Category Archives: Porter

as in, Magoo.

Commencement

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Last night was Stella’s official graduation from pre-school. Each of the children at the center were invited to participate in the ceremonies regardless of whether they were graduating or not. Both kids were honored for their special contributions and achievements – Stella for teaching all the new kids about the school rules, and Porter for learning circle time rules. My basic interpretation of this was, “Thank you Stella for your productive channeling of your bossiness, and thank you Porter for no longer inciting circle-time riots.” That perky eduspeak doesn’t fool me.

This being Humboldt County, the kids all wore their homemade tie-die t-shirts in lieu of graduation gowns and, with the single exception of my son, they also wore their homemade mortar boards. Upon hearing his name called to come up and receive his certificate of achievement, Porter naturally chose to bolt in the opposite direction. That is, until he saw that each of the certificate was accompanied by an ice-cream-cone-cupcake, at which point he was lured back to the podium to participate in the ceremony.

Congratulations, preschool. You now only have one Walston to contend with.

stella and porter
(click on photo to see the full set)

Happy 3rd Birthday, Porter!

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Hey Porter,
(AKA: Buddy, Bub, Little Man, Little Dude, McGoo, P-Dog, P-Man, Little P)

We just made it through the celebratory grandeur of your 3rd birthday and Hoo Boy! Has this year been a big ‘un. I don’t even know where to begin. And if you think for even one teeny, tiny minute that I am going to let you off easy on this one, you are sorely mistaken my cherubic little ball of three-ness.

Porter

Let’s start with the good news, shall we?

We are all somehow still alive. And together. In one house. And no one has lost an eye. (but almost)

Now on to the news that more accurately portrays the last year of our lives together. The part where we talk about The Cute, The Angry, and everything in between. The part where I am brutally honest about the times I have felt compelled to scold your father about the fact that my eggs were perfectly happy hanging out on their own until his sperm came along, and about those extra fifty bottles of wine that were required to get me through the year, and about how you have completely negated any learning curve I may have conquered with your sister. My parenting to-date has taught me that the line separating sublime happiness and complete and utter agony is honestly so thin it is virtually invisible.

Whereas last year you found your voice, this year you found your words. The Angry is now accompanied by a running dialogue that uses words such as I-HATE-IT-I-HATE-IT-I-HATE-IT or my personal favorite – the booty wiggling, hands-on-hips, NAH-Nah-NAH-Nah-NAH-NAHHHHH song. Your execution on that one is spot-on. Honestly and truly though, your vocabulary is quite remarkable, and I can understand why – you don’t have much of a choice if you want to keep up in this family where it’s not just the words but the volume and speed with which you can deliver them that really matters most. In that way – you have risen to the occasion quite masterfully. But even more than the nuts and bolts of learning how to effectively communicate, there are those fleeting parts that years from now I will struggle to remember, like how you add ‘es’ to just about anything as a form of plural (sheepses, instrumentses, bikeses) and when you call a smoothie a poozie. Priceless.

Porter

With your new-found communication tools, comes the ability to have those kinds of conversations that history is made of. The subject of anatomy has come up off-and-on with your sister for some time now. Like that time in the bathtub when she complained that it wasn’t fair that you had a long vagina (that was only after she stopped calling it a tail). You, however have taken it upon yourself to not only understand, but educate. You have had recurrent conversations with your father about likeness and size comparisons, and without hesitation proceeded to inform your teachers at day care about the penis/vagina ratio of the student population – going around the circle articulating who had what. Mommy’s little census taker.

And while we are on the subject of those parts let’s just go ahead and get this whole potty training thing out there on the table right now. Or more accurately, let’s talk about how you have shown me yet again how little control I will ever have as a parent. I was completely fine letting this thing ride. I know about the whole boys-are-slower-than-girls thing, and about the second-kid-tends-to-take-longer part. It’s all good. But I am starting to feel like you should at least be kinda sorta maybe just a little bit interested. Nope. The best way I could describe it is that you are taunting me. One minute I am offering candy and big-boy underwear and being rebuffed with a plain and simple shake of the head; the next minute you are locking yourself in the bathroom and peeing and pooping all by yourself. Then right back to insisting I put a diaper on you. I get it son, you are calling the shots.

Porter

Same has gone for haircuts – the on-again, off-again way in which I have been able to negotiate the most simple of grooming practices. And the same for clothes – and the ridiculous rituals we must go through just to get you dressed (and keep you dressed, for that matter). You have no interest whatsoever in making it easy. Ever.

If I were to pick one thing that actually works (at least about 80% of the time), I’d say it’s bedtime. We have somehow managed to maintain a feeble grasp on that one. And I guess I’d say we are due, considering there was the better part of a year where you wouldn’t give us more than 2 hours sleep at a time. You are actually turning out to be a pretty good sleeper, and I have to admit, I find it sweet and comforting when you shuffle into our bedroom at night and want to climb into our bed. With your sister, this was never an option. It was a hard and fast rule that she would be shuttled back to her bed – the reasons were various, but the biggest one had to do with the fact that her sleeping resembled stationary cycling. You on the other hand, are a great cuddler and I find it to be one of the rare occasions when I get the opportunity – and will most likely continue to indulge it as long as I can (college notwithstanding).

Porter

And, that sweet boy, is the thing that I have started to realize with increasing nostalgia. This is it. You are my baby and you aren’t a baby. You are a boy. A pre-schooling, counting, own-name-spelling, I-can-do-it-myself-yelling little guy who embodies not one single trace of toddler or baby. I love that and I hate that. I am sad, but also excited. It reminds me yet again that no matter how trying these times are, I only get them once, and I had better not wish us past them, lest I lose them forever.

Porter

Happy Birthday, Sweet Boy.

Love,
Mom

Porter takes on pre-school. Porter wins.

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Today was Porter’s first official day of preschool. And although you might think I’d go on and on about all the gory details of how it was, and what he did, and who he played with, the much more interesting part of the story is how it affected the three other people in the household. Because for him, today could be singularly summed up by the fact that he FINALLY got full run of that rockin’ playground that heretofore taunted him like an unattainable jewel; the same playground structure that required I pick up Stella first every day because if I dared take him with me to pick her up I spent the better part of 15 minutes chasing and coaxing him down from it’s beautiful towering steel goodness. And now it is his, all his, and all I can say is good luck pre-school staff – now it’s your job to bribe him off the wiggly bridge.

Aside from that, today’s exercise in transition was all business.

The other three members of this family, on the other hand, obsessed at length about how he would do. In case you haven’t figured it out already, Porter’s not exactly known for his emotional stability. I was dreading the thought of leaving a tear-streaked, screaming face staring out at me as I drove away, and Steve had to touch an extra couple of doorknobs before leaving this morning. Stella, on the other hand, slid effortlessly into the protective older sister role, voicing her increasing concern about how the other kids would treat him and where exactly his cubby would be located – across from hers? Hmmm, no, next to – definitely next to. For the last week she has been incessantly coaching him on the dos and don’ts of preschool, and from the moment I dropped them both off, she was micromanaging his every move. By the time I left she had him involved in an elaborate felt-board diorama and was already writing his first developmental performance evaluation.

Of all the photos I took this morning these two are my favorite. The first one because it honestly and truly captures the eccentric nature of my children. Whenever I look at it, it makes me think their names should have been “Baroness Philomena VonWalstonstein” and “Jeb Cooter Walsterelli” The second one captures them in that sweet and special way that reminds me why I would ever have been crazy enough to choose to have two.

stella and porter

stella and porter

The clothes make the Walston

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Here’s the scene. I’m walking through the grocery store and come upon one of Porter’s peeps from school with his mom. She has her 5-week-old daughter snuggled in the porta-carseat, which is perched atop the grocery cart. We greet one another, then proceed to greet each other’s children. I comment to her son how much I love his shoe choice of one yellow swim sandal and one red Keen. She looks at my son who also is, I might add, wearing swim sandals and an outfit that he has had on his person for the better part of 5 solid days (including sleeping time). We laugh. We shrug. We admit that we don’t have the emotional energy to care anymore. Then we go on our way, both feeling just a little less alone.

When Porter came along I remember thinking BOOYAH! no more ridiculous arguments about clothing. I have a son. They don’t give a crap. Right? Um, let me clear that one up: WRONG. I honestly can’t say which one of my children is worse when it comes to persnickety clothing issues. It is uncommon for us to go a single day without someone in this house crying about their clothes. While Stella’s temperament and reasoning is sort of based in a logic THAT ONE COULD ONLY FIND ON THE PLANET CRAZY, Porter’s is nothing more than good, old-fashioned toddler angst. Truth be told, I think I have actually found a glimmer of logic in his particular brand of fashion challengedness. And wouldn’t you know it, but all pathways lead back to Mr.-I’ll-Do-It-Myself. He loves his sweat pants and velcro shoes (Hello, Porter? Yeah, 80 is calling – it wants it’s outfit back.) To the best I can figure out, he is attached to the outfits that most accommodate his level of motor skills. Jeans have all those buttons and snaps and – to be perfectly honest – just aren’t as soft and comfy as his sweats. Now, if I could just get him to stop pulling them up to his neck. (What’s that? Oh yeah hi, it’s 80 again…)

Last week, Stella insisted on going to school in her full and complete soccer uniform. It took no small amount of heated discussion to convince her that the cleats were a non-negotiable item. This morning? Well, this morning she went to school in an outfit that can only be described as, well, how exactly does one describe an outfit that includes a green glitter bowler hat?

Oh, and last I checked, we weren’t Irish.

stella

stella

porter

porter