isoglossia

Question: how many photographs do you have to take of a two-year-old in order to obtain one usable passport picture?
Answer: how big is your SD card?

We are in the midst of bureaucracy hell. This is what happens when parents from two different countries procreate in a third one, and then have the temerity to want things like birth certificates, passports, insurance coverage, and a temporary residence permit for the gassy little whiner resulting from their union. We also thought this would be a good time to finally get around to securing Adam his second passport (his U.S. one is taken care of). So we are spending these recent (and upcoming) weeks dealing with the bone-grinding bureaucratic mechanisms of three nations simultaneously, as well as the challenges and attendant joys of producing decent passport photographs of the two little bastards. While few people I know claim to love dealing with bureaucracy, in my case there is something almost pathological about how much I hate it. I have had my fair share of unpleasant experiences, including the very real threat of deportation when I first arrived here thanks to my failure to follow proper visa procedures. Maybe this is why jumping through the endless flaming hoops of bureaucracy occasionally makes me feel physically ill, and nearly always makes me want (to borrow a phrase from a Rob Schneider film review) to smash a toilet.

Lies: pretty much everything I wrote in the boys’ monthly update post turns out to be false. If it was at all positive. Adam’s behavior lately has been deteriorating to the point where I wonder what keeps Magda from just devouring him like a hamster. It does appear to be jealousy-related, and maintaining the delicate balance required for minimal harmony in the house is becoming an ever more demanding chore. Oh, and the potty-training? Forget we said anything. Now I feel like an idiot for even bringing it up. The only thing I wrote in that post which still stands would be the reference to Alek’s gas problem, which has ballooned, so to speak, to the point where he is constantly grunting with effort in his attempts to entice from his bottom one elusive, melancholy fart. To the exclusion of all other activities. Like sleeping. Included in my lies would be the prevailing nickname for Alek: Adam’s limited phonetic inventory has had the final say, and the new baby’s name is Ike.

With Adam’s acting-out behavior, his bath time has become a less-than-festive affair. Last night I looked up from swabbing great gulfs of water from the floor just in time to see him take a dainty swig of Tigger shampoo. Figuring he’d get what he deserved, I brought a sippy-cup of water for him to rinse the “sow-ah” taste from his mouth. Many sips later I was holding him cradled in my arms, wrapped in his towel, when an explosive jet of bright Tigger-colored vomit erupted into his surprised lap. It was nearly the perfect boot: aside from a single drop on my T-shirt, nothing was touched except his towel and every inch of Adam’s naked skin from chin to knee. Back into the tub he went.

Cross-reference: Michael shows why our latest bureaucratic outing is a comparative picnic; this explosive-vomit thing seems to be going around.
The picture: Mafalda feeds her pet turtle, Burocracia. Missing are the first 39 frames of the strip. In the first one she calls, “Burocracia!” Then we wait 38 frames for the turtle to appear for his little lettuce leaf. Copyright Quino (Joaquín Salvador Lavado). See also the Wikipedia entry. Her little brother appeared here back in the early days.