delivered her, Kelly pulled into the driveway just as we headed out. Without bothering to change and just thankful to have arrived in time, she joined us, running from house to house as the kids collected candy. And almost magically, Zienna went from fearful about even approaching a door to demanding to ring the doorbell to doing the whole Halloween routine—boisterously shouting "Trick or treat," "Thank you," and "Happy Halloween." Zach and Zoë could barely keep up with her!

In the end, with the rain intensifying, we loaded the kids in the truck and shortened the distance between houses by driving. Though Zach had to ride in back with the tailgate open because of his costume, it worked wonderfully—park central to two or three houses with lights on, hit them, and move on. We drove quite a distance, but our method was so efficient that the kids' bags were soon hanging quite low, heavy with tooth-destroying treasure.

By the time we arrived home, Zienna was completely sold on the process and Zach and Zoë were proclaiming it their best Halloween ever. I had to agree that, all kids' interests considered, things had turned out very, very well. Despite the tricks—the rain and the numerous dark homes—the night—including Kelly's ability to join us—had definitely been a treat.

A set of photos from the night is available for viewing on Flickr.

As an excuse to reschedule fireworks, fire works

When the wildfire smoke that blanketed our area all summer prompted the cancellation of Redding’s annual "Lights of Liberty" Fourth of July fireworks, city officials immediately rescheduled them—for October. At the time, it seemed a fairly odd idea. But when the sky dimmed after last night’s out-of-season display, it had proven to be a welcome change of pace.

Fireworks are a big deal in these parts. While the North State has embarrassing riches of tourist-drawing natural beauty and recreational opportunities, Redding itself has by comparison very little to offer. There's Turtle Bay Exploration Park, the adjoining Sundial Bridge, and Big League Dreams Sports Park. That's about it.

With mid-priced hotels, restaurants, and gas stations situated along Interstate 5 and rundown motels inhabiting a downtown trying to reinvent itself, Redding is struggling to become more than a "gas station stop," as a well-traveled friend of mine referred to it shortly after we moved here. At that time, real estate was booming, businesses were arriving in droves, and the city was undergoing a transformation that hinted at a Renaissance. But when the housing market collapsed and new construction came to a screeching halt, the effects rippled through Redding like dominoes of doom.

Unemployment, at 9.5% last month, has skyrocketed. Underemployment has followed suit, with adults working in low-paying service and retail jobs out of desperation. Meanwhile, businesses are folding left and right, foreclosures and personal bankruptcies are epidemic, and the sales tax that is such an important component of the city's revenues has eroded horribly as a result of all this.

But like many mid-sized, economically-challenged cities, Redding, with an estimated population of 90,000 and a median household income around $40,000, is a proud community. High school sports make the evening news. Parades and other civic events are frequent and well-attended. And the fireworks—the largest display in Northern California—give the city bragging rights. Ask Reddingites what they like about living here, and fireworks inevitably make the short list.

Last night was typical of the event. Consisting of 3,500 shells with a price tag of $90,000—funded fully by the same non-profit foundation that paid for the bridge and the arboretum at Turtle Bay—the show, choreographed to patriotic music on the local college radio station, ran just under half an hour. If that doesn't sound big, it is. By the time the grand finale rolls around, you're left feeling impressed, satisfied, and in awe.

We seized upon the opportunity to throw together an impromptu block party, and while it wasn’t the success we’d hoped—in part because so many locals make plans far in advance for the event—the chance to set aside economic and political worries and just hang out was like a breath of fresh air. We ate, we talked, and we let the kids go wild. It was wonderful.

Perched on the hillside patio of neighbors who’d been kind enough to share their perfect view of the city, Kelly and I sat back and took it all in as soon as the explosions began, and the kids followed suit. Zach, normally indifferent about fireworks, reported having a great time. Zoë, wiped out by then, ignored her friends and cuddled next to me. And Zienna, for the first time seeing fireworks she was old enough to appreciate, repeatedly exclaimed, “Oh, how BOOTiful!”

These were simple pleasures and perfectly timed. As we parted, there were comments that this should be a new tradition. It was hard to argue. With earlier darkness, we were back home by 9:00 rather than 10:30. With temperatures in the 60s, we weren’t sweating or being devoured by mosquitoes. And without the pressure to celebrate an official holiday, things were a whole lot more relaxing.

Fourth of July in October? Yeah, I could go for that.

Happy holidayz to you!

Seeing as I finally sent out our Christmas cards, er, two days, you'll probably see this before you see one of those. So, before we miss the big day entirely, here's a little holiday flavor from The Hamilton Zone...

It's been a fantastic and exciting year for us, and we feel beyond fortunate looking back at all that's transpired. Thank you to those who played a part in our lives this year and to those who will in the new year. We hope the season is a happy and rewarding time for all of you.

From our house to yours, we wish you the happiest of holidays (insert virtual toast here). Merry Christmas!