Amongst other things, we managed to squeeze in a trip to the pumpkin patch over the weekend. It was pretty much a repeat of last year, excepting the fact that instead of Porter being carried around in the backpack without a coat on, this year he spent the majority of the time running around without any shoes on. About all we are missing is a family member named Cleetus, and a hound.
Category Archives: Photos
The photo evidence that will one day be our ruin.
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Single White Toddler Male seeking companion who doesn’t need much sleep. Must enjoy being ordered around, and be physically capable of carrying 25-27 pounds for extended periods of time. Must be tolerant of miscellaneous dependency issues such as (but not limited to), security blanket, thumb-sucking, and a mild-to-moderate dry cereal and granola bar addiction. Although I am both height challenged and lacking in fine motor skills I refuse to employ the use of any sort of high chair, booster seat or tippy cup. Other quirky habits include refusing to sit down in the bathtub, eating things I find on the ground, playing in toilets and throwing up without warning (although I do this much less these days). I am totally into horses, although I refuse to actually touch one – however, I will require that you haul me out to the fence numerous times throughout the day and stand there while I look at them. I have been told that I am a really good dancer, and I am able to run really really fast – usually when no one is looking, and usually towards places I have no business being. I am wicked cute, but do have some anger issues. And watch out, because I have 16 teeth and I am not afraid to use them. Oh, and I can identify all the major parts on my body, just be careful when you ask me to identify your eye, because I will probably jab my finger in it. There will probably be some language barriers, but I do know all the animal sounds and can easily identify my Mama and Dada. For everything else, I will just point and yell. And when that doesn’t work, I will use my chubby little fingers to grab your hand and drag you where I need you to go.
If this sounds like something you would be interested in, look no further because I’m your man.
Lovin’ Life, Lovin’ You
For the remaining three of you out there who may not have heard, my little sister got married last weekend. The only possible reason I can come up with for NOT knowing about it is because you were in another country, trapped under something heavy, or too engrossed in the minute-by-minute Britney updates to realize that the wedding of the century was nigh. And, if you think this was one of those meringue dressed, love-and-obey affairs with seating charts and chicken dances you would be oh so sadly mistaken. If I’m not mistaken, I think the DJ was actually given explicit instruction to chloroform anyone who even mentioned the letters Y, M, C or A.
No, this was the type of affair where the wrong outfit was going to send you packing. These people don’t mess around. I was even given a not so gentle, “I hope you brought something else” when I pulled out my jeans to wear for the “getting ready” part of the day. Set foot in Blackhawk wearing jeans, and the snipers will see to it that you never make that mistake again.
And yet for all the prim and properness of the venue, the event was exactly the kind of affair you would expect from the couple who actually had Vince Neil on their guest list. The ceremony was fun and lively, and although the whole thing was punctuated with the obligatory “you may now kiss your bride”, it was seemingly irrelevant considering they had been smooching on each other the whole time. Beyond that, it had all the makings of a memorable ceremony: Thad forgot his lines, Stella forgot to throw her flowers, we, the two bridesmaids, cried the entire time and everyone cheered as the bride and groom danced their way down the aisle to Dean Martin crooning That’s Amore!
As you will see from the following photo sets, they were taking a pretty big gamble allowing the lot of us into this place. We all started out respectable enough at the rehearsal dinner, however things started getting pretty crazy at the after-party at the hotel. (For those who may be wondering, the hawaiian-shirted man in this series is my uncle Chris who refuses to ever take a serious photo, and spent the better part of the evening trying to convince those who did not know otherwise that he was a meteorologist with webbed, flat feet.) Then, of course there were the series of photos from the day that would not be forgotten. And it never will.
Congratulations, Sis!
Perspective
If I were to give a brief assessment of the last month, I’d say that we have been moving forward, but in a sort of bumpy and uncomfortable is-anyone-having-any-fun-here? kind of way. Unfortunately, it is this state in which our lives currently exists that prohibits me from being able to write a post without quickly digressing to a boring rant. Although I write this blog as much for myself as for anyone else, even I don’t really feel like coming back to read a sniveling diatribe about how tired, overwhelmed and depressed I am. Booorrriiiinnngggg.
One of the things I have learned in writing these pages however, is that in order for me to write about my life in a way that isn’t whiny and sour, I need a certain amount of perspective. The humor is born from the pain not during, but after. Periodically, I’ll look back through these pages for something and stumble across a post where I didn’t give myself the appropriate emotional recovery time-frame. These are the posts whose subtext reads: GET THIS WOMAN SOME PROZAC.
So here I am, unsure if I have enough perspective, but trying to get something down anyway. I am well aware of the fact that I have gone far too long without posting anything, during a time when there is more going on than ever, and I am compounding my stress by feeling as though I am missing my opportunity to write about some of the really the good things – because even in my spiral towards total insanity, I can see that there are some good things. I know this because they are the reasons that we have not given up entirely and knocked on the door at B Street asking, “Can we just have our house back, please?”
As for our new house, well, if I have to hear myself tell one more person how much POTENTIAL it has, I am going to have to personally tell myself to shut the hell up. Blah, blah di freakin blah. It is this perpetual need to not seem ungrateful and unappreciative that has been so tough. Yes, we are fortunate enough to have two wonderful children that are trying to kill us , and a new house that looks like it was remodeled by a blind person , and yet all I want to do is tell people how insanely overwhelmed I am. This new house of ours? Yeah, it’s kind of like having 10 newborns all at the same time. And, if having children has been any lesson to me, I have learned that the same things that bring you the most joy and happiness in the world can also bring you the most hair-pulling, scream-into-your-pillow, sobbing-on-the-bathroom-floor frustration. So I guess you could say it’s kind of like that.
In between the regular, day-to-day shuffle of kids and house projects that don’t get done, we have been inserting side-trips here and there. Steve’s father turned 70, and we traveled to the booming metropolis of Redding to celebrate in the festivities. Additionally, the season of Eskra has officially been kicked off, beginning with separate bachelor and bachelorette parties in Lake Tahoe that killed not just a handful of brain cells, but entire sectors of our frontal cortex. I think it was the altitude. In all cases, it was nice to get away from here for just the briefest of moments and to alleviate the pounding need to accomplish something.
There are a set of photos that Steve took the day after our offer on this house was officially accepted. For those who have not already seen them, you can flip through to get an idea of where the crazy begins. I have taken only a small handful of photos over the last month. You’ll note that there are no rhyme or reason to the subject, or even the quality for that matter. But for those of you suffering withdrawal, it should get you over the hump.
Now, where’s that Prozac?
The Maker of Mayhem
At his 15-month check-up, we found that the fluid behind Porter’s ear drums still hasn’t cleared out. This, coupled with the fact that he is still yelling at us in some unintelligible Eastern European dialect meant we were directed by the pediatrician to take him to an audiologist and ear-nose-throat specialist. After a string of hearing tests and some poking and prodding, it was determined that he would need tubes. As the ear-nose-throat doc so scientifically put it: “Once that fluid sits in the ears for a while, it turns into Jell-O; we call it glue ear, because once it’s there, there ain’t no getting rid of it without forcibly removing it.” I could tell from his explanation of the procedure that he has done it no less than a gazillion times. I don’t know if it is because every child in Humboldt County has “glue ear” or if it is because we found the most popular doctor in the area, but we couldn’t even get in for the procedure for 4 weeks.
Both the audiologist and the ENT indicated that although both ears have fluid, the left one is definitely the worst, and where he is experiencing the most hearing loss. Given this knowledge, we are now known to talk loudly and slowly as though he were 80, and use insanely crude and ridiculous sign language. We are also getting used to saying catchy things to each other like, “Make sure you are talking into his good ear.” Our sensitive and nurturing tendencies shining through, as always.
We are confident this will be a fairly routine procedure, and are looking forward to having his hearing back at full speed so that he may actually begin using speech and language and quit barking at us like an angry, pint-sized dictator. Who can’t speak English. And has no patience. And throws things.
What he lacks in speech and hearing, he is making up for in physical activity and his iron-willed determination to get his way. Do not leave this child unattended. Ever, ever under any circumstances. Ever. I realized – a little bit too late – that I needed to be photographing all of the various and sundry predicaments he gets himself into these days. Missed, were the photos of him disassembling, climbing into and frolicking in the ashes of the free-standing fire pit. Or the photos of him eating handfuls of catfood. Or the photos of him “typing” on the computer (read: banging fists wildly against the keyboard).
As for that last item, it was accomplished because of his new favorite pass-time – climbing onto table-tops. He is wicked fast, and once up to his desired elevation, begins dancing around in sheer delight over his accomplishment.
There are days where I am almost certain his head is going to explode because of his rage feuled tantrums over fairly benign issues. On this particular day, I didn’t have the strength to get into another battle of wills with him over whether or not he could abscond with an entire package of toilet paper. I managed to negotiate him down to a single roll. Of which, he made quick work of shredding:
And if you have the audacity to deprive of utensils at mealtime, you may as well just call CPS right now, because you are obviously THE WORST PARENT EVER:
And this day? This day, all he would eat was cup after cup of frozen berries. I think I managed to cut him off somewhere around his 4th serving. (I can only assume it had something to do with the 4 eye teeth he is getting simultaneously!)
And, all I can say is that when he asks for your sunglasses, you had better damn well give him your sunglasses. (Also know as: the number one reason why I no longer own sunglasses whose replacement cost is over $20 per pair.)
But that’s okay. Because around these parts, cute? Yeah, it goes a long way.
