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.

(click on photo to see the full set)

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.