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

DAY 14

I write this from the furthest, farthest, deepest seat in a minivan chugging down I-29, having just left Omaha, Nebraska.  My little sister is getting married this coming Saturday and we’re in town for the wedding, which I am exceptionally excited for… and rightly so.  I love weddings; family, fun, dancing.  It’s fantastic.  The thing, however, that I am not excited about is our two connecting flights back to Los Angeles.

I remember a time when flying simply meant sitting in a chair that was two sizes too small next to someone that stunk for 3 1/2 hours.  No biggie, though.  In that regard it was much like watching a milk tasting contest at the 4H county fair, minus the cotton candy.  But you figure, “Oh, well.  I might be uncomfortable but at least I can read a book or listen to some music or, at the very least, sleep.

And then your children are born and the first time someone mentions the words, “Baby” and “Plane” to you in the same sentence, your nipples invert and your pancreatic fluids dry up in a frenzy of raw horror.

Today was the third time flying with the kids and, just in case you were wondering, there was no reading.  There was no music.  There was no sleeping.  There was simply thrashing and screaming and fits of demon possession and torment from my son.

He throws himself from my lap and lays in the aisle of the plane, releasing a banshee’s squeal.  A couple people in my peripheral glance over… more choose to ignore it, being kind enough to pretend that they aren’t wondering if someone is slaughtering a hog in row 29.

I pick him up and wander the aisles with him for a bit, trying to satiate his need for… what?  Food  Comfort?  I look up and realize that everyone on the plane is staring at me like, “Who’s the crazy guy with the kid?  Did he find that kid in the jungle?  I bet he did.  That kid acts like he was raised in the jungle.  By wolves.  That had the rabies.”.

Meanwhile, my daughter sits on my wife’s lap, sleeping soundly, completely passed out, looking like a cherub.

“AAAAHHHH!!!!”

This is my son.  This is just the noise that he makes.  After traversing the cabin for the better part of 20 minutes, we make our way back to our seats and my wife whispers, “Do you want to switch for a bit?”

Deus ex machina.  She’s a true Godsend.

I set Rory on the carpet and he rolls over onto his stomach and just starts punching and clawing at the floor like a possum trying to get into roadkill.  Jade passes our sleeping daughter to me and I’m so excited that I’m going to be able to sleep when… she opens her eyes and begins to wail.  “WHY HAVE YOU AWAKEN ME FROM MY SLUMBER!  I AM THE DRAGON!  FIRST OF MY NAME AND LAST OF MY KIND!  PREPARE! TO FACE! MY WRAAAATH!!”  And everyone is looking at me again like, “Good job Idiot-Dad.  Now we’ve got the double deucer to contend with”.

The plane finally lands in Denver.  We get lost in the airport for 15 minutes before stumbling upon our terminal.  Only one more hour and a half plane flight before we’re home.

EVENT 2 – GIRL

I remember when I was younger, it would make me really uncomfortable when some dude would bring his daughter into the men’s public restroom.  It didn’t matter how old she was.  If she was advanced enough to walk, she was advanced enough to make me shudder.  I’d stare at the tile wall in front of me and bite my cheek, trying to force the moment to pass.  The worse was when she’d speak, “Daddy, blah blah blah”  AH!  My spout would dry up like a desert oasis and I’d be unable to proceed.  I’d hazard a glance over my shoulder, almost daring myself to get a glance at this mini-monster.  They were always different; blondes, redheads; brunettes.  But it didn’t matter.

I’d watch The Dad take The Daughter into the stall and I’d always wonder, “What goes on in there?  Those stalls are so tiny.  Is he going to the bathroom?  Is she?  How does she not fall in?  Where is everyone standing?”  These questions and more I had… and they were all answered today in the Denver International Airport.

Our plane from Los Angeles to Denver slams down early and our connecting flight from Denver to Omaha is leaving early so we’ve only got a very small window of time to find our terminal / eat / use the bathroom.  Sure, I could always use the restroom on the plane but… I don’t know.  I have what some may call “issues” of “phobias”.  I don’t like to pee on airplanes.  It’s not the scary flushing device that feels like it’s going to pull you through the drain or the way everything closes in on you until you can’t tell which wall the door was on.  I think it’s primarily that I associate them with flying outhouses… a conversation that is neither here nor there.

So passing through Denver’s Airport, which, incidentally, is my all time favorite airport, I’ve gotta pee.  I’ve got The Girl on my shoulders and I just think to myself, “Maybe it’s time to see what this fear looks like from the other end of the stick.”

Quinn and I walk into the crowded bathroom and it definitely feels like she’s getting unfriendly eyeballs from roughly 2 our of every 3 men.  I hold her hand tight, praying that she doesn’t touch anything and get syphilis.  My first reaction is to step up to the urinal and just tell her to “stay” like a bipedal golden retriever but I quickly shake awake from my stupidity as I imagine her twirling in circles in the center of the floor and then tugging on some stranger’s leg while he’s trying to drain the main vein and saying, “HI!”.

We hit the stall and she doesn’t have to pee so it makes our first foray into this “Toddler in the Bathroom” thing a slightly easier transition.  I set her on the floor and lock the door and she immediately begins trying to open it.  I say, “Just hang on.  Hang on”.  Sometimes I do this “game” where I try to just get them to stand still while I finish whatever it is I’m trying to do.

It’s definitely crowded so I’m sort of shuffling to twist my body around and, Instead of “hanging on” she walks over and places her hand on the toilet seat and I scream.  It’s a high pitched squeal; the sort of noise that would probably come out of Fran Drescher if someone poked her unexpectedly with a needle.  “EEK!”  I grab her wrist while I’m still peeing and go, “NO!  NO!  ICKY!” and who knows what everyone else in the bathroom is thinking.

I’m sure there’s some kid out there, staring straight ahead at the wall wondering just what is going on in here.

DAY 13

EVENT 1 - GIRL

My daughter is broken.  I don’t know when it happened or how it happened or maybe she was just born this way… I’m not really sure.  She loves spankings; revels in them.  Soaks in their cold sting and raw delight.  And yes, before we press on, I said the S-word.  I said “Spanking” with a capital S.  The Brookbanks spank their children.  Open handed, on the rump, thwap-thwap-thwap, spank our children and we do it without disclaimer or apology.

My son hates it and reacts accordingly; he throws himself to the ground, weeping and thrashing in over exaggerated pain, gripping his red butt cheeks, tears streaming down his face (ps, it really does hurt me more than it hurts you) but my daughter is another thing altogether.  She’s a dementor (Harry Potter reference) that thrives off of pain.

At dinner tonight my son put his foot on the table and we said, “Put it down” and he did… only to put it up a second time.  We say, “Your foot does not belong on the table.  Put it down or you’re getting a spanking”.  He knows the S-word and we’ve warned him twice now; a third time and his rumpus is fair game.  One, two, three, four, five little piggies slowly wiggle over the lip of the table and he plants his heel firmly on the tabletop.  My wife gets up, stands our son up in his chair and, “We said do not put your feet on the table.  You’re getting a spanking.”

Thwap-thwap-thwap.

Boy throws himself to the floor, waterworks ensue, screaming begins.  When he finally calms down and is ready to return to the table… you’d better believe that his feet stayed underneath him.

My daughter is another story altogether though, which is just a testament to children, even being as young as they are, having their own individual bends and personalities.  She puts her foot on the table and, being fair to her, we give her three chances as well.  ”Quinn, put your foot down”.  Down and immediately up again.  ”Quinn, put your foot down.  If you put it on the table again, you will get a spanking.”  Down and then immediately up again.

Alright.  This one is mine.

I get up and I stand her on the chair and I repeat the incantation, “[FILL IN CHILD'S NAME HERE] [FILL IN ILL-FATED BEHAVIOR HERE] and now you’re getting a [FILL IN PUNISHMENT HERE ie SPANKING or TIMEOUT]” and then thwap-thwap-thwap! and then…

“HAHAHAHAHAHAH”

She is laughing at me.  Full on laughing at me.  A 20 month old is laughing at me directly after I’ve spanked her.  My wife and I lock eyes and she covers her mouth because she’s about to start laughing and I look away because you can’t let the child think it’s a game.  Instead, I put Quinn back in her chair and I say, “You just got a spanking because you put your foot on the–” and before I’m even done talking her foot is back on the table.

[INSERT PHRASE]  THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!  HAHAHAHAHA!!  HAHAHAHAHA!!  Repeat eye lock and look away and HER FOOT IS BACK ON THE TABLE!!

My wife looks at me and whispers, “Harder??” and I pick up my daughter and Dear Heavenly Father I feel like a monster, I bend her over my knee and I spank her harder than I have ever spanked her before and her butt cheeks are red and I feel disgusting but I know / think / feel like I’m probably most likely doing the right thing and she begins to cackle and laugh and I turn her around and she’s smiling and her teeth are so white and she’s so happy and what is wrong with you child!

I put her back in her seat, pretending that I have some form of control on the situation and this time Quinnie Pig’s little pigs don’t return.

I can already tell that this is just going to get more and more interesting.

EVENT 2 - BOY

“Uh-oh”.

Rory has inevitably made a mess.  ”Uh-oh” has recently become his go-to phrase for anything that he deems “Punishment Worthy”.

I intentionally turned my glass of milk upside down and spilled it everywhere.  ”Uh-oh”.

I picked up the mouse from your desk and threw it on the ground.  ”Uh-oh”.

I went into the bathroom, crawled onto the step stool and turned on the sink.  ”Uh-oh”.

I’ve systematically created a giant, walking, talking robot that will destroy Japan.  Millions will die.  ”Uh-oh”.

Granted, that last one hasn’t happened… yet… but if it did, I’d bet the farm that that would be his response.  We bend down next to him and say, “Rory, it’s only an ‘uh-oh’ if it was an accident” and he says, “Uh-oh” and we say, “No.  that wasn’t an ‘Uh-oh’” and he says, “Uh-oh” and I suddenly feel like I’m talking to that guy from The Princess Bride that just keeps saying inconceivable.

DAY 12

DAY 11

DAY 10