Accidental SoCal Skater

Benjamin has been watching skateboarding on YouTube and he is now obsessed. (Watch skateboarders pees, Mama?)

Thus, we got him a skateboard for his birthday. He cannot ride it very well on slick surfaces, but he's sure getting the hang of it on the carpet.

Here he shows off his proud sponsor, Dynaco. (I heard him in his room yesterday practicing and shouting Dy-na-CO! Dy-na-CO! DY-naco!) Hilarious.



This is where I think he looks like a mini-teenager. Sometimes he acts like one, too. I read that two-year-olds and teens are pretty much the same as far as parenting goes - extremely focused on their peers, striving to be independent but still very needy, and moody as all get-out. Yep. That describes the stage we're in right now. Egads.



Here is his SoCal look. We call it le Dude.



In these photos he appears to be trying to pop up his board and maybe do a kick flip. He also grabs his board like the guys do when they jump. He sometimes puts his hands on the ground and balances his legs on the board a la the longboarding video below. Those guys are wearing special gloves, of course.

This is so funny to me because this interest in skating is completely Little P's. We encourage it because he already loves it, but it wasn't our idea. I love watching his personality emerge.

And, excuse me, but those etchings along the side of his board? Bite marks. Yes, he even bites grip tape. Grip tape on his favorite toy. It must be a sign of affection.














One of the best videos is this longboarding one from Original boards.

And check out this fearless 5-year-old...Little P's inspiration. We're learning that you have to fall a lot if you're going to get good at it. This helps Benjamin shake it off when he falls.

And if he practices, maybe he could do this by the time he's 9...like these 9-year-old twins. Heh, heh.

Camping Slideshow

I love how everything looks more romantic in pictures. Especially when you make them into a slideshow accompanied by pretty music. While it's true that we had a great time camping last December, the photos do not reflect the reasons we went home after two nights rather than the originally intended four.

What the slides don't show: the red raw spots on Benjamin's bum from the dirt and twigs he accumulated in his diaper due to his penchant for rolling on the ground; the magnitude of the cold at night that had us shivering under two layers of down; the state of Papa's sinuses as a gnarly head cold descended upon him; the echoes throughout the campground of screaming as Benjamin resisted napping in the tent.

Such are the reasons we will only go camping in the future when...the children are either immobile or potty-trained, the nights are of a temperature that is bearable with the camping gear we already own, the mornings are warm enough to bathe a child's bum, and the children are not exhibiting a noisy resistance to naps.

But, truly, we had to try.

The slides do reflect that we camped with Auntie Bek, Uncle Mike, and two friends: Jessica (the cute pregnant girl) and Jay. They do show our fantastic campground - a grove of trees in the desert - and our fabulicious six-person tent with enclosed porch. They show evidence of two of our hikes, the flora, the views, the morning sun, the campfires, and the flapjacks. They also feature two of our favorite men - a daddy and the little guy who wants to do as his papa does.

The slides do show that we love camping!

Camping at Tamarisk Grove from Jessica Petrencsik on Vimeo.

And if you are the type to look our campsite up on a map, knock yourself out.

Enjoy!


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Go, Chargers!

Over the course of football season, Little P learned to love the sport. He has, in particular, become a Charger fan. It began like this...

All the men in the family had assembled at Grandpa's house, leaning back in leather chairs, gazing at the big-screen TV. Little P started out with the women-folk in the kitchen, but some sort of man-dar in him told him he should be in the other room where TV commentators were periodically interrupted by shouts and hoots and howls.

What occurred next is a rite of passage in some cultures.

Little P witnessed large men in shiny tights running and jumping on one another. He saw how people in the stands and in the plush leather chairs surrounding him cheered for these gods. He trembled with excitement and then...then he ran across the room and threw himself on the floor. He stood up and shouted, "Go, Chargers" and his little fist punched the air in victory.

And, being the encouraging men that they are, all the grown-ups in the room cheered for Little P, shouting "Go, Chargers!" in response. This continued for the entirety of the game that followed, and any time we were invited to Grandpa's house to watch a game thereafter.

Such is Little P's love for football, he can even spot a picture of a guy getting tackled on the front page of the newspaper in a locked newspaper dispenser and will run up to it and shout, "Go, Chargers!"

Indeed.

Happy Birthday to our Boy!

Benjamin turns two today, so let us revisit him one year ago to see how he's grown.

Eating cake in a high chair. We still occasionally pull out the high chair when he doesn't want to stay put in his booster seat, but Little P most definitely know how to use a fork and spoon.

Look how small he was! One year ago he was crawling and pulling himself up and holding onto Papa's fingers in order to "walk", but he was surely easier to photograph. Now, I have the hardest time getting non-blurry photos!

Now he walks and talks and wears Christmas hats.

He picks out Christmas decorations at Target.

He helps his Papa with repairs around the house.

He paints pictures with Amal and Auntie Rosie.

Unfortunately, he still puts everything in his mouth.

Happy Birthday, Benjamin!

Little P's Personal Pod

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In preparation for the arrival of Mama's cousins and their two adorable kids in semi-permanent residence at The P-Pod, Little P needed to change rooms. This switch in landscape gave Mama the kick in the patooty she needed to finally decorate a room for Little P. He now resides in a very cute kidlike room. Let us explore it.

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There are alphabet cards on the wall, and pictures of loved ones on the shelf. The colors for the room were chosen from the palate in the alphabet cards.

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There are Little P originals on display. The table and chairs arrived at Christmas and we love them. (This is the poor table that recently lost its finish to Little P's insatiable teeth.)

Amal and Little P doin' their thang.

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The corner of the room where the "big boy" bed sits.

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The bookshelf corner and Little P's new art easel.

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The bite marks. Oh, the bite marks!

Found at a thrift store is excellent condition. LP clearly broke it in.

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Thank God for non-toxic finishes.

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The View

Little P has a fabulous view from his windows. Unfortunately, now that his room is above the garage and 12 feet or more above the ground, we had to add bars to the window so that his ever-adventuring self could not fall out. The Mama is sad about this reality (who wants to feel imprisoned by bars?!), but she concedes that this is preferable to waking up to dear Little P on the concrete below. *big shudder*

The butterfly kite has a special connection to his birthmama.

More about these alphabet cards. When Mama found them, she was not looking for them. She was merely perusing the aisles of Michael's for who-even-knows-what now. And then she saw these. How unique they were! And then, on sale for $5?! And then...Martha Stewart brand?

Circle of life...

The Mama was attracted in particular to the vintage-looking art. To the sometimes unusual choice of animals. The newt? The sea urchin? And even to the dark side. Notice the vulture. Notice the fox carrying a dead bird in his mouth. Unsanitized circle of life. Nice.

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Little P HAD to have these.

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Back in the Saddle

The Papa and I are gearing up for another adoption. If you read this or this, you have probably been wondering where we were in the fostering process. Well, some things became clear as we started down that path...we and the agency we liked very much at first were not a perfect fit. We also got word that there was financial help available if we wanted to go the private adoption route. We still had not gone to a county adoption orientation, so we needed to check that out.

Anyhow. What seemed like a sure thing is now a big question mark.

So. We are going to attend the county adoption orientation this month (adopting a child whose parents' rights have been terminated due to negligence/abuse/drug exposure), and a private adoption agency orientation next month (adopting a child whose parents decide it's best for their child to be raised by someone else and plan for it ahead of time...pretty much newborns). Our intention is to adopt a child of any race under the age of two. The Papa wants a newborn, but The Mama would be satisfied with a child old enough to sleep through the night. The Papa also wants a girl and has dubbed this endeavor Operation Beatrix. The Mama would be happy with either gender, but thinks that as cute as the name Beatrix is, we just don't need any more "B" names in The P-Pod. People might start thinking we did it on purpose, and The Mama is way too concerned about what other people think. Sad but true.

More on this topic once we've attended the orientations and have a clearer idea of our next step. In the mean time, if you run across a woman considering making an adoption plan, send her our way...

Nap Time, Again

So it appears that whatever a mama tries works intermittently. Sometimes the spanking works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes all the putting back into bed works, mostly it doesn't.

Yesterday I made the mistake of leaving the house after Little P was supposedly calm and in bed. Diana was in charge.

I returned two hours later to this:

Little P was dancing around his room, singing as best as he could with an open tube of Burt's Bees diaper rash paste in his mouth. As I entered the room, he cheerfully shouted out, "Hi, Mama!

Diaper paste was everywhere. All over his face, his hands, his shirt, his pants. On the walls. On the dresser, and the bed, and the chair, and the easel, and the table.

One beautiful pop-up book was on the floor, the pop-up parts shredded.

There was a fresh bite mark in his new table.

Toys were everywhere.

Parts of his "art" that had been on the wall were shredded and on the floor.

If it were someone else's kid, I would be laughing. Actually, I did find it funny until I saw the bitten table and then I was mad. And sad. I cannot leave him alone while he's awake, and this is very tough for a mama.

So, today we took a different approach. Little P will now be taking naps in his playpen. In fact, that's where he is right now.

Flashlight Obsession

In readying the household for our post-Christmas camping venture, Little P was tasked with flashlight quality control. He took this job quite seriously, as you can no doubt see.

Yup. That registers at about 15 kilowatts.

Uh, huh. Superior strobe effect capabilities.

Mmmmm. Solid as a rock.

Sustains no damage from a two-foot drop onto a carpeted surface.

Fine, shiny black metal appearance. Functional and attractive.

Batteries are secure, yet easily accessed.

QC check by #27.

If I was a Tweeter...

this is what I would be saying right now:

Started nap time two hours ago, and we're still trying to get around to sleeping. From the sounds coming out of Little P's bedroom, it would appear that I am torturing him. I pray the neighbors do not call CPS. In reality, all I am doing is reentering his room every few minutes to lay him back down into bed. No shouting. Few words. Not even a spanking. Just placing him back in bed.

There is no battle like a battle of will.

An Addled Appendix, and Whoa, a Few Heavy Thoughts

Auntie Bek went to the hospital some time early this morning. Abdominal pangs that felt like stabbing sensations. By late morning she was in an ambulance being transferred downtown so that she could be in surgery at 11:00. She emerged, shortly thereafter, groggy and missing an appendix. C'est la vie.

This got me thinking as I was driving to Costco with Little P...it was almost time for Auntie Bek (my sister Rebekah, for those of you just tuning in) to endure her first incision...and I was thinking, Thank God it's a routine surgery. I mean, these days getting your appendix removed is like a teeth cleaning (with a one-week recovery time). But there was a time it was not. And had we lived some years ago (100 perhaps? 80?), I would be down one sister in a few days, either because her appendix would rupture and they would never have known how to avoid it, or because the surgery would have been likely to give her a lethal infection.

This was something for me to ponder because I'm kind of a survival of the fittest girl. It's not that I don't have compassion (I've been called a bleeding heart on a fair number of occasions, and many a conservative friend thinks I'm nuts), it's just that I don't think we as humans deserve much. I think, and I'm working this out in my head still, but I think we really only deserve not to be harassed/tortured/abused/murdered/raped/beaten by other people. Beyond that, I don't know that we "deserve" anything. Even advanced medical procedures simply because they exist.

We have this idea, in our society, that if a thing exists, we have a right to it. If it makes our life more convenient or comfortable, well, doesn't that fall under our Constitutional right to pursue happiness? This entitlement really skews our approach to the real things of life. Base level...whether you are God-revering, God-fearing, or God-smearing, we live and we die. We are mammals. We are subject to the same physical laws as the rest of the world. We are mortal and there's nothing we can do about it.

Last week I read this article in the New York Times about illegal immigrants who had benefitted from a clinic that was able to treat their kidney problems with dialysis due to taxpayer monies and additional funding raised from philanthropists. It was a wonderful blessing to these families who were not paying a penny. The clinic absorbed multi-million dollar losses and finally had to close down. In the closing, however, they still somehow managed to pay for several months of treatments at other facilities for their former clients.

Now some of these people have used up their treatments and not found another form of care, some have gone back to Mexico or wherever and are paying out of their savings accounts, and all are being represented by some lawyers who have tried to sue this clinic for closing down. ?!!

While I am terribly confused how someone in a country illegally has the "right" to free healthcare enough to sue a broke hospital when it can no longer provide said free healthcare, that is not the point. I was startled when one of the people interviewed griped about having to dip into her savings account to pay for treatments in Mexico. I am amazed at this perspective because I have known families who have had to fundraise in order to pay for their child's leukemia treatments, for their kid's long-term hospital visit. My friend's mother was denied insurance based on her previous condition - breast cancer. I know people who have started their own HSAs (Health Savings Accounts) to cover routine medical expenses. I have lived in Africa in regions where the nearest clinic (a non-air-conditioned, concrete block building with six multi-bed rooms that provided iodine as one of the best things they'd got) is eight miles away and folks can only access it by foot or by the occasional bus, or perhaps they could borrow a neighbor's donkey cart or something.

While in Zimbabwe, I opened the door of my hut to one of my students whose thumb was swollen to the size of her hand from a deep, inflamed, pus-filled wound incurred by an accident with a plough some days hence. I was giving her $25 so that she could go to the clinic and finally get it fixed before gangrene set in and took her arm or her life. That $25? That was Zim currency. About $3 in U.S. terms.

Now tell me, really? We all "deserve" everything we want (medically or otherwise) just because we live in America?

It is tragic, to be sure, that a 14-year-old girl who is part of her family's livelihood could lose an arm or life over something like 40 stitches and a dose of iodine. Terribly tragic. And for a moment in time I thought that if I had only gone to Zimbabwe for three years in order to save Mildred's life with $3, well, that was precious to me.

But we are animals. Animals with a soul, as I believe. But just animals if you're not the God-type. Our lives have beauty, dignity, worth, meaning and purpose imbued by God, but without Him, we're living, breathing dirt. And to dust we shall return. No one can deny that.

So our obsession with living life as the most comfortable, beautiful, whole, intelligent, happy, wealthy people? Really, really ironic.

I am not trying to make sense, so please, no one attack me here. I am not building a case or an argument or anything. Just sharing the stuff I started pondering as a result of my sister's minor surgery.

So back to A.B. I thought, in awe, of what our family would look like if it were a hundred years ago. We would probably be minus my sister by the end of the week, so there would be two sisters and one brother. And this sister, me, couldn't have kids (at least, as it so appears thus far in my life). I don't even know what adoption looked like back then - probably we would have taken in some orphans or something. The P-Pod, circa 1903. Weird, huh.

I am so grateful for modern science and the fact that an appendectomy is now a safe, out-patient surgery. A.B. was home in bed by the end of the day, and she'll be absent from work for the following week. We will be keeping her husband fed in the mean time, and Little P will no doubt be visiting her tomorrow.