The Blog of The Letter B Photography » Los Angeles Maternity, Birth, Newborn, Baby, Child and Family Photographer

DAY 18

EVENT 1 - BOY

Something that smells like rotten horse flesh hits my nose and I’m suddenly certain that one of my kids needs to be changed.  WIth the twins you sort of have to eyeball them as they run and try to guess by the way they walk.  If they’re hiding it well, you just have to dig in and get the visual confirmation.

I grab my daughter as she runs by me and I don’t even have to ask.  It’s her.  She smells like carrots left in the sun.  She smells like a garbage disposal.  She smells like New Jersey.

I go find the diaper and wipes – a father’s utility belt – and clear out some clean space on the floor.  As soon as my son sees me lie my daughter on the ground he comes over, stands above her, squishes up his face and says, “Ew!” and I can only assume he has learned this from me when asking him not to touch the dirty diaper.  He points again, “Ew!”

I take off her pants and peel off the sticky diaper and, “Ew!” and I say, “Yes.  That’s right, buddy.  Ew.  That’s icky, isn’t it?” and he thrusts his finger at her accusingly and goes, “EW!”

I pull out a few wipes and start to clean house.  I’ve seen a lot of nasty diapers and honestly this one isn’t so–”EEEWWW!!”  I say, “Yep.  It’s ‘ew’ alright.  But we’re–” “EEEWWW!”

I say to him, “Okay, now I think you might just be overreacting.  It’s really not that–”  ”EW!  EW!  EW!!”  He points his finger over and over again.  He is now the judging finger of God, lightning striking from his hand.  ”EW!  EW!  EWWWWW!!!“.

“Alright, buddy.  That’s really enough.  We’re almost done.  There’s not even any poop left.  We just have to put a clean diaper on.”  He squats down next to the crumbled up dirty diaper and just starts hammering into this thing, sure not to touch it, “EW!  EW!  EW!!!………EW!!”

I finish dressing my daughter and ask my son if he’d like to throw the diaper away.  This is a game he loves; throwing things away.  I point to the trash can waaaay on the other side of this enormous reception hall we’re in and I say, “Way over there!  Can you go throw this away?” and he says, “Ew,” but I think it was an affirmative, as he grabs the old-nasty and races towards the trash.

EVENT 2 - GIRL

The day after my sister’s wedding, drunk from lack of sleep and draped in a thick blanket of physical exhaustion, we’re all finally boarding the second of two flights to get back home.  My wife takes my son because she has this weird snake charming thing she does that soothes him into a state of sleepy vulnerability.  Across the aisle from them, my daughter sits on my lap and I can already tell is not real happy about how this day is shaping up.  I tell her that we’re almost home, which is a bold faced lie because we’re still three hours and 1,500 miles out.

Just as I get her comfortable and just as she starts to slowly fade out to sleep, some noisy hispanic lady comes barreling down the aisle, bumping into people and shouting at the stewards to get her a new seat in the middle of the plane because “she wants it”.  This lady, along with some second rate Minor League Baseball player, is my seat mate.  It’s true what they say; you can’t pick your family and you can’t pick your airplane buddy.

Before the flight even takes off, one of the stewards comes over to the hispanic woman and says, “Hey!  I remember you!  I remember when you flew out.  Now, we’re not going to have any problems, right?” and she says, “What?!  Me?!  NO WAY!” and he says, “Because you were drunk.  Really drunk.  You were crazy.”  He’s talking to her so openly that I have to wonder if they know each other on a more sociable level.  Either way, I’m certain that every word out of his mouth is complete gospel.

The plane takes off and the hispanic woman and the sort-of baseball player both immediately order drinks.  She gets a vodka and ginger ale and he gets a vodka and sprite.  She hands the steward her card and says, regarding the baseball player that is sitting in row 30, behind the toilets with the rest of us that, “He’ll get the next round”.

Great.  ROUNDS.  As in, many turns.  I’m having a difficult time listening to this woman completely sober so it doesn’t take me long to decide how I’ll probably feel once she’s finally slurring all over me.

My daughter finally goes to sleep and the baseball player pulls out his laptop and goes, “You wanna watch a MOVIE?!”  Just like that.  He says it like he’s six and he’s talking to his little buddy at their sleepover.  ”What’chyoo wanna do?”  ”I don’t know.  You wanna watch a MOVIE?!”  He pulls out his laptop and they try to decide which film to watch.  He recommends Public Enemies starring Johnny Depp or Safe House starring “Denzel”.  He says it like that too.  Just one name.  ”It stars Denzel“.

The drunk hispanic lady goes, “I like Transformers” and he says, “I don’t have Transformers” and she says, “Fine, what about Safe House?” and then she leans over and looks at my sleeping daughter and says, “There’s a baby.  Can we watch this with a baby?” and the guy goes, “It’ll be okay” and then he turns on his movie and turns the volume up as loud as it will go.  I want to accidentally open the emergency exit doors and accidentally throw the laptop out of the plane but the handle is out of my reach.

For the rest of the flight they are both loud and horrible.  They drink and they shift around and the guy keeps sticking his elbow into my personal space and talking about how tall he is.  ”I was like, ‘I’m 6’5, bro.’”  That’s the punchline to all of his terrible stories.  ”C’mon.  I’m 6’5, bro!”

Quinn, blessedly, is still passed out and it is nothing short of a miracle of God.  I’m so tired and I just want her to sleep so I can relax and pretend to sleep, even though it is a scientific impossibility to do so on an airplane if you are over the age of 11.

The flight is getting ready to begin it’s descent; we should be on the ground in roughly 30 minutes.  Some Voice comes over the loud speakers and says that you need to stay in your seat now, buckle up, etc. and so the lady says to the guy, “I need to get up.  I need to put this laptop away,” and the guy turns to me and says, “She needs to get up,” and she pokes her head around him like a cartoon character and says again, “I need to get up and put my laptop away,” and I just gently tap Quinn’s back, as I have been doing for two and a half hours, trying to soothe her through all of their loud and obnoxious noise making shenanigans.  I realize there is still 30 minutes left of this flight and I realize that I don’t want my daughter to wake up and scream and deal with her ears popping and I realize that she will wake up if I have to stand up and let this lady out.  I also realize that every person on the back half of the plane would thank me and shake my hand if I could make my daughter stay asleep for this midnight flight in.  The drunk lady repeats herself, “I gotta get up.  I gotta put this away,” and I calmly look her straight in the eyes and I just gently shake my head back and forth a few times and I say, “No.  Put it under your seat,” and then I shut my eyes, ending the conversation.

Quinn slept.  Everyone was happy.  Baby girl, I got your back.

DAY 17

EVENT 1 - GIRL

I’m dressed in a suit that, I’ll admit, probably either makes me look like a complete stud-horse or a funeral director.  I feel confident in it but then again, I wear a beard that I have dubbed “The Hanging Tomato Plant” due to its’ likeness to a… well, frankly, a hanging tomato plant.  I walk into a room filled with roughly 200 people that I call family and adjust my tie; I’m at my sister’s wedding, which should be starting in T-minus-60 minutes.   Many of these people I haven’t seen in three years, even more I haven’t seen in seven, since my wife and I got married.  Some it’s been even longer, which, truth be told, is a complete shame.

I’m very excited to connect again.

Someone approaches me.  She’s three and a half feet tall, has dirty blonde hair and I believe used to be part of the German SS.  She is my grandmother.  She points a crooked finger at me and says, “JOHN!” and I step forward to embrace her shriveled body.  She quickly breaks the embrace, looks me in the eyes and finishes her sentence, which I clearly cut off, “Where are your babies?”

I think to myself, “Hmm.  Well, it’s very nice to see you as well.  I’m fine.  Thanks for asking.  How many years has it been?” but then instead I say out loud, “They should be here in about fifteen minutes” and after some idle chit-chat revolving around them walking and talking, I move on.

Next is a woman I don’t know.  She approaches me and claims we’ve met but I think she might be lying or confused.  I think her name is Visine or Pyrex, something that sounded like rash medicine.  People often confuse me for a popular GAP model, what with my rippled six pack and chiseled good looks, strong Don-Draper-esque jawline and silky soft skin.  I shake her hand and she asks me where my babies are.

This happens so often over the course of the afternoon that I debate putting a sticker on that says, “They’ll be here in fifteen”.

When they finally arrive, I’m in the other room so I have no idea what happened, but I imagine that from their perspective it was probably like being swarmed by a horde of hungry zombies / Justin Bieber fans.

When I finally end up walking down the aisle with my daughter, she’s dressed in a giant snowball tutu and every eye in the place is on her, mine included.  She’s smiling at the crowd and saying, “Hi.  Hi.”  There are a couple oohs and aahs and I realize that I could have blood dripping from my nose, Oreo cookies caked on my teeth, chili stains on my shirt and sure no one would have even noticed.

The torch… has been passed.

I never stood a chance.

EVENT 2 - BOY

I’m driving (or rather, being driven) back to Omaha as I write this.  I’m sitting in the backest-backiest seat again, the dungeon of the mini-van, while my wife stomps on the gas and my mother-in-law sits in the passenger seat making observations about passing cows, clouds and trees.  It’s about 2:30pm and we haven’t eaten since 8 so we take an exit and jog through the drive-thru of a Taco John’s fast food restaurant.  We order more food than is probably humanly possible to eat but we understand that it will be the last time we ingest the blessed West-Mex until next we return.  The Taco John’s burrito franchise falls off around Denver, where all of their locations get picked up and replaced by In-and-Out Burgers.

For the kids we order a six pack of Mexi-Rolls.  ”They’re easy to pick up!  But putting them down??  Not so much!” the cheap cardboard sign boasts.  Mexi-Rolls, if you can’t guess, are basically just ground “hamburger” rolled up inside of dough and deep fat fried to a state of perfect healthiness.  The truth is, I’m hoping this junk food throws my children into some sort of diabetic coma for the plane ride home.

When we get to the window, they hand us a single to-go bag that is roughly the size of two regular shopping bags.  My wife has to use both hands just to hoist it’s pure fat-fused yumminess into our car.  She screams thank you out the window as she punches the accelerator and screams off towards the interstate, forgetting both her blinker and seatbelt in her state of raw desire for The Meat and Potato Burrito.

Long live The Apple Grande!  Long live The Apple Grande!

My mother-in-law pulls out a Mexi-Roll; it’s about three and a half inches long and doesn’t look at all like the picture.  In real life it sort of represents a turd wrapped in a wet paper towel.  Also, having just come fresh out of the fryer, it’s hot.  Real hot.  A real hot turd wrapped in a wet paper towel.  I paid for this.  I’m going to feed this to my children.  ”Good luck!  Godspeed, baby intestines!”  When they finally squeeze it out the other side, I’m almost certain it will look identical.

My mother-in-law says, “These are hot!” and my wife says, “Just leave them open and let them cool down”.  Instead, The Mother-in-Law grabs a handful of Turd-Napkin-Lunch-Rolls (you can’t put them down!) and shoves her fist out the window, allowing the country air flying past at a brisk 76mph to cool them down.  She knows, feeding my son is definitely a time sensitive issue.

As I’m watching the Yummy-Turd-Roll dangling out the window, little bits of “hamburger” begin to spatter off, while my son begins his slow chant, “Eat.  Eat.  Eat.  Eat.”  He does this when he knows food is close at hand.  His excitement to eat literally begins spewing out of his mouth.  ”EAT.  EAT.  EAT.  EAT.  EAT.”  He doesn’t care that his lunch looks like dookie.  He doesn’t care that bugs and dirt are sticking to his Meat-Roll like flies on flypaper.  This kid eats for sustenance and functionality, not frills and flavors.  ”EAT!  EAT!  EAT!  EAT!  EAT!”

My mother-in-law is answering his pagan chant with her own, repeating, “Hot!  Hot!  Hot!  Hot!” as the greasy dough burns her callused hands.

“EAT!  EAT!  EAT!  EAT!”  ”HOT!  HOT!  HOT!  HOT!”  ”EAT! EAT!”  ”HOT!  HOT!”  ”EAT!”  ”HOT!”  ”EAT!”  ”HOT!”

I don’t think either realizes that the other is doing the exact same thing but it begins to sound a little like a song so I start playing bongos on my lap; my own little joke.  The Mom-in-Law pulls in the Lunch-Nuggets, turns to my wife who is operating a mini-van filled with five people and traveling at incredible rates and asks, “Is this hot?” before placing the Imposter-Food-Roll directly against her bare shoulder.

My wife doesn’t react so her mom takes the Mexi-Roll and places it against her own face, on her cheek and I have to stop and wonder if this is how she always checks to see if her food has cooled down at home.  I imagine her applying vegetable soup like aftershave, pudding like a facial cream.  My son, I can only imagine, is thinking the same thing or, at the very least, “WHY ARE YOU RUBBING MY LUNCH ALL OVER YOUR BODY?!” because he begins his “EAT!!!!” chant again.

The Dump-Meat-Fart-Bar gets handed back to him and I sort of turn away as he takes his first bite because, frankly, it just looks too suggestive and I have a very weak gag reflex to begin with.  My daughter begins licking her Mexi-Roll, tasting the outside crustacean while my son takes his like the Tootsie-Pop owl.  ”Ah-one…ah-two…ah-three–CRUNCH!” and the Mexi-Roll is gone.  ”MORE!  EAT!  MORE!  MORE!  EAT!”

Yes, my little friend, eat the junk food.  Fill your belly with it’s goodness.  Your eyes are getting sleepy.  Goodnight… goodnight… goodnight…  see you in LA…

DAY 16

EVENT 1 – BOY

There’s this old myth in my wife’s family that the homestead my mother-in-law lives on is haunted.  It’s been in the family for years and years and years and lies out in the middle of nowhere amidst corn fields and open sky; basically the perfect place for a haunted house to exist.  Now, whether you believe in ghosts or not, it doesn’t matter.  When someone tells you that a place is haunted and that they’ve seen ghosts walking around, you have a tendency to get a little nervous when they ask you to go upstairs and set up your babies’ cribs all by yourself at night.

Yes, I’ve seen horror movies start like this.

I shuffle up the cramped, narrow staircase, trying to keep my breathing regulated.  I thought I heard somewhere that ghosts could tell when you were afraid… or maybe that was dogs… or rattlesnakes.  I can’t remember.

I say one of those really ridiculous prayers that we say to ourselves whenever we think we’re about to be terrorized by some malicious poltergeist.  In my head I’m like, “Dear God, please cloak your divine sanctity bubble over me and protect me from the previously deceased occupants of this home, who are obviously horrible, horrible ghosts that want to do me harm.  Yes, I know I’ve never met them but I’ve never heard anything good about ghosts… except that Casper character and I think he was a cartoon and wasn’t based in real life.  In your name I pray, amen.”

Okay, cool.  I got my sanctity bubble on.  I’ve got the cribs set-up (you have a tendency to tear through any task at hand when you think you might be possessed) and I’m on my way back to the stairs when suddenly, and I swear to you up and down, this two foot tall demon-troll cloaked all in black suddenly leaps out at me from the bathroom at the end of the hall and I stumble oh dear Lord SANCTITY BUBBLE!!!!

And then the demon troll cloaked in his black cloak of evil says, “Daddy!”

It takes my brain a few moments to process what my eyes are seeing and it takes even longer for my heart to crawl back down out of my throat but the demon is just my son and his black cloak is just his wedding tux.

Creeper!

EVENT 2 – GIRL

Last night both of our children had their very first ever sleepover at Grandma June’s house and it was so exciting and we were getting them all ready for bed when… we realized we’d forgotten their pajamas.

Parents of the year strike again!!  On next week’s episode we leave the kids outside and accidentally take the dogs to church!

My mother-in-law is th-th-thrifty as all get out so she just goes and grabs one of her mother’s 10,000 thread count Chinese silk sleeping shirts and puts it on Quinn.  The fabric is a soft baby blue with a shimmering pink collar and great big buttons running down the front.  This is not the first thing you’ll notice about the shirt though.  The first thing you’ll notice is that my daughter looks like a mudblood preparing to attend Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardy (I love you, Harry Potter).  The shirt is draped down to her ankles, dangling magically off of her tiny frame, the sleeves making those great big Dumbledorean hallows for her tiny pink hands to just peek out of.

I look around the house trying to find a wand but two concerns quickly cross my mind, in this order.  1.) What if she pokes her eye out with her Harry Potter wand (I love you, Harry Potter) and then 2.) What if I try to put her to bed and she suddenly screams, “AVADA KEDAVRA!” at me?

DAY 15

My daughter has this really old, bald Cabbage Patch doll that she carries around with her everywhere.  Its’ plastic head is covered in dirt and scuff marks, it’s clothes are covered in food stains, dried milk and dog drool and it has these really horrific eyes that sort of do this lazy open-and-close movement when you shake it.  The only thing that makes The Doll or “Baby” as she calls it, more disturbing is finding it floating face up in the washing machine unexpectedly on laundry day.

She carries the thing everywhere, chanting, “Baby, baby, baby, baby”.  If she can’t find it she walks around chanting, “Baby, baby, baby, baby?” with a question mark on the end.  She goes to bed with it, eats with it, rides around in the car with it, etc, etc, etc.  If my daughter does it, there’s a good chance that her filthy friend will be by her side, dangling loosely from her hand, upside down, it’s head bouncing casually off the floor as she walks, thunk-thunk-thunk.

It was a gift from my sister and her fiance about three months ago; a gift I assumed, due to it’s obvious “used” feel that it had come from Goodwill after being donated by a little girl who’s only crime was loving too hard.  Today I found out that statement was only half right.

My to-be brother-in-law has a daughter named Kayden that will come and stay with him and my sister on occasion… and apparently she has her own room in the house… and apparently this room is filled with her own personal belongings… and apparently one day, this daughter came to stay with my sister and her dad… and apparently the little girl came upstairs and asked them, in the most casual of tones, “Have either of you seen my doll?”

Gulp.

EVENT 2 – BOY

Changing my son into his pajamas last night, I noticed that his entire body is covered in wounds; cuts, scrapes bruises, scabs, bumps and the like.  This kid looks like some irresponsible parent tossed him into a barrel and sent it rolling down a hill, end over end.

I look over at my daughter, who my wife is changing and I notice that she looks… well, she looks pristine.  She’s nice and shiny and polished.  I look back at my son and he looks like a dirty carnival toy that someone has left lying in the gutter.  And I mean that in the best way possible.  Someone once asked me if I knew, outside of the obvious, what the main difference between boys and girls was.  I told him, “No.  What?” and, after pausing for effect he says, “About five to six bruises”.

It’s not that we don’t take care of him or that he is somehow just “The Dirty Kid in Class”, he just loves to adventure and, like we tell him whenever he gets hurt and comes running and crying to us with a new wound, “When you adventure, you get hurt.  Do you think Indiana Jones walked out of The Temple of Doom without a scratch?”

OOPS!  And with that, I have to go.  My son literally just fell out the front door.