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

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  • we spell trouble with a capital B.

    welcome to the blog of the letter b photography. we are johnny and jade brookbank. a husband and wife duo of old-fashioned weirdness based in los angeles, california. we shoot maternity, birth, newborns, babies, children, families, seniors and any other randomness that comes our way. this blog serves as a show-and-tell for all of our professional work, family goings-ons and any other wacky adventures we find ourselves in. so please….kick back, stalk around and hit us up if you have any questions.

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Mornings with Children | Day 25

DAY 25


The kids have just gotten to an age in the last month, perhaps even the last couple weeks really, where they seem to be learning new words everyday.  You can say, “Say this or that” and they’ll repeat it so long as it’s no lengthier than two or three syllables.  When we ride in the car we practice all their words and sounds and noises and colors and names and numbers and I try to teach them mathematical equations but they’re just not ready for the pythagorean theorem yet.

It’s 9pm, we’ve been out of church for an hour and we’re all sitting in the drive-thru at In-N-Out.  Jade and I had just gotten baptized on a whim at service and were having a celebratory salvation burger.  While we wait in line, I turn around in my seat and start giving Rory a pop quiz.  ”What’s a snake say?  What’s a donkey say?  What’s a llama say?  What’s a shark say?”  WIthout hesitation he fires back the answers at an impressive rate.  He says, “Ssss.  Ee-ah!  EEHH!  Duh-nuh”.  That third one is the noise I imagine a llama makes… sort of a growling scream and that final noise is the theme from jaws.

We sing the alphabet and I say, “Can you say A-B-C?” and he says, “Ah-Bay-EE!” and I say, “That’s right!  How old are you?” and he says “TWO!” and it’s not the right answer but it’s close enough.  I say, “Where’s your foot?  Where’s your eye?  Where’s your mouth?” and he points to all of them in order, repeating my words.

I turn around and sort of spontaneously, perhaps because I’ve got llamas on the brain, say, “TINA!” in my best Napolean Dynamite impression.  Tina, of course, being the name of Napolean’s weird pet llama and again, without hesitation, Rory drops his voice down a couple octaves, just as I did, and he says, “TEE-NAH” and I laugh and I say, “TINA!” and he drops his voice even lower and says, “TEE-NAH!” and it’s just so totally ridiculous, so out of this world bizarre that I can’t help but crack up.



I put Quinn in a time out, which means I place her back in her crib and tell her, before closing the door, that “Daddy will be back in a little bit to get you.  You need to be quiet because you were having a temper tantrum and we don’t have temper tantrums”.  I shut the door and there is a moment of silence… a very temporary moment of silence, before the ground erupts and the gates of The Abyss split open and all the noises from all the seven circles of Hell pour forth and I can hear them all screaming from the mouth of one tiny babe in one tiny room, the vibrations pounding and banging against the door and threatening to tear it down.

Rory stands by my side and I glance down at him, perhaps seeking advice and he just shrugs like, “I don’t know.  You put me in there and I just take a nap until you come back”.  I take a few hesitant steps back from the door, waiting to see if this is just a “phase” that will pass.  Understandably, she’s probably upset that I just locked her in a box in a room all by herself.  I would be too.  If it were me, I’d shout at my captives, “I know you’re out there!  I can hear you breathing!  You let me out of here right now and then you make me some macaroni and cheese with some broccoli in it but not too much broccoli because the flavor can easily overshadow the powdered cheese taste!”

I glance back down at Rory, wondering if maybe I can read something on his face, like, maybe he’s channeling his twin somehow.  He’s holding a John Deere truck his grandpa had purchased for him and he suddenly throws it down on the ground, probably testing it’s durability.  It doesn’t break.  Not bad.  Bottom line; no channeling happening.  Now, the truth is, I have no problem with letting my kids cry it out.  I am 100% fine with just walking away and listening as their screams and wails slowly die into whispers and whimpers over the following ten to fifteen minutes.  This is not a problem for me.  But man… this time it sounds like something is wrong.  It really sounds like she’s hurt.  Maybe her leg is stuck between the crib bars?  Her knee trapped and swelling up as I contemplate my next move?

I take a deep breath and then decide to just quickly… ever so quickly… poke my head in just to make sure that everything is okay.

I grab the handle, twist and push the door open.  In the crib, Quinn rests with her mouth on the bar of her bed.  She lifts her face away and snot and spit and tears make one long stringy web of mucus and liquid, connecting her to the wooden frame.  Her eyes are puffy and red, her face covered in moisture.  She looks like she’s just been hit with mace.  She stares up at me; her father, her protector, her savior, her captor, her only connection to the outside living world and, spittle streaming between her top lip and bottom lip, she wails in a broken voice, “BLAAAANNNKKEEEE!!!”

I look down at her broken and battered spirits and I can’t help but smile… just a little… and only on the inside.  Her blankie.  Her item of total and complete security.  The thing she drags with her through the dirt and through the puddles.  The thing she sleeps with and eats with.  In my haste to grab her and give her a timeout, I neglected to grab it.

Granted, timeouts aren’t a time of play or fun but there is also a distinct line between punishment and torment.  I fetched her blanket, set it inside her crib and she immediately goes silent.  I place my hand on top of her head and say, “Daddy will be back in a little bit to get you.  You need to be quiet because you were having a temper tantrum and we don’t have temper tantrums”.

I shut the door and there is silence.


Mornings with Children | Day 24

DAY  24


If you’ve ever been to Disneyland and are taller than four feet and aren’t absolutely horrified of heights and / or water, you’ve probably been on Splash Mountain, arguably one of the greatest attractions there… certainly my favorite.  It’s a wonderful little ride where you sit inside of a boat shaped like a log and sail gently through an underground wonderland filled with animatronic characters from the Brer Rabbit tale.  They sing wonderful little songs to you about Zippidee-doo-dah-Zippidee-yays and bluebirds on your shoulders.  It’s a truly magnificent ride, both calming and engaging at the same time.  You can’t help but be enveloped by the attention to detail all the while being lulled into a false sense of security.

About the time you think the ride is ending, things unexpectedly take a turn for the dark side.  The lights get a little dim, the song turns from a “diddy” into something that can only be described as a “dreary” and there are suddenly haunting portrayals of rabbits tied to stakes being prepared to be cooked, singing you their sorrows.  The shadow of a great wolf dances on the wall.  Truly horrifying stuff.

Click.  Click.  Click.

Your log canoe begins it’s slow ascent towards the heavens, taller and taller and taller, higher and higher and higher until finally, you’re simply staring out over the park, watching hundreds of thousands of people gleefully eating churros and hugging Mickey Mouse.  Meanwhile you have one brief instant to tell yourself that “This is Fun This is Fun This is Fun This is FUUUUUUU–” and then the next letter that comes out of your mouth is definitely not an ‘N’ at all and some camera takes a picture of you and your mouth is agape and your eyes are squinting and everyone in the log looks like Gilbert Godfried.

You come out the other end sopping wet, looking like you’ve just peed your pants just as your’e released into the celebratory Dome of Happiness.  There are roughly 50 characters all standing about on a giant Mark Twain style party boat, singing merrily as though your life didn’t flash right before your eyes moments ago.  And just like that, you’ve forgotten everything that came before.  All that matters is this wonderful celebration you’re apart of.  You’re tapping your foot and you don’t care that there is water squishing in your heel.  You pat the knee to your soggy jeans and you laugh and hum with your family.

My afternoon with the children was not dissimilar to this.

My wife leaves the house to go on a photo shoot and I’m so grateful for the time the children that we get to spend alone together.  Obviously not because I despise my wife, but because there is something truly tangible about one on one (or one on two) time with them.  We sing songs together; we sing The ABCs and we go through all their animal noises and all the words they know (over 30!) and it’s such a pleasant and wonderful experience.

We chase each other around the house and we tickle each other and wrestle with one another and laugh and then there’s a point… it’s that click click click point.  Things suddenly and unexpectedly go dark.  The sun passes behind a cloud and my daughter quits being the cute little rabbit and becomes the shadow of the wolf, laughing and licking her chops… and when I say laughing, I really mean screaming.  I have no idea what got into her today but she just unleashed some serious wrath.  She didn’t even appear to want anything; it was like the animals in Splash Mountain; they just did as they were programmed.  There was no reason behind why they were always happy or sad, it was just the truth at that time on that day  and do it they must.

After getting a timeout that seemed less than fruitful, I fed them and eventually decided that it was simply nap time.  The click click click was getting higher and faster and I could now look down at all the people in the park and go, “You have nothing to worry about!  You’re all down there eating your churros and pooping in your diapers!  Why are you crying!  Have I not given you all I have?!” and then whoosh! I’m rushing down the hill.

I scoop Rory up in my arms and I take him to bed, giving a cursory glance behind me to see if Quinn is following… which she is.  I put Rory down in his bed and… Quinn is missing.

I call her name and step into the hallway.  I call her name.  Nothing.  I step into the living room.  I call her name.  Nothing.  I check the bathroom.  Nothing.  I check the dining room and under the table.  Nothing.  I look into the kitchen.  Still nothing.  Have I just lost my daughter for the third time this month?  I immediately check both front and back doors, my mind immediately slipping to the worst case scenario which is, of course, a neighborhood pervert breaking into my house in the middle of the day.  When I find that both doors are closed my mind goes to the second scenario, which is her hurt somewhere.  I have fears of both of them getting their necks tangled around the strings on the blinds or getting into the chemicals under the sink or somehow finding a roach trap that I’ve overlooked from months and months or even years ago.

Then my mind comes to terms with the third possible scenario.

Is she… hiding from me?

I slowly walk into the laundry room, a tiny 5x5ft square in the very back of our house that is usually full of laundry and dog food.  I slowly peek around the corner and… still nothing.  This is weird because there’s really nowhere else for her to go.  Have I been outsmarted by a toddler?  Things are getting weird and I can feel that Splash Mountain falling feeling in the pit of my stomach.  The water is splashing up onto my jeans and I’ve got a Gilbert Godfriend face on while I try to process– wait a minute.

I notice something.  On the ground, sitting right next to a dirty pile of laundry is this weird little snowball.  It’s Quinn’s blanket that she carries with her absolutely everywhere she goes.  She doesn’t leave it alone anywhere so it’s sort of strange that it’s here all by itself.  I sort of lean down and really slowly grab it, half expecting to find some kind of troll or skeleton underneath.

My heart thumping, I gently pull the blanket back… to reveal a doll.  Scary.  And then Quinn; she’s curled up in a little ball on the floor, covered in her blanket genuinely hiding from me!  As soon as we make eye contact she begins to giggle and I scoop her up and I say, “Were you hiding from Daddy?!  Were you HIDING?!” and the truth is… yes she was.  She was hiding from me and it’s so simple and cute and wonderful that I forget everything else.  I forget her throwing her food and the insanely high-pitched, non-sensical screaming.  I forget it all and I only hear the song that is her laugh as I put her down for a nap.



All magic comes at a cost.

For example, there is something bordering on the realm of fantastical about having your child in bed with you.  Waking up in the middle of the night and rolling over, forgetting that they’re there and then bumping into them, finding their tiny hands or tiny toes and then just going back to sleep touching their skin.  It’s hard to say who it’s more soothing to; you or them.

Two mornings ago I opened my eyes and found Quinn’s face staring back at me.  Well, staring isn’t quite correct as she was still asleep, but facing me in any regard.  I shifted around a little and got to actually watch her wake up.  Her little eyes popped open very slowly and I watched, unblinking, as her vision came into focus.  You could tell she sort of saw me… or at least saw something and then realized it was me.  A huge smile broke across her face and the first words out of her mouth were, “HI!”  She just wakes up that way, ready to greet the day.

Conversely, last night Rory slept with in our bed.  I feel as though he has a slightly more overt tendency to cuddle up with us at night than Quinn does, which is strange because their personalities are the exact opposite during the daytime.  I’ll wake up and he’ll have his head resting on my shoulder or in the crook of my elbow or he’ll be draped across my stomach so our bodies are forming a lower case ‘t’.  I’ll wake up and he’ll have his foot across my neck or he’ll have stretched himself along the top of the pillows, connecting his mother and I in a shape that resembles the pi symbol.

You can grab him easier than Quinn and shift him around, cuddle up with him like a teddy bear.  Quinn wants to find her own spot and claim it while Rory will be content with giggling while you pretend to bite his neck and growl in his ear and it’s all very magical.

But all magic comes at a cost.

In the mornings when the sun shines through the windows, my wife and I are awoken not by a gentle and cheerful, “HI!” but by someone poking us in the eyes or jumping on our chests or pinching us or kicking us in the stomach while screaming.  Sometimes we awake to find that he’s slithered off the bed, has found our iPhones and has begun to delete apps.  Sometimes he gets off the bed and wants to get back on but is too lazy to climb so he just yells at your face until you lift him up.

As I write this it is nearing 11pm and I have to stop and wonder which, if any, of the kids we’ll grab tonight.  I know it’s a terrible habit, teaching your children to sleep in bed with you, but it’s FUN and I LOVE THEM and they’ll have plenty of time to ignore me when they’re older.

Until then, I will pay whatever blood price I must for the magic that I love.


Mornings with Children | Day 23

DAY 23  HAPPY 21 MONTHS!!!!!!!!!!


There are a series of events that play out in our lives that will blow open our minds, leaving our skulls with smoking holes where our borders of reality used to lie.  Some of those events are… the first time you fall in love, the first time you see your children, the first time you have a near-death experience, the first time you are served pepperoni pizza by a mechanical singing coyote on a tricycle at a children’s arcade.

There is a *wow* factor as your brain readjusts itself to time and space.  What is seen cannot be unseen.  What once was, will never be again.  I have stood on the mountain top… and it was good.

This morning while my wife was at a meditation class (ie shopping at Target), Rory experienced his mind crumble and then piece back together directly before my eyes.  I actually had the opportunity to watch it happen, all of it, as though in slow motion.

The boy loves milk.  Loves the stuff.  I’m sure if it weren’t socially unacceptable, he’d be sucking on the teet during half time at his big senior game.  ”More!  More!  Please!  Please!  Please!” is his mantra at breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I’m sure that, in his brain, he’s thinking something to the effect of, “Milk good!  Milk best!  Nothing better than milk!  MILK!”

But then there’s this other side of him.  There’s this side of him that loves M&Ms.  After he’s gone “potty” – a phrase I’ve grown weirdly comfortable using – he gets an M&M.  He hops off the toilet and goes running through the house screaming, “Chocky!  Chocky!”  (Chocky = Chocolate = M&M).  We place one in his hand and he savagely shoves the bright morsel in his mouth and runs off gleefully on tiptoes.  Again, I’m sure he’s thinking something to the effect of, “Chocky good!  Chocky best!  Nothing better than chocky!  CHOCKY!”

But wait… Rory, I’m about to open your mind to a dimension of such flavor sensations that you’ll believe you are eating in 4-D.

I ask both kids, “Do you want breakfast?” and they respond, “Yeah!” so I put them in their respective chairs.  I ask them, “Do you want… MILK?!” and they both say, “MILK!” and I can already tell that Rory is more excited than Quinn.  Sure, my daughter wants to eat breakfast but Rory is about to get a fix.  I pull out three glasses, one for each of us, and I fill them each half full of milk.

Rory leaps onto the counter and tries to grab it but I say, “No, we’re not done yet.  We’re not… done yet,” and the truth is I’m just as excited as he is.  I’m so excited to see what’s about to happen.

I pull out some chocolate syrup and I slowly drizzle some into each glass.  Both kids look at me, seemingly disgusted by the thin brown strands I’m pouring into their pristine dairy drink.  I’ve tainted perfection with… grossness.  They both squeal their displeasures and I say, “Just wait.  One more minute,” as I begin to stir, stir, stir.  Eventually, I can take it no longer and I slowly slide two of the three cups over to the kids.  Rory stares down into the dark, muddy milk and sort of pushes it away, completely unsure.

I look at Quinn and she’s dipping her fingers into it and tasting her fingers; interesting technique but it appears to be working.  I pick up my cup and lift it to my lips.  I say, “Look.  It’s good.  Try some,” and I take a deep drink.  Rory pulls his close to him again and looks into it, still questioning.  I take another drink and say, “Drink.  Chocolate milk,” and he slowly lifts the cup to his mouth.

Cue alternate reality.

He lowers the cup, a brown mustache painted thinly across his lip.  He looks at me like, “Could it be true?” before raising the cup back to his mouth and gobbling it down like a turkey in a rainstorm.  He slams the cup down on the counter and victoriously screams, “CHOCKY MILK!”

Life will never be the same.



There are blueberries everywhere!  And not the good kind of blueberries either, the kind of blueberries that are sexual predators.  Yeah, I’ve been on the website, I’ve seen the dots; little blue circles that flag the map of my town, making my neighborhood look like an alien with pockmarks.  Oh my goodness, perhaps some things are just better left unsaid and unseen.  I’ve got a blueberry living a few doors down, I’ve got a couple of them living across the street, I’ve got an entire blueberry bush living in the complex next door to me.

My kids walk around in the front yard and every time someone walks by I have to stop and wonder if they’re some kind of total pervert out on parole.  Obviously we try to not leave our kids unsupervised but once in a great while we’ll leave the back doors open and the dogs will somehow open the gates and the kids will, one way or another, end up meandering around our back yard, exposed to every blueberry in a 1,000 foot radius.

Today my daughter tried to make a break for it, casually sneaking through the house with a “Don’t Mind Me” sort of attitude when… she was suddenly gone… this is actually the second time I’ve lost her this month.  Father of the Year Strikes Again!  When she doesn’t answer my call, I walk into the kitchen and find the back door open.  DANGIT!  My heart jumps into my throat.

Now, the truth is, we have a three and a half foot tall fence that runs the perimeter of our yard but, in my brain, all pervos actually have these really long ape arms so their reach is really fantastic (“The better to wrestle you into my white van, my pretty).

I shout Quinn’s name outside, quickly reminiscing of when my mom would shout my name from our back porch on summer nights, “John Lowell!  John Looo-weeellll!”.  I shout, “Quinn!  Quinn!” and then I let out one of those piercing whistles.  The kids will usually come running to the whistle but there’s no answer.  I jump off the back steps and I’m already freaking out.  Regardless of the fence, my cocker spaniel has figured out three different ways to escape from the yard.  Now, I’m no brainiac but I’d like to think my daughter has more common sense than a dog that repeatedly throws herself in poop.

Halfway across the patio, Rory comes around the side of the house, from our blocked-in drive way.  He says, “Hi!” and I say “Hi, buddy” and sort of push him aside.  Looking down the driveway I see Quinn at the very end, right at our sidewalk, being separated from The Blueberry Patch by nothing more than our front gate.  I whistle again and she looks at me and laughs.

I vow to myself that she’s going to get a spanking when she gets near.  Today’s forecast; a heavy thwapping with a chance of shouting.  She knows better than to be in the driveway.  They both know that they’re not supposed to be in the driveway without us.  These are the horrible and painful things about being a parent.  I don’t want to spank her but I don’t want to see her get hurt.  I don’t want some Blueberry from The Farmer’s Market to grab her and run away down the street.  This idea horrifies me and I have a strong feeling that it will absolutely never, ever go away.

I call her name again and she slowly begins the long walk back to me, knowing, I’m sure, full well what is coming.  She walks right up to me and smiles and it’s so cute and it melts my heart and I don’t want to do what I have to do but I want to make sure that smile stays safe.  I grab her by the wrist, yank it up over her head, say, “You do NOT go in the driveway alone” and thwack! slam my hand into the bare skin on her thigh.

Quinn, who is often times our stubborn child when it comes to spankings, has the proper way of it.  She drops to the hard cement and wails, grabbing at her bottom.

She played outside for the rest of the day and didn’t go into the driveway.

Blueberries beware; I carry a knife with me at all times.


Mornings with Children | Day 22

DAY 22

I hope she can teach them all the beautiful things that I cannot.  She was/is an incredible mother and an even more amazing grandmother.


EVENT 1 & 2 - BOY & GIRL

Anyone that knows my son, knows that’s he sort of this monstrous being; a tall heavyweight looking for a challenge.  My daughter on the other hand is dainty and slim, concerned more about reading and details than about climbing and testing the durability of all objects within her grasp.

That said, these differences extend beyond their personality traits and well into their eating habits.  A standard evening in the Brookbank home looks something like this…

We place a bowl in front of Rory and a bowl in front of Quinn.  Each bowl contains the same food selection; tonight was salmon, sweet potatoes, cooked peaches, feta cheese and asparagus.  Another evening might be chicken tostadas with corn, black beans, cilantro, tomatoes and avocado.  If ti’s breakfast it might be french toast with eggs and bacon or turkey patties with blueberries.

Regardless what the meal is, the outcome is typically always the same.  Rory stares down into his bowl and begins eating the meat; classic caveman mentality.  Chicken, turkey, pork, beef, it makes no matter.  He systematically hand selects each piece until every morsel is gone save for the vegetables.

Quinn, on the other hand, does the exact opposite.  She delicately chooses each carrot, green bean, peanut and broccoli crown until nothing is left in her bowl save for a carnivore’s delight.

My wife and I ask them both the same question, “Are you done?  Are you done?  Are you sure you’re done?”  They both nod their heads ‘yes’ but just to make sure we rotate their bowls.  Quinn’s leftover meat goes in front of The Tyrannosaurus Carnivore and the fruits and veggies get tossed in front of the diplomat from the Herbivore colony.

They both take an additional ten to fifteen minutes to finish off the other’s plates before getting down to start the process of burning calories.


Mornings with Children | Day 21

DAY 21


I sometimes get a strange feeling of vertigo when I look at my kids and see a younger version of myself staring back.  The eyes, the mouth, the eyebrows and, as my brother-in-law is so fond of pointing out, “The Enormous Brookbank Toe”.  This final one is a trait I’ve overlooked my entire life until he recently brought it up.

Even more fascinating than the physical appearances though, I think, are the idiosyncrasies that get passed down.  Somehow, whether it be through some magic of DNA or perhaps through imitation, my daughter has begun to do a face that my wife calls “Evil Teeth”.

Apparently, and this is only recently brought to my attention, I have a tendency to jut out my lower jaw, bare back my bottom lip and snarl.  When I say it like that, it sounds like I’m imitating a bulldog.  I once saw a picture of myself doing this and… it’s actually not very far off the mark.  I don’t know when this started.  I don’t know how this started.  I don’t know why this started.  Some people tap their foot, some people crack their knuckles, I happen to channel Teen Wolf when people start toying with me.

That said, it’s not something I do when I’m mad.  If someone cuts me off in traffic, I don’t drive up next to their car and growl at them like an animal.  It’s more the instances when someone is purposely messing with me.  Sometimes Jade will tickle me when I’m trying to read or she’ll put more dishes on the counter right after I’ve finished washing my final fork or she’ll wrap me up in a comforter while I’m sleeping and cover my face with a pillow and start screaming, “Are you getting claustrophobic yet?” knowing full well that I am hyper-claustrophobic.

Yeah, try waking up to that.

You’d have angry teeth too.

So this evening, my wife and I and my daughter were sitting on the couch while my son ran around exploring.  Jade and I were sort of just watching Quinn, the way you sometimes do.  Sometimes you just watch your kids and they’re doing nothing more interesting than staring at their foot and poking it like it’s a dead cat they’ve found on the side of the road, but to you, it’s the most entertaining thing.  I could easily equate watching my children to watching a Gilligan’s Island marathon.  Just give me a comfy chair, a peanut butter sandwich and a jug of milk and I’ll be good for at least six hours.

Anyway, Quinn is sitting on my wife’s stomach and she suddenly, and apparently accidentally, drops her doll and it flops lifelessly to the ground.  Quinn sort of twists her head a little bit and stares at “Baby” lying on the wooden floor then looks up at me and… Evil Teeth.

My little bull dog.




I come home from work today and my wife is standing in the kitchen shouting this word over and over again.  ”PEACH!  PEACH!”.  I come around the corner and find my son sitting in a chair and pointing at our fruit bowl.  I ask Jade, “What’s going on?  Why doesn’t she give him the peach?  And she tells me that he’s not saying peach… and before she tells me what he actually is saying, I already know.

As the kids are learning new words, they sometimes mispronounce certain ones.  For example, Rory says, “Rennn” instead of “Red” or “Wah-wer” instead of “water”.  That said, there’s not a whole lot of ways you can spin “Peach” before it becomes that other word.  That one word you must never say unless talking to a dog breeder.

Rory points to the fruit bowl and shouts it.  He shouts The B Word as loud as he can and it comes out just as plain as day.  Sure, it’s a sloppy version of “peach” but it’s also a very clean version of the word that shall not be named.

Jade says, “PEACH!  PEACH!” and I can tell that she’s freaking out.  I can read it all over her face; she’s imagining us dining in a Red Lobster and I our son is screaming for fruit like a drunken sailor.  Parents are covering their children’s ears and the restaurant manager is asking us to please curb the language of our young one.

I’m sure she’s imagining a situation where we’re at the park and Rory begins chanting for his favorite fruit and then a horde of children take up the mantra and our family is chased back to our hovel by the torch wielding angry villagers.

And then there’s the cat’s meow.  The Grand Prize.  The Full Enchilada.  I’m sure she’s imagining him in church.  Our pastor approaches us eating a small, yellow / red piece of fruit and Rory gets excited, points right at him and says something that sounds similar to peach but really just sounds more like the other.  There would be awkward silence where our pastor wonders “just where did he learn THAT?” and I’d try to explain but the deal would be done.  The bell would be rung, as they say.

“PEACH!  PEACH!” Jade cries.  ”You must say ‘peach’, Rory.”

BEACH!”  It’s the closest he’s come but we’re still hanging in the gray zone.

Oh well, thank goodness he isn’t a hockey fan.  It could be far more disastrous if he were always going around asking about his puck.