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

EVENT 1 - BOY

My son has a habit of pointing at me and saying, “Mama”.  He also has a habit of pointing at his sister and saying, “Rory”.  I wonder what Freud would say about this.

Being Saturday, I was home when they got up from their afternoon naps.  Rory again, for the second time, has fallen out of his bed BUT… twice in around ten days isn’t too bad for a kid that’s used to sleeping in a box.  Typically I’ll open the door, go in, say “Hi there!”, get them out of their cribs / beds and then we’ll all go out into the living room to, well… live.

But it’s so hot today.  The Valley is just sweltering and I’ve been working outside all day prepping for this 80s costume party we’re having tonight in lieu of my 30th birthday.  Jade and her brother were off running some errands and I was on kid duty so, instead of getting them up and running back out into the house, I just shut their bedroom door behind me, took them out and we played in their room for a while.  It’s the only room in the house that has the air running and it’s almost always a solid 74 degrees.  So beautiful.

I plop myself down in the fluffy chair and Rory runs over to me, throws himself into my arms and lays down on my chest, totally of his own accord.  I don’t bother to ask if anything is wrong.  My daughter is walking around with a piece of chalk and she says, “Mama”.  My son pops his head up and looks right into my eyes and goes, “Mama”.  I say, “No.  I’m not Mama.  Mama is out running errands with Uncle Jarod”.  Then I say, “Who is this?” and I point to my chest.  He looks at me for a moment and he goes, “Dah-dee” and I smile from ear to ear and say, “That’s right!  That’s right!”  HE KNOWS!!!  I try to steal second with, “…and who’s this?” and I poke my finger into his chest and he says, “Roh-ree!” and I say, “YES!  YES!  THAT’S RIGHT!  YOU’RE RORY!”.  This is truly breakthrough territory.

I decide to try rounding third by saying, “…and who’s that?” and I point at Quinn on the other side of the room.  He stares at her and I know he’s about to go for the triple threat.  I can feel it in my blood.

“…”

Nothing.

I say, “Quinn, come over here,” thinking that maybe it’s because she’s too far away.  Yeah, yeah… maybe that’s it.  Quinn turns her back to me and pretends not to hear.  I repeat myself, “Quinn, come here,” and she says, “No.”

WHAT!!???

I throw a little sternness into my voice and she comes hup-two to my side.  I stick my finger gently square into the middle of her forehead and I say, “Rory, who is this?” and he says, “See-SEE!”  I try again.  ”Say Quinn.  This is Quinn.  Say Quinn” and he says, “Seeee” and I try one more time, “This is SISTER.  Can you say ‘sister’?” and he says, “See-see”.  But this time he doesn’t say it like he’s straining.  He’s saying it like he’s simply repeating what I’ve said.

See-see… sister… Quinn.  Not bad.  My sister called me “Boy” until she was about 4.  I can work with this.

EVENT 2 - GIRL

If either of my children pee in the toilet, we give them an M&M, a reward that I wish someone would pour out on me.  Once, as a joke, I asked my wife if they get two pieces of chocolate if they take a poop.  She says, “Uh… no”.  The problem with this system is that both children are usually in the bathroom at the same time but they both don’t always go to the bathroom at the same time.  Obviously this is problematic when both children are standing at your feet shouting, “Chalky!  Chalky!” but only one gets the reward.

You’re thinking I’m terrible.  You’re thinking I’m horrible.  But I don’t break.  I don’t give them both chocolate or “chalky”.  I only give it to the one that went potty.  True, the other one typically throws their head back and begins screaming to The Great Deity himself, begging for sweet Wonka Rain but… this is the spoils of war.  Potty training is a dark process and trying to train a baby to poop in a toilet is harder than trying to train a weasel to use a fork so you have to be tough.

So, same time as Event 1, I pull open the door, come in and we’re playing in the big chair and my daughter finds this tiny piece of chalk on the ground and she starts to taste it and I go, “Icky!  That’s icky!” and my daughter goes, “Icky!” and my son repeats her and I say, “That’s right.  That’s icky.  That’s chalk”.  And they both stop and look at me, frozen in time and space and I’m thinking, “What?  What’s just happened?  Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into The Village of the Damned?” and Quinn goes, “Chalky?” and Rory goes, “Chalky?” and I say, “No… no no.  CHALK.”  And I grab the white stump from my daughter’s hand and I hold it up and say, “CHALK, not CHALKY.  ICKY.”  And they both go, “CHOCK.”

“Yes.”

Chaos evaded.

That was close.

Too close…

 

EVENT 1 - GIRL

Last month I noticed that my daughter had straight up bad breath.  I don’t know if she had eaten something on that day or thrown up or was curdling limburger cheese in her cheeks but it was foul.  Rank.  Rancid.  She’d come and sit on my lap and start to laugh and I’d have to turn my head, dry heave a little and then hold my breath to smile at her.  Thankfully, this problem went away… probably in part to us initializing Project: Brush Your Teeth.

We weren’t sure how it was going to go over, handing our children toothbrushes laced with strong toothpaste tasting toothpaste.  We braced ourselves for the worse; they were going to hate it.  That was the bottom line… but children have a funny way of surprising you.

After watching us brush our teeth their whole lives, both kids were excited to dig in and start the process.  Every morning before I go to work, I say, “C’mon!  Let’s brush our teeth!” and both children chase me into the bathroom shouting, “Teef!  Teef!  Brush!  Teef!”  I run my daughter’s brush under the faucet and I put on just a squirt of toothpaste  on before handing it to her… and then watch as she jams the whole thing in her mouth and begins sucking the flavor out of it.  There is no brushing.  There is no scrubbing.  There is no cleaning.  There is only eating toothpaste off of a toothbrush like Fun Dip

I try to teach her the technique but she doesn’t care to learn.  As they say, you can lead a pony to the bathroom sink, but you can’t make it brush.  She just nibbles on the bristles and drools down the front of her shirt.  I say, “All done.  Let’s rinse our mouth out” and I watch as she climbs onto a step stool their mother has purchased, which allows the both of them to lean into the sink for just such an occasion.

She turns on the sink by herself, sticks the tooth brush under and then, when I try to take it from her, she squeals and screams and I have to wrestle it out of her slippery grip, vowing that I must find a better way to end this routine.  I cup my hand under the running water and hold it up to Quinn’s mouth.  She bends down and drinks it all.  I take the leftover water and rub it in her hair, messing it up and inflaming the curls.

I notice she has more hair than me.

EVENT 2 - BOY

I like my coffee like I like my women, which is to say, ground up and kept in the freezer.

No, I’m just kidding.  I keep my coffee in a dry cabinet under the sink.  I try to mix up the brands, buying a different bag every time we head out to the store.  This month’s soup de jour is Trader Joe’s brand.  It’s simple, cheap, tasty, and I can buy it in a bulky silo shaped container that seems to never go dry.

Coffee drinkers are creatures of habit.  Every morning, beans, grinder, hot water, coffee.  Next day, rinse and repeat.  Children, likewise, are also creatures of habit, whether that be for the better or worse.  My son knows that every morning before I go to work, I make a cup of coffee.  I kneel down next to the cabinet where I keep the endless supply of The Brown Goodness and shout out, “Roar!  Hey Roar!  Buddy!  You want to help dad make some coffee?” and no matter where he is or what he’s doing, he will drop it, just like Lassie, and come running to help.

He screams something which does not sound like coffee but which I am sure probably means it.  I pull out the silo, pop the green plastic lid and he crinkles his nose up, showing me that he wants to smell it; a trick I’ve taught him.  I lift up the container to his face and he buries his whole head inside and inhales deeply a few times like Frank Booth in Blue Velvet.

I walk him through every step as I’m doing it, every day.  The plan is that he’ll be making the coffee in the next year and a half.  See, I’m thinking end game here, folks.  I tell him, “Pour the beans into the grinder”.  I do so.

“We gotta plug it in now”.  At this point, I bend down and I say, “Help Daddy push the button.  He can’t do it alone”.  He reaches out and the moment he touches the button, I crank on it and the grinder goes off, wwhhhrrrrrrr, and the beans turn to dust just like that.  He gets excited and lets go and then presses it again, trying to rev it up like someone might do with a motorcycle.

My daughter runs and hides behind my wife’s legs and comes out after a small amount of coaxing.  I say, “Share, Rory.  Share”, and he does.  Soon all three of us are grinding beans together and then I’m out the door.

 

EVENT 1 - GIRL

I think that little dolls probably scare pretty much everyone… so you’ll understand why I get shivers up my spine when my daughter (who pretty much resembles a 2 1/2 foot tall, walking Cabbage Patch Doll)  looks you dead in the eyes, right down into your soul and says, “Buh-bye”.  She doesn’t say it in a way that makes you think, “Hey, great!  See you in a few hours when I get home from work!”

No.

She says it in a way, with a certain tone, with a certain… sense… a secret clarity of knowledge.  She says, “Buh-bye” but what it really sounds like is, “You have made a series of unfortunate decisions and now you’ll have the rest of eternity to contemplate them in the fiery pain that is your afterlife.  Good luck in the Bog of Death, the Hall of 1,000 Sufferings and The Abyss of Eternal Torment.  Today you meet your doom.  Buh-bye”.

I tap her on the head and say, “Uh… buh…buh-bye, baby.  Daddy… loves you.”  I drive slow and look both ways before crossing the street for the rest of my day / life.

EVENT 2 - BOY

Last night my son kicked me in the face.

Well… kicked is a harsh word.  He tapped his foot against my face, several times.  I ask, “What are you doing?” and he giggles.  I wonder what he actually is doing.  Is he just playing?  Is he hoping I tickle him?  Does he want me to pick him up and throw him onto the couch like I sometimes do?

He taps me on the cheek with his toes a few more times.  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.  I say, “Arg!  What are you doing!” in a playful way and he laughs and giggles more.  Tap-Tap-Tap.  He giggles and then I giggle and then he bends down and gives me a kiss, totally unprovoked and my wife can’t help but go, “Oooooohhhhhh” and I know her estrogen levels have just hit an all time high.

My son leans back and tap-tap-taps me again a few times before bending down and giving me another kiss.  Now, I have to admit… it is pretty sweet of him.  He repeats it a third time; tap-tap-tap.  He leans down and I pucker my lips.  I love him so much – and he burps into my mouth and laughs.

Rory, you truly are your father’s son

My mom sent me a ton of balloons for my 30th birthday; balloons that are now floating through the rooms and hallways of my house like haunting specters, their strings dangling from the ceiling like colorful tendrils.  I try to imagine what my children must be thinking since this is, conceivably, one of the first times they’ve seen a balloon and been cognoscente enough to be aware of it’s presence.  Do they think that they are magical little toys that defy gravity and reason?  My son points at them and says, “Bah!  Bah!” which, in his broken tribal dialect, means “Ball”… a definition that, I suppose, is not entirely untrue.

Standing at just under the height of your standard counter top, he’s just tall enough to grab the very bottom of the strings in order to tote one of the balloons around the house.  The little girl on the other hand (“little” being the operative word here) is just out of reach.  She stands underneath the balloon on just her barest tiptoes, stretches her arms out, stretches her little fingers out and the very, very, very tips just barely breeze the bottom of the string.  It’s torture in its finest form.

She screams in frustration and throws herself down onto the floor and buries her face in her hands and kicks her feet and there is a great wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Brookbank home.  The boy stares at her and stares at the balloon and stares at her and you can tell that something is perhaps processing but probably won’t complete transfer without a little outside help.

I say, “Hey, Rory… hey buddy, will you get the balloon for your sister?”

“Bah?”

“Yeah.  Will you share the balloon with Quinn?”

“Bah?”

“Yeah!”

And then one of the most magnificent things I have ever seen him do happens.  Big Brother reaches up, grabs the balloon string and sticks his hand straight out to his Little Sister.  She stares at the string, unsure… but then slowly reaches out and takes it.  The tears go away.  The screaming stops.  The smile appears and the two of them run off to play while I shout after them, “Good job, buddy!  Good sharing!  Good sharing!”

It’s incredible how proud they make you.

Yesterday I found myself toting the children out of the house while Jade wrapped up some last minute things inside.  We were heading out for a date night but first needed to drop The Boy and The Girl off at a friend’s house.  The two of them run towards the porch steps, stop… slowly navigate down them… and then run towards the gate, which is honky-style latched with a trashy piece of chain because our cocker spaniel figured out how to it.

I pull off the honky-style trashy piece of chain just as The Boy grabs the gate and swings it open.  Apparently, our cocker spaniel wasn’t the only one who has learned that little trick.  The gate flies backwards full force and just ker-slams into Quinns’s face.  THUNK!  She’s so excited to get into the car though that she just stumbles back a step, pivots around the gate and out into the driveway before stopping and feeling her head.

I kneel down next to her and look at her macaroni and cheese stained face and say, “Quinn… Quinn, are you alright?” and the weirdest thing happens.

She touches the forming bump, looks me in the eyes and says, “Yeah,” before running off towards the car.

This is big.  This is huge.  This is beyond simple words.  This is more than mere baby commands, “Milk!” or “Bah!” or “Bok!”.  This was a back and forth conversation.

Houston, we have contact.

EVENT 1 - GIRL

At night, when we put our kids to sleep, we have a pretty standard routine that plays something like this…

Change diapers while they struggle.

Put children in pajamas while they struggle.

Play in bedroom, which lately has consisted of sliding the closet door open and closed, open and closed, open and closed before finding weird old bibs and asking if they can wear them backwards like capes.

Read story after they begin shouting, “Bok!  Bok!”

Place children in respective crib / bed.

Say prayers; the same ones my mother taught me as a child.

Wind up music box that plays ”It’s a Small World”.

Kiss Rory….

…and then….

…one of my favorite parts of the evening…I don’t know why or when she started doing this but she hides.  She takes her favorite blanket (the one she’s most recently attached herself to) and hides underneath of it and is very still.  She knows that her kiss comes right after Rory’s so she waits until I’m done saying goodnight to him before she burrows down like a subterranean nocturne.  She giggles underneath the sheet, trying to contain the excitement, probably wondering if I’m going to tickle her or bite her.  Sometimes I pretend that I don’t see her and I say, “Where’s Quinn?” and sometimes I simply don’t do anything.  Sometimes I just wait above her blanket and wait for her to crack.  I wait for her to peak and then, like a Black Mamba, I strike!!  And she laughs and laughs and it’s a great way to end the day.

EVENT 2 - BOY

This morning, after breakfast, Rory shook both of his hands in the air; this is the universal baby language sign for “I’m done eating, get me out of this chair”.  So I double check with him real quick, I say, “Are you all done?” and he says, “Yeah” and I say, “Okay, good boy.  You ate your fruit and drank your juice!  Let’s get you down”.  I lift him out of his seat and I set him on the ground and he grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.  I look down at him and I say, “What’s up, buddy?” and he just starts walking through the kitchen, towards his bedroom.  This is very out of character for him; to be “touchy-feely”.

I turn to Jade and I say, “I think he wants to brush his teeth” and I look down at Rory and I say, “Do you want to brush your teeth?” and he just keeps walking.  He walks into his bedroom, pulling me behind him, all the way over to the corner, stops, looks at me and stares.  I say, “What’s up?  Are we just on a little tour?” and he grabs my hand and begins leading me out of his room and into the living room.

I’m 20 minutes late for work and need to leave but am loving just soaking this attention up.  SO DRAWN!!  I squat down next to him and I say, “I’d love to stay here and play with you all day but Daddy has to go to work” and he says, “NO!” and I say, “Let go of Daddy’s hand” and he shouts, “NO!” and I try to wriggle him off because now he’s actually clinging to me and I say, “Rory…buddy.  I really want to stay but I really have to go to work” and I slide his sweaty little fingers off of me and it breaks my heart because I genuinely DO want to stay and play.  My son is not a very affectionate child, so when he wants to sit on your lap or hold your hand… you just drop everything and do it because those moments are few and far between.

Stupid work.

He runs to the door and begins clawing at the knob.  ”NO!!  NOOO!” he shouts while I ponder the best maneuver to actually get out of the house.  I repeat, “Roar, buddy.  I’ve got to go to work” and he repeats, “NOOOO!  NOOOOO!  NOOOOO-HOOOO!!!”.  I open the front door and he tries to squeeze past me, he tries to go between my legs.  He’s literally on the floor shoving his face between my boot and the door, not wanting me to leave him behind.

Eventually, his mother has to come over and pick him up and I give him a kiss and I say, “I’ll see you soon”.  I shut the door, muffling his screaming.  I smile as I walk off the porch and I know that he loves me.