Chomp, chomp
Seriously, three years old?
Here’s Alek describing his birthday in his own words:
“And then there was a cake! Yeah, and presents! And I, ATE THE CAKE! I pushed it all into my mouth, and then it went down into my belly, and then it was [sad clown voice] ALL GONE… But then I was hungry! And I opened the presents!”
This was his preview version of it at 6.25 in the morning.
Though progress is ever slow on all fronts, we’re hopeful that in this, his fourth year of life now beginning, he’ll find the time to work in pooping in the potty, you know, as convenient — we’ve sort of backed off on that front and have resigned ourselves to his starting kindergarten a full year later than originally planned. Also, by centimeters he and his brother are occasionally playing together, sometimes with minutes at a time elapsing between the hurricane gales of screaming, brutal pugilistics, and grievous upper inner thigh gnawing.
Cake & candles boy
This excruciatingly slow pace of the two of them growing up and getting jobs is at odds with the utter weirdness of how fast they’re getting big and serious about stuff. A certain cognitive dissonance arises from this; It’s possible to have interesting, meaningful conversations with these entities that were so recently little blobs of protoplasm, while at the same time, the competence with which Alek deposits his liquid wastes in the proper receptacle makes it unbelievable that he can’t do the same with the hard stuff, something he apparently never will do, though obviously he’s practically an adult already.
Commemorative cupcakes
At times it is necessary to recall Magda’s dismissive, “I basically farted him out” in order to keep it all in what perspective is possible. Which is not much.
This post, unlike every other since the recent relaunch, is written in haste, with urgent other work baying at my heels, and with serious technical challenges conspiring to keep it from ever seeing the light of day if I don’t hit PUBLISH immediately.
As a means of observing Alek’s big day, go (re)-read Ian Frazier’s “Lamentations of the Father”, a fantastic piece of parental observational humor/despair in Old Testament-speak from the Atlantic Monthly c. 1997. Though I enjoyed it immensely long before I became a father, let alone began writing posts entitled “Your sons are killing me“, it seems especially apt now; from various clues, I am fairly confident that Frazier’s kids must have been in the three-to-five years range when he was so inspired:
And though the pieces of broccoli are very like small trees, do not stand them upright to make a forest, because we do not do that, that is why. Sit just as I have told you, and do not lean to one side or the other, nor slide down until you are nearly slid away. Heed me; for if you sit like that, your hair will go into the syrup. And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.
Happy birthday, Aleksander.
Alek -- overdue soft summer portrait
That “chomp chomp” picture is fantastic. Excellent lighting.
He’ll get the poo in the loo eventually. By 2022, for sure.
Happy birthday Alek!
And “Lamentations of the Father” made me laugh so hard I pooped.
INTO THE POTTY, I hope, Simon.
Erik, I think this picture was taken with a mini softbox, a damn fine addition to your flash for a mere Jackson. A little cumbersome but fine around the house. Folds flat. Makes kids look demonic.
Happy birthday, kiddo. Please get with the poop program.
Smonch that boy hard for me, wouldya?
verb, to smonch: to squeeze, squish, or smoosh with ardent affection.
Oddly enough, just this week I re-listened to the NPR featuring “The Lamentations of the Father,” and remember that Dad emailed the essay to everyone he knew.
And some of them twice.
Related: M & D passed down their Danish modern dining table and chairs to me, the chairs whose legs we splintered and ladderbacks we scarred nonchalantly with the rivets of our jeans, those chairs that we thought they were so irrationally protective of.
… and now that those chairs are repaired and recovered and cleaned and oiled and mine, whenever someone leans back on two legs, or scrapes their buckles or rivets against the back, my face freezes in a polite rictus and my heart goes kerthump. OH MY CHAIRS!
“And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.” Reading all of that made me miss Dad so much all of a sudden.
How is That Boy three already? It is not possible, I say. Sending much, much love, although no cake or presents, from here.
That piece is very Dad, I agree. No doubt he is the one who originally sent it to me. I wonder if any copy of his famous “had we camels” letter to that insurance company survives anywhere? Check your archives, would you, Gaoo?