In which we break decades old vows, beautify, fly with dragons and say good-bye.
First and foremost, let me say this: We can't have any mullets.
I know you expect me, of all people, to be open-minded about hair. But come on-- The boy had a mullet! Needless to say, you can see from the pictures at left that we have tidily remedied the situation and our boy is now sporting a nice, clean-cut, all-American trim.
Now, as the man who has sported shoulder length hair that has alternately blazoned blonde, red and whatever shade of gray curses me now, you might think that my son's mulletectomy is the broken vow.
Think again! And, while you're thinking, try to remember all those things your parents said to you that you SWORE you'd never say to your children.
Here's one of my examples:
Growing up, I suffered many injuries both psychic and physical that reduced me, admittedly, to hysterics. For each of these tragedies, my parents had a single, patented response:
"You'll live."
Even as a youth, I prided myself on my talent for logic and said talent lead me to the belief that my parents' consistent use of the phrase "you'll live" was blatant proof of their long-suspected idiocy. You see, even in my hysterics, I maintained logic enough to know that my hurt feelings or limbs did not, in fact, threaten life. Indeed said hysterics were evidence of my continued vibrancy. Were I actually at the point of expiration, I reasoned, I would pass with a great deal less fanfare.
Therefore my parents casual declaration of "you'll live" proved that they were clearly too dim to distinguish between one's ability to exist and one's ability to endure intolerable pain.
Imagine my horror, then, as the following unfolded:
Robin and I, with the guidance of our pediatrician, have made the decision that Owen's four a.m. bottle-calls are a matter of habit as opposed to actual hunger. As a result, we've been advised to ignore the early morning screams of bloody-murder in an attempt to help him break the addiction.
Night one found Robin cooing and petting the baby for, literally, hours while steadfastly refusing to give him a bottle. Night two was my turn and, when the warning screech sounded, I simply laid abed aghast as the following words escaped my lips:
"He'll live."
(Somewhere, Pat Hess is preening.)
Fortunately our mighty Kazakhstani did survive, enduring long enough to not only see the re-painting of his house (behold its beautiful yellowness at left) but also to ride the friendly skies westward and visit god-family the Lindseys and Abuelito/lita Paul and Pamela. You can see Owen with Dave, Robin and god-sister Eva at left; followed by Robin and Eva; and god-parents Betty-Rose and Dick.
We landed in Sacramento, CA on Friday afternoon. The trip was packed with adventure including a visit to Eva and Dave's in-house zoo featuring hounds, bunnies, guinea pigs and chinchillas (pictured left). It takes more than 200 of those furry little kangaroo-like chinchillas to make one coat so, if you have one, shame on you!
Owen also had a chance to thoroughly explore 'Lito and 'Lita's house including an in-depth analysis of kitty Snorkel's (left) water bowl. (The water was declared "delicious" in case you are wondering.) Paul and Pamela also bought Owen his first tie-dye.
Hmmm. Perhaps the de-mulletization was premature?
Meanwhile the parents, who will no longer be known as "Donn-and-Robin" and will instead be referred to as the "Baby Delivery Mechanism" (BDM), were pleasantly fattened on Betty-Rose's famous stew and chef Pamela's scrumptious and heart-stoppingly rich lasagna, pizza and mushroom chicken.
'Lito Paul took everyone to Nevada City for lunch and to see the studio where he is learning to DJ. Along the way we were treated to snippets of the howling Irish banshees that 'Lito calls "musicians." It was so very educational.
'Lito also took the Daddy portion of the BDM to the local pub for more than one black-and-tan.
Bad ol' 'Lito!
Owen generally did well on the flights and during his visit. He's working on his syllables and proving surprisingly communicative with the simple "bah." When he doesn't want to go to bed-- at 2 a.m. in Paul and Pamela's house, for example-- he lets us know with a thunderous "BAH! BAH! BAH!" On the other hand, when presented with a new softball from 'Lito, he expresses his pleasure with a gentle "bah-bah, bah-bah."
Next time you're frustrated at work, try Owen's little lesson. You'll find a "BAH!" shouted at the top of your lungs to be surprisingly expressive of your intent.
At any rate, Mom and Dad found themselves a bit sleep-deprived as the Owen practiced his middle-of-the-night Celtic singing (Chieftains, beware!) They were also more than a bit saddened to receive news that beloved Aunt Viona had passed this weekend. She was a lovely, generous woman who will be greatly missed.
In the meantime, we're doing our best to get back to a normal life and catch up on whatever sleep we can. You can see the Pops doing his darnedest to catch a nap on the couch below, left. As you'll note, the non-Owen babies have a little something to say about how we spend our time when the boy is down. That time does not include napping.
I've complained to Robin.
She tells me I'll live.
