We visited my parents this weekend. I haven't really written about them in awhile, I know -- it's easier to report on a crisis than to write entry after entry about a parent's slow decline. But I'll skip ahead to the conclusion of a lot of stuff from this year: My parents are getting ready to sell their house and move into some kind of senior/convalescent/assisted care home. And now I'll gloss over THAT and skip ahead to the bright side of things, which is that my mother's attempts to purge their house of as much clutter and stuff as possible mean that I came home with a HUGE BAG of hideously embarrassing artifacts from my childhood and adolescence to share with you guys.
There was also an ex-boyfriend sighting and if you're the type who likes to keep a mental score when it comes to these things, let me assure you that I TOTALLY WIN, OH MY GOD.
Bright side! We shall look at the bright side!
But before I start firing up the scanner so y'all can make fun of my hair and I dunno, I think there's some poetry or some stories about unicorns in there too, please allow me to poke loving fun at my freak children one more time.
Noah (pictured above as part of his Portraits In Irony, I'm Not Tired series), has decided that his name is now Noah Yoda. And that Noah should always be spelled N-W-A-H, and he is going to sign your Father's Day card that way, even though he hasn't quite mastered the W so his signature looks something like this: N /\/\/\//\/\/\/AH. But dammit, he is going to spell his name semi-phonetically from now on and there's nothing you can do about it, except curse yourself and your nagging mom-voice and your remnant of Philly twang that probably created this NoWAH mess in the first place.
Also, he will only pose for photos wearing a hat. He is willing to use a very loose definition of a "hat", however.
So. There is that.
And now Ezra, who is officially 20 months going on 17 years old.
That's the tubing from my dad's oxygen machine. And the "I know I'm not supposed to touch this" side-eye.
And now the "people are saying 'no' to me" scowl of WTF.
OoooooohSNAP YOU GUYS.
But I'm stillsocuteright?
Moving on from the tubing, he's now surveying the room for choking hazards or things to start fires with.
(By the way, his hair only looks like that because he smeared macaroni and cheese in it. I mean, obviously.)
MINIATURE CARS AND DISTRACTED ADULTS! NOM NOM NOM NOM
Uh-oh. I've been spotted.
My mom -- along with my baby blankets and junior high class portraits and all of my grandmother's Depression Glass -- passed along the advice to poke some airholes in a box and keep Ezra in there until he's 25. I asked her if maybe Gladware would work too.
(Oh yes, this portrait's a keeper.)