Neighborhood-Kids All Local. All for Kids. All the Time.

Good grief.  What does it take to get just one professional quality photograph with a toddler?  Thanks to digital photography and a talented friend, we've discovered that it may take up to 27,000 crappy shots to get a decent one.  Our first official family photograph session has come to pass.

Things I've learned:

1. Don't schedule a photo session at the child's bedtime.
2. Do check the tide schedule if you plan to walk along the beach for your photos.
3. Don't wear pants that make your ass look huge.  You want your precious child to be the focal point of the photo, not your tightly clad ba-dow of a booty. 
4. Do have infinite appreciation for your friend who is hooking you up for a fee that is way less than she's worth.
5. Don't expect your candid shots to look the same way that candid shots look in magazines.  It is tough to look nonchalant on purpose.
6. Do laugh at yourself and your ridiculous quest for the perfect picture.

The hubby came home from work the other day and promptly slumped onto the couch.  Usually I am not on the couch around that time, but this day I was.  Archer was playing with his red Radio Flyer and hustling around the room, drunk with silliness and chirping all the way.  Sunshine brightened the walls, and a slight breeze puffed through the opened windows.  We adults slouched there and looked on contentedly, my legs strewn across his lap, his arm tucked under my lower back. 

Swept up in a rare (and quite cliché) moment of domestic bliss, my husband leaned over and kissed me.

Archer paused.  He looked at us.  His mouth spread wide and he let out a snarky "AAaaah." 

Before we knew it, he was upon us, pulling himself up to eye level with me.  

He kissed me.  Lips puckered, with a loud "MMMMMWWAAH!"  He looked at his dad and grinned.

Hubby bent down again and kissed me again.

Archer followed suit.

Hubby hovered an inch above my face and launched a full scale attack of smooches.  Archer retaliated with a bevy of wetter, more audible kisses.  I was utterly overtaken by these two boys simultaneously laying claim to my face.

Finally, in an ultimate show of power and shamelessness, Archer put his little body between my husband and me, grabbed my face with both hands, and planted one squarely on my chin.

By this time, all three of us were nearly falling off the couch; our howling laughter echoing out of the open windows. 

This morning Phil was washing a teetering heap of dishes in the sink and I was eating breakfast with Archer.  About five minutes in, the boy got restless and began his meltdown ritual: sweeping food around his highchair tray, banging his spoon against his bowl, dropping chunks of bread in his cup of milk, etc.  I consider this mild behavior and usually take it as a casual signal that mealtime is ending. 

However, today I was distracted by other tasks (sure, maybe it was looking up new artists for Pandora Radio), and failed to recognize the impending truncation of a pleasant morning meal.  In an instant I see Archer climbing to his feet and trying to hang over the edge of his highchair.  I darted over and commenced scolding, panicked mother style: "NO!  STOP THAT!  You DON'T do that!  Sit DOWN!  SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!..."

At this point I hear Phil stop the kitchen tap and mutter, "Okay..." 

As in, "Enough already, you hysterical woman - ease up on the poor kid."

A clenched fury broke free in me that unleashed all of my uncharted fears of the future of discipline in our household: Dad the laid-back, sympathetic, isn't-your-mom-a-nut-wink-wink guy and Mom the hard-edged, rigid, order-above-all-else tyrant.

Yikes.  We need to talk about this over dinner. 

Whooping and shouting, "ROAD TRIP!" no longer has the appeal it once did. 

In fact, anything longer than a quick jaunt to the store conjures a sense of looming dread.  Having a miniature human harnessed Indy 500 style into the backseat has a way of diminishing fun by the mile.  This I know.  I just returned from a weekend trip to Bend.

I had planned to cut the trip into tidy little parts, stopping frequently to let the little guy unstrap and do baby things.  This plan worked well on the way down.  Stops in Seattle to visit Grandma and Auntie, Portland to stay overnight with a good friend.  I timed it so that most of our driving was done during his nap times.

But on the way back home, I pushed it.  Not good.

The last hour was a battle.  Archer screaming as I am literally throwing toys and food and his blankets and bottle at him to quiet him for 15 second stretches.  As we climbed into the hills along I-5 from Mount Vernon, he had resorted to cramming his fingers into his throat and gagging himself, howling with boredom and discomfort.  I grew alternately livid and morose. 

As we pulled into our driveway, I had sworn off road trips until he was 16 and could drive a separate car. 

My mom had a good chuckle when we were on the phone last night, joking that Archer should be signed up for a frequent flier program.  Truly, as I think about it, he has been traveling nearly every month he's been alive.  This is a statistic I am proud of.

December was a stand out month for vacations, with our trip to Sayulita, Mexico being a highlight.  But little Archie has been on the go from the get go, including two flights to Oregon to visit my family in the summer, a long drive to the Tri-Cities for an Ultimate Frisbee Tournament in late fall, and a few glorious weekend retreats on Camano Island sprinkled in for good measure.

The mode of transportation to and from each of these locations has been variable; car, bus, plane and train.  Those are printed in order of preference; from worst to fantastic.  I'm telling you (emphatically) - you must ride the train from Bellingham to Seattle and/or vis versa.  This is one of the prettiest routes ever to have seen tracks laid, and the spacious seating is absolutely made for travel with small children.

Another important variable in these trips has been sleeping arrangements for the baby.  Visits to Grandparents' houses are fairly straightforward; they nearly strain muscles bending over backwards to purchase pack 'n' plays, set up cribs, clear out guest rooms and build additional wings onto their homes so that the kid will be comfortable. 

But other, less familiar environments call for creative bunking.  The cheap motel we stayed at in Tri-Cities was less than "baby friendly."  We had to corner off a section of the floor, lay down some blankets, cover the exposed wiring, and hope that Archer didn't get too mobile in the middle of the night. 

On Camano he slept in a closet.  Sayulita, a bathroom.  I'll never forget the look on the cleaning lady's face when I told her she didn't need to clean the upstairs loo because there was a baby napping in it.  "En el bano?" she whispered, horrified. 

But all this is just fine, because I have a love for travel that is thick in my veins, and I'm planning on many more adventures with Archer as a travel companion.  In a month we fly to Florida to visit my folks, and then in June it's a sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands.  When Archer is school-aged, we hope to live abroad.  It is hard to imagine my wanderlust ever being satiated, and hopefully this will be passed along to our children.

Of course all this wandering would not be nearly as sweet if we didn't come back to the greatest place on earth.  Bellingham is home.

My son loves kissing.  French kissing.  With tongue.  And saliva. 

Endearing as this may be for his dad and me, sometimes I wonder if it is creepy that we enjoy it so much.  All this unabashed making out with our infant.  Letting him lick our cheeks and lips in delight.  We can't help laughing when we request a kiss and he comes at us like a drunken frat boy with his mouth stretched wide.

And where to draw the line?  When we were recently visiting his grandparents in Seattle, Archer was begging for a open-mouth kiss from his Grandpa who, getting swept up in the excitement of it all, went at him with his own tongue out.  I pulled the boy back at the last second, saying, "Okay, I think that's crossing the line..."  We teased the poor old guy for the rest of the night for initiating a make out session with his own grandson.

But who can blame him.  Rarely in our lives do we get such appealing offers to swap spit.

'Tis the season.  'Tis the first year I've had to think seriously about what the season's hoildays mean to me, what they signify to my spouse, and then in turn figure out what we want the holidays to look and feel like for our child.  This is a big deal for me.

When I first began ruminating about the approaching holidays, I was filled with a vague sense of dread.  More than anything else, I felt sure that my vision for celebrating would run up against strong opposition from family members on both sides.  What if we celebrate Solstice?  What is Santa all about?  Should we volunteer at a shelter on Christmas morning instead of opening gifts?  How radical is too radical?  Which traditions are vital to honoring our family and culture?  How would it be possible to create our own rituals without offending family members who have done things differently and have such strong emotional ties to certain practices?  I could go on.

First, there is The Great Gift Debate.  The whole concept of TGGD touches such a raw nerve for so many people that it is suprisingly difficult to speak openly about it.  This, to me, demonstrates the powerful stronghold that consumer culture has on us, particularly during the holidays.  Depending on who you talk to, exluding or drastically limiting gifts on Christmas (or any other day of the year) can either seem like the greatest way to help children understand what truly matters, or be the cruelest form of senseless parental control.  Although there seems to be an emerging willingness to discuss TGGD (stories and op-ed pieces are showing up in the New York Times, Slate, and on NPR), the issue largely remains taboo.

Then there is the question of religion.  No controversy there, eh?  Huh.  Phil (my spouse) grew up as a practicing Catholic and now considers himself more of a cultural Catholic, while I grew up with an inconspicuous absence of religion and now consider myself to be - much like Phil - spiritually curious.  What's remarkable is that our Christmas experiences were really quite similar, except for Phil's family counting down the days of Advent with a sort of miniature re-enactment of Christ's birth involving their wooden naitivity scene, and of course going to church.  Otherwise, our memories are fairly consistent with each other: hanging the stockings, trimming the tree, cozying up as a family by the hearth and opening presents.  The tricky part here is first examining what we wish to illuminate for our own son, and then how we will go about doing that: should we emphasize a Catholic interpretation of the story of Jesus or a more generic version that is adapted to our ever-evolving spirituality?  And again; how?

Essentially my greatest fear is that we will not give conscious thought to these important issues, and we will simply default into whatever rituals are predominant and convenient - whether they be driven by commerce, politics, or religion.  My greatest hope is that each holiday season will come as an opportunity for our family to do things together with love that will set the tone for a new year of gratitude, hope, giving of ourselves, and peace for all people.