I'm Tired So You Get Pictures, Vol. 38

Parkour expert Young Old practicing l'art du déplacement.

This dude is a true carbaholic. Anyone know of a 12-step program for bread addiction? Google wasn't much help on this one...

Mama K expressing her love on Valentine's Day, after reading the sweet note that Young Old sent her in the Portland Mercury.

My days are filled with moments like these. Life is good.

The Fam.
Taking a stroll at the Whitaker Ponds near our house. Young Old giggled the whole time with delight at all noisy avian residents. Quack, honk, chirp, laugh. Repeat.


Playing a game of Spot the Three-Eyed Fish in the toxic sludge that is the Columbia Slough.

Well, Young Old's got the whole walking stick thing down. It's amazing what he picks up from his very brief observations. Picking his nose and flipping off cops, though...not so amazing.

Show us yer meth teeth, Young Trailer Park Boy.

Young Che gearing up for the revolution.

Young Old the Biker

GrandPops recently gifted to Young Old his first bicycle (well, technically it's a quadricycle). They had a great time taking it out for a spin:



Save his time sleeping, Young Old rarely parted from this red beauty for the better part of two weeks.
Exhibit A:
Thanks for the thoughtful gift!

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures, Vol. 37

I think this is a competitive sport somewhere in Arkansas. Anyway, Young Old's pretty good at it.

Young Country getting his twang on. [For the record, we don't listen to country music and neither should you. -Ed.]

The Boy must have inherited my genetic proclivity towards neatness, as lately he's been obsessed with wiping down every surface in the house. Good thing, too, because since he's come into the picture, we haven't properly cleaned the house a single time.

See what I mean? Adorable or OCD? I guess we'll find out. By the way, he insisted on his sleeves being rolled up. Amazing what they pick up from simple observation.

I came into the bedroom one day after hearing Young Old wake up from his morning nap, to find him laughing hysterically at having put this hat on all by himself. It was pretty funny, though I'd imagine you had to be there.

Communing with his [1/64 Cherokee, at this point, I think. -Ed.] ancestors up at Pork & Mike's Country House. Bang them yams, one.

"Yet another escape foiled by that damn waist strap. Sheeee-oooot." And don't knock the "pants tucked into the socks"-look Young Old has going on. Only parents will understand.

This picture is awesome in so many ways as to be mostly indescribable.

A very sick Mama K and Young Old...

...equals a very sick Papa Old and the continuing sickness of Young Old. Nasty flu insectoid knocked us out of commission for damn-near an entire week. There's nothing quite like the personal hell of three family members performing simultaneous projectile vomiting. We had to shit our drawers in shifts, it got so bad. Yuck, is right.

Young Old, The Movie v.35

Please excuse the dorky parents and watch for that booty shake. Obviously, we've been listening to a lot of James Brown lately.

Young Hippy's Drum Circle

Something you should have learned by now, GrandPops. This dude marches to the beat of his own drum, and no other's. Thank goodness.

Weddin' Crashin' '09

As further proof of the insane number of weddings we attended last year, here are a few more photos that folks have sent us in the time since:

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The crusty appetizer is really ruining this touching moment, bud.

The Crew remains mostly childless, but we're working hard at spreading the infection.

Distant Cousin Alexis and Young Old running game on the dance floor.

Cover of GQ magazine, October 2009. [That's the Geriatric Quotient, FYI. -Ed.]

My ingenious method of keeping Young Old silent and immobile during his Auntie Ren's ceremony consisted mainly of a steady stream of previously sequestered salted-pretzel sticks. Feel free to bite this style.

No need to wait till age 21 to have an intellectual conversation with your son over a frothy brew AKA Dada Juice.

Mama K and Young Old get on the Good Foot.

Young G's by the 1, 2, 3s

We didn't even have to work on this one. Coming from my genetic pool, it was instinctual.

Young Old, Lunar Cycle No. 19

Young Crapper at nineteen months:

Astute readers will notice the mini-toilet. Yes, that's right, potty training is now underway. More on that in a later post.

I'm Tired So You Get Pictures, Vol. 36

I wish I knew what he's thinking, how his design process works, why he picks one color over another and utilizes this line here and that curve there. Us simpletons will never fully grasp the mind of genius. Regardless, more fodder for the baby book.

Nessa Bug indoctrinating Young Old in the ways of the video game addict. Welcome to the club, little buddy.

Auntie Annie and King Richard participating in a very unorthodox version of musical chairs. Obviously, you all lose.

I have to admit, I'm a bit jealous. I'd sure like a ride in the dump truck.


Young Old has turned into a voracious reader. There is no satiation for his literary cravings. He'll ask you to read the same crummy kid's book 487 times in a row, then look morally offended if you decline to participate in the 488th recital. Glancing around, he often spies his next victim, then bombards that individual with boundless cute and undying irritation until they succumb to his wordy desires. It's all a bit out of control. We find ourselves running at the site of a book in Young Old's greedy paws, friends have stopped visiting, and the UPS gal won't even deliver to our home any longer after getting sucked into a marathon reading session a few weeks back. But being overjoyed at the prospect of some verbal relief, we're more than happy to play dumb when unknowing victims stumble into our humble abode. Auntie Annie, tag your it. Our apologies, but better you than us.

All aboard the Flying Suppository, aka Portland's aerial tram. It was a good hang, guys. Come again soon. Seriously.

Monster mash. Graveyard smash.

My two favorite people. BFF for reels.

Originally, we'd intended to disguise Young Old's given name on this weblog, but if you've been watching any of the videos, we've spoiled that plan a hundred times over. The name's Jasper, but he'll forever be a Young Old. [Thanks to the Bellingham crew for the beautiful table and chair set. Easily Jasper's, I mean, Young Old's most used and cherished belonging. -Ed.]

Frisco the Cat has been taking things surprisingly well lately. She still won't give Young Old the time of day, but at least incidents of hissing and clawpawing have dropped significantly since she lost that ocular sphere of hers. Maybe it's age, but since the surgery, she's mellowed out a great deal. This, of course, hasn't stopped Young Old from doing all in his power to molest and harass her on a near constant basis, relentlessly chasing her around the house, creeping up on her blind side, and attempting to shove any object he lays hands on into her empty socket. Frisco, you're a true champ.

Ho. Ho. Ho. Round 2.

Seeing as Young Old's previous experience with Christmas consisted mainly of being stuffed in a giant sock, we thought we'd give it a proper go this time around. As you can see in the following images, he met the barrage of symbols, lights, and gifts with almost a detached boredom, as if he were saying, "This is OK, but next time I think I'd rather just skip the big to-do, lay low, run around naked, and drink bottled beverages." Yep, he's taking after his father already.

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Neither Mama K or myself had ever done the whole Macy's WinterwonderlandsitonSanta'slap-thing. We'd heard from other parents that it is THE Christmas event. They practically prepare for it year-round...and almost had us convinced, too. We arrived, bathed in all the intricate light displays, and cued up to get some one-on-one time with Santa (I needed to let the Big Guy know to put a laptop on my list). Then we got to talking with the other folks in line; apparently, the wait can take up to five hours (FIVE!), and the photos cost, at minimum, the same amount as a kidney replacement. Um, fuck you, Santa. Young Old looked frightened anyway, so we bounced. Don't think this shall become part of the tradition going forth...

Our cute little tree. Don't mind the naked gnome blocking your view.

Thanks for the milk and cookies, bud. The orange was a nice treat, performing double duty in preventing scurvy during the long journey, and helping to trigger diabetic attacks. I love those. The note needs work, though, pal. -Santa [Click on the image to get a bigger, more readable image, if interested. -Ed.]

That "Ho, ho, ho" is pretty terrifying, kid. I probably shouldn't have let him watch Silent Night, Deadly Night.


This book wasn't nearly as good as I remember.


Away in the manger. [One of my favorite photos of the two of us. Thanks, Renze, for gifting this to Young Old. -Ed.]

Props to Santa for being ecologically-minded with the recycled plastic, BPA-free place settings, though I'm sure it was mandated by some agency to offset the methane output of your reindeer squad. Thanks, anyway; he loves them.


"I think I'm getting the hang of this. Here, let me open all of your gifts, too, Mom."

The three Magi (Auntie Ren, Uncle Train and Grandma Alaska) arrived to shower The Boy with gifts. He wasn't too sure what to make of all that frankincense and myrrh, but thought it best to deposit the gold in a college savings account.

Okay, okay, okay. So maybe he did have a good time. Cleaning up, that is. We've trained him well.