Adventures in Family Photography (AKA HERDING CATS UPSTREAM BOTH WAYS)

OMG. So I have like, 40 million things to do today. And approximately 30 million of those things may or may not involve butter.

(Plus I obviously need to go to the store and buy some more butter.)

But I just got our photos from a photo shoot with Blue Lily Photography we did last month, for the second October in a row. (Once again: I have the best boss who gives out the best Christmas presents.) Last year, Ike was a four-month-old blobby of suspicion. 

This year, he proudly moved up the ranks to fully accredited goofball:

He's in good company, obvs:

Despite bribing them with toys and threatening their very lives, my gorgeous children were a horrifically uncooperative pack, I must admit. 

Luckily, Tyler stumbled on the winning trick of getting them to look at the camera by ordering them to not look at the camera. 

Occasionally, we even managed to ALL look at the camera at the same time:

(And by "occasionally," I of course mean "basically those three times.")

And finally, presenting what may be my favorite photo of anyone, ever:

I plan to use this photo as my universal reaction to everything from stupid PR pitches, writing deadlines and suggestions that maybe I should take it easy on the butter. 

Mr. Independent

So I was going to post a video I took of Noah last night, when he wandered downstairs in his Muppet jammies and announced that he wanted to "vote." He went up to the TV  and — amidst a sea of visual noise and percentages and red and blue— found a photo of President Obama, and touched it, iPad style.

"Check! I voted!" he said. "Bock Obama is the President of the United States."

And then he did a little happy dance. He also farted. 

I figured maybe I could edit that part out.

But then I realized I'd probably have to write a whole wind-up about how we have actually never talked politics with Noah, and that he simply wanted Obama to win because Obama is the only president he's ever really known and thus, in his little change-adverse mind, Obama should continue being the president. The fact that his opinion JUST SO HAPPENED to overlap with ours was just an adorable coincidence and not the result of us trying to push him into a specific party affiliation or put him in t-shirts and hand him signs to promote our own adult agendas and gaaaahhhhh.

I realized it was all starting to sound like too much work, what with trying to make sure people weren't offended or irritated and you're all probably getting gloating/opinions/tantrums from all kinds of classless idiots on Facebook and Twitter today AND ALSO EDITING OUT A FART TAKES TIME, so I decided to scrap it and post this dumb little video instead:

Mr. Ike Would Like His Dinner, Please from amalah on Vimeo.

Now that's pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and gettin' shit done. And also tiring your mother out, because LANDS, CHILD. You just climbed right up and ate my baby, didn't you? Why are you afraid of the vacuum cleaner and not of useful things, like gravity? 

PS. Good job, Maryland. And Maine and Minnesota and Washington. The pot thing is pretty cool too, but MAN. Marriage equality. Gets me so damn high, you guys. 

Decorative Gourd Season*

Okay, so. First, as required by LOOKIT MAH OFFSPRING law...uh, LOOKIT MAH OFFSPRING:

Anakin Skywalker

Obi-Wan Kenobi

(Captions provided because yeah, those Jedis all look alike. [SO RACIST.] Noah was also mistaken for a ninja and two people thought Ezra was dressed as a monk.)

And of course, Baby Yoda, the pièce de résistance. Who was occasionally mis-identified as Shrek, but that's okay, because this poor kid had no idea what was going on.

Your customs baffle him, earthlings, but your candy is pretty friggin' delicious.

***

BONUS:

***
And as if all the Halloween craziness wasn't enough, what with the class parties and trick-or-treating and staying-up-late-to-eat-your-children's-candy-while-watching-American-Horror-Story-and-then-Poltergeist (because anything seems like a good idea after enough Kit-Kats)...I had to go chaperone a first-grade field trip to a pumpkin patch yesterday. 

Cozied up on the bus together, when this still all seemed like a good idea.

I am pretty sure, waaaay back when I signed the volunteer sheet, that I was wearing a tank top. The school sent a reminder to check the weather and dress children appropriately that morning, but I can say with confidence that 99% of us completely failed to do that. Kids showed up dressed for the mild weather we'd all experienced the night before, while trick-or-treating. T-shirts. Hoodies. Little girls in knee-length leggings. Not a single hat or mitten in the entire bunch.

It. Was. Freezing. 

Even the adults were all pathetically underdressed. I prepared for muddy conditions, but not cold: rubber boots, spring trenchcoat, short sleeves underneath. Noah probably had the warmest coat out of everyone (because I couldn't find his other one, no points scored), but was wearing it over a t-shirt and again, no gloves or hat And even HE started complaining about the cold after an hour. Which means to a regular adult with no tolerance for "outside" and "nature" and "the slightest twinge of bodily discomfort," the weather felt like at least 30 degrees below zero. Sometimes it rained a little bit.

Me on the hayride. It has just dawned on me that we are all totally going to die, and I am contemplating a duck-and-roll and a mad dash back to the semi-heated school bus.

Yes, child. Smile through your chattering teeth! Use the festive gourd for warmth!

We ended the trip up on a goddamned HILL OF WIND AND HATE, so the children could go down some giant slides on burlap sacks. The teachers and chaperones huddled together and spoke wistfully of coffee and thermoses of soup.

The good news is that I was put in charge of four children (Noah and three little girls) and I did not lose a single one of them. (And oh hey are all first grade girls like, the most adorable things ever? I seriously almost stole a couple of them, and they would have LET ME, because "Noah's Mom" was the "best mom." DIRECT QUOTE, YOU GUYS.) Well, okay, technically I did kind of lose Noah for awhile, when he ran off and mingled in with another classroom and it took me a little bit to notice he was gone (HAYBALE MAZE, WTF).

But since he was my own kid I don't think that counts. I took damn good care of other people's children and shall be rewarding myself with a commemorative personalized CafePress mug shortly. 

"Noah's Mom is the Best Mom." -- Youth of America, Pumpkin Patch 2012 Never Forget

*Fuck yeah motherfuckers

This Official Everything Is Okay Alarm

We're fine, yes, for those of you who aren't on Teh Twittermajob or Teh Instagramamajig and therefore missed my HOURS LONG, hurricane-related, compulsive-shopping bender, during which I purchased approximately four dozen mismatched pieces of vintage Depression and Indiana glass, because apparently I am That Person now, That Person Who Collects Mismatched Vintage Glass And Gets Like, Scary Into It. 

OMG PLATES OMG BOWLS OMG CANDLEHOLDERS HOLY SHIT IT'S A GODDAMN CREAMER OMG.

A warning to anyone contemplating spending the holidays with us: I am now obligated to cook approximately 35 different side dishes, including stuff that will fit in a "pickle dish" or "celery plate."

(That aren't, like, plain pickles or celery. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WEIRD.)

(Not weird: Anything else I just typed.)

(Shutit.)

(It runs in the family.)

The kids slept in the basement, just to be safe. Although technically I should say they "slept" but only a little, after several hours of a live re-enactment of Beyond Thunderdome II: The Lost Tribe of Stir-Crazies. 

(I'm technically supposed to be "reviewing" the Furby for a holiday gift thing, but Noah won't let me put batteries in it because he's afraid it will grow up mean. The Furby 2012: it's an attractive yet vaguely creepy paperweight!)

Meanwhile, Giant Ikea Carrot kept Ike company in the Pack-n-Play. 

Anyway, that's about all that's happening here. Our power is on, our cars and house are undamaged, our streets are full of leaves but no flooding, and I am really, REALLY hoping I can send a couple certain children back to school tomorrow because really. Enough togetherness. It's time for me to spend some quality time trolling eBay and Etsy for the perfect vintage soup tureen. 

I hope everybody else reading fared similarly, and that y'all are okay and fine and up to your usual weirdness too.

 

This Is the Birthday That Never Ends

After a few years of convincing our children that a visit from Grandma and Grandpa totally counts as a birthday party, we decided that we owed them a wee bit of a blowout. 

And so in accordance with our local traditions, we set two dozen or so children loose in a local inflatable thunderdome for a couple hours. 

Not to brag or anything, but this was THE birthday party to be at, at least between the hours of 1:00 and 2:45 pm. The next party started at three and was probably pretty much the same.

Slides, climbing, jumping, bouncing and the sounds of shrieking sweaty children hurling their bodies in every direction because everything is soft and squishy and WE ARE INVINCIBLE UNTIL SOMEBODY FACEPLANTS ON THE CARPET.

(So not kidding about the sweaty part. By the end of the party the children all looked like they'd just run through a car wash.)

Ike, who is — surprise, surprise — turning out to be absolutely FEARLESS, charmed our party hosts into taking him on every piece of equipment approximately 100 million times. After awhile they were just tossing him down the slide free-fall style while he shrieked in delight. 

After a couple hours it became clear that everybody was in dire need of a shitload of sugar.

Luckily we had some on hand. 

So. Okay. We decided on two cakes because 1) it would let us cover both sides of the oft-brutal chocolate vs. vanilla debate, 2) I was not sure I wanted Noah and Ezra crowding and elbowing each other just inches away from open flames, and 3) the bakery described these as "two small rounds," so why the heck not?

They ended up being easily twice as big as we were expecting, but also twice as BADASS AWESOME LOOKING.

Every little boy in attendance (and several of the girls) shrieked at the sight of GREEN NINJA CAKES and I was like, WINNING AT PARTIES AND PARENTHOOD. OR AT LEAST ORDER FORMS AT BAKERIES. 

(Ten minutes later one of those boys pointedly ask me why Noah "chose" to put a bunch of lame erasers in the goody bags, which of course were something I chose, so all coolness points were obviously immediately lost.)

(Though nobody can take away my awesome they-don't-make-licensed-Ninjago-party-merchandise sticker-application skillz.)

We killed one whole cake and about a third of the other. All the leftover slices are vanilla, which of course means they are naturally part of a balanced breakfast. 

So now the High Birthday Season is officially over around here. Until June, anyway, but luckily Ike still doesn't know that many people. Except Grandma and Grandpa. Those guys know how to party. 

Also:

Noah is in heaven. I am in some heavy-duty reinforced combat boots and mourning the official loss of the last uncluttered surfaces in the house. They belong to the Legos, now. Save yourselves. Have some cake.

So Long & Thanks For All the Fish

I used to wonder when we'd be "done." After the speech therapy? Occupational therapy? After the mock preschools, special preschools, summer camps, kindergarten or...? 

I don't even know what I thought "done" meant. No more therapy? No more IEP? A final ruling out of SPD, PDD, ASD, ADHD, AFLACDIAFOMGBBQ? A child with no label? A child who is "cured" and "easy" and "totally predictable" and "not such a quirky little amped-to-11 question mark?" 

Obviously, duh. Bless my precious little heart, I just wasn't that bright. Noah is who he is, he will always be who he is, and we will always — ALWAYS — do everything we can help him be the best Noah he can be. You know, like we do for all of our children. (It's not like non-SN kids simply raise themselves with a little help from a pack of neighborhood dogs, after all.) There is no "done," really. 

But we are done with occupational therapy. His therapist is moving on to a new job, after all. We're not transitioning him to someone new, because really, it's time. It's a good stopping point, and he's ready. His final session was yesterday, full of hugs and high fives, Chipotle gift cards and a book Noah wrote for Ms. M__ called The OT Teacher From the Black Lagoon. 

I also used to think that when we were "done," I'd spike a football and celebrate. No more driving! No more waiting rooms! No more insurance hassles and bills and appeals! Look at my kid and how far he's come and how awesome he is! Party on Thursday afternoons! BOOYAH, BITCHES. WE'RE OUT.

Instead, as we walked through the lobby and back to our car for the last time, I felt a terrible pang. This place, these people, this weekly ritual. So profoundly important to us for all these years, and now?  Done.

Done. Whoa.

And in the end, it was mostly...momentously unmomentous. Discharge report will go in the mail, okay, goodbye. Goodbye receptionist, goodbye other waiting room parents, therapists, evaluators, random employees who still know all of our names and remember when Ezra was only a baby and Ike didn't exist and oh right, when Noah didn't even really talk. For all these people, it was just an awkward wave and a...yeah, this is it, we're done. See ya around but probably not, I guess.

But also: Look at my kid. Just look at how far he's come and how awesome he is.

So thank you. To all of you, from all of us. 

Seven? Seven. SEVEN.

He's a giant tall loud solid handsome boisterous talkative smart but complex confident yet anxious funny lovable loving affectionate impulsive but thoughtful excited opinionated independent Lego-obsessed sometimes fearless other times not so much future dolphin trainer. These days, anyway.

I still look at him and see the baby who changed everything for the better, including me. The baby I want to write thousands of lines of tortured flowery prose about in a futile attempt to capture every moment and milestone and the depth of the change, or at least find some tortured flowery song about once a year so I can jerk some tears out of myself.

"Use the Ninjago song this time," he ordered. "It's my favorite."

Yes sir. Happy birthday, you awesome kid, you. 

Noah's Seventh Birthday from amalah on Vimeo.

Occupational Gratitude

Noah first met his occupational therapist at summer camp. He was three-and-a-half years old and had already developed a fierce dislike of school (and any school-like activities) and a deep distrust of teachers (and any teacher-like adults). But for some reason, Ms. M___ was different. He liked her. He liked her a lot. 

For over three years now, she's worked with him. First, almost daily, at preschool, then weekly. She was his anchor, the thing he looked the most forward to all week, the one person who could always — ALWAYS — coax the most and the best from him. Balance, coordination, motor planning, social skills, play skills, handwriting, attention span, self-regulation. She's encouraged him, pushed him and challenged him. But most of all she's believed in him, and loved him. Genuinely, unconditionally.

She's the first person to hear about Noah's victories and breakthroughs, big or small. She is one of his biggest cheerleaders.

She's also the first person I talk to when I'm having a rough time, or need ideas or strategies or some empathy from someone who gets it. Or maybe just to geek out about The Hunger Games. She's kind of been my cheerleader, too. 

Yesterday she told me that she's moving on. She's resigned. She's accepted a new job somewhere else, and the countdown to Noah's final session has begun. 

We both cried. She cried the hardest. 

I haven't told Noah yet. God. That's going to suck. 

The good news is that I know Ms. M___ and I are going be awesome friends now, and that she's not really going anywhere. Except maybe to our house, and my couch, since we'll allowed to hang out and drink wine and play with Noah in the backyard. 

And you know? It's time. It really is. Noah's doing great. Beyond great, really. And other kids deserve to be great now too. I wish I could tell those kids and their families that man, you guys, you're so lucky.

You're about to meet the person who is going to change your life. 

What's Black & White &...aw man this sucks

Well, which IS it, Cereal Box? WHICH IS IT?

Not all black and white? Or pretty black and white. YOU CAN'T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. STOP TOYING WITH ME. 

Especially in light of the National Zoo's devastating loss of the newborn panda cub this weekend. Which: No joke or snark, I am UPSET. I am feeling genuine feelings of feelingsosity and I don't like it. This goes against every word I've ever written about The Fucking Zoo and how it Fucking Sucks because it's Outside and Full Of Nature and Pooping Things and also Uphill In Every Possible Direction. But there it is. I am really terribly sad and bummed about the poor tiny wittle baby panda and the poor sad mama panda and DAMMIT, NATURE. YOU REALLY ARE THE WORST.

Also the worst: Me, for deciding to tell Noah about the baby panda yesterday morning, while he pondered the above cereal box and asked questions about pandas and hey! Speaking of pandas! There's a brand-new miracle panda baby at the zoo that we can maybe go see in a couple months!

And of course Noah — since he is NOT a bitter jaded Zoo-person like his mother who thinks the pandas are kind of overrated and not worth the line because they just SIT THERE and chew on leaves while the tourists are all OMFG PANDAS PANDAS PANDAS — thought this sounded excellent! Very exciting! Can we go today? Tomorrow? Today? 

I totally jinxed that poor baby panda and I feel terrible about it. And now I have to decide between telling my child the truth or inventing a cover story about how the baby panda went to go live on a nice big wide-open bamboo farm in China. 

***

Ugh. This is too depressing for a Monday. Let's look at some pictures instead, from earlier in the weekend when life was happy and fun and baby pandas lived forever.

BONUS OF WHAT THE ACTUAL LIVING HELL, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, NOT-SO-BABY IKE:

My Internet Crashed Three Times While Typing This Post. I Think It May Be a Sign.

Well, let me tell you WHAT; it has been a seriously exciting 24 hours around here. I mean, by blogging standards. Okay, by THIS BLOG'S standards. 

You know what? Shut up. Forget I said anything. 

Part Excitement The First: I lost my wallet for 27 whole minutes. Twenty-seven excruciating minutes, during which I ran around the house like a panicked flappy loon while Jason called a pizza restaurant I sorta kinda thought maybe I paid for the check and so maaaaaybe I left it on the table? But he asked them if they found a "clutch-purse" and of course they hadn't found a "clutch-purse" and so I hollered at him from two rooms over (where I was re-digging through my purse for the millionth time because WALLETS DON'T JUST SPROUT LEGS AND WALK) that no, IT WASN'T A CLUTCH-PURSE, IT'S A WALLET. A WALLLLLLLL-ET.

He hung up without clarifying and stared at me. "What's the difference? It's not there."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW IT'S NOT THERE," I countered. "You called it a 'clutch-purse.' The results are invalid."

"Amy, do you really think they would say, hmmm, we did find that orange wallet that no one's claimed yet, but this guy's asking about an orange clutch-purse. That's two completely different things! Probably shouldn't even mention it!"

"They might! Because they are two different things! Although I don't think 'clutch-purse' is actually something people even say but oh wait look here's my wallet never mind."

It was in the foyer under the shoe rack, next to some Legos. 

Part Excitement The Second: Baby Ike literally quadrupled in size. LITERALLY. 

And he's already getting a headstart on the next growth spurt, with some incredibly tippy-toe balance.

Part Excitement The Third: Back-to-School Night. The always-thrilling experience of getting to perch half a buttcheek on a teeny tiny chair for 45 minutes wishing all the other parents would stop being so goddamned INVOLVED and ENTHUSIASTIC and QUESTION-ASKING-Y because c'mon! We could have left 15 minutes ago! You're ruining recess! Let's bail before she changes her mind and gives us homework!

This was Noah's note to us this year:

Dear Mom Dad,

You are so special because you AlWAYS bRiNe Me to rESturanTS.

Love,

NOAH

Damn skippy, you little pickle. AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT.