The Gamache Boys

I am the oldest of 3 boys. Growing up I often recall people looking at my mother with pity, sympathy and gut wrenching fear when she informed them she had 3 boys. I never really realized how differently wired little boys were than girls until I had a little girl of my own. Its as if little boys are predisposed to destroy. Not maliciously, that just seems to be how they test things. Sharks bite to see if something will make a tasty meal. So when our friend Julie had her 3rd little boy I remembered all those looks my mother received. So instead of sympathy, or pity, I smiled and said “you’re in for a hell of a ride”.

Reef, Kai, Finn

I approached my most recent photo shoot with a plan. Since I had seen Reef atop the highest point in of every piece of playground equipment in the greater Newport area I knew that I would have to get him on my team. The oldest brother team. Since Grandma was in town from Ohio it was important to get this right. Give her something to take home from her time with her boys. Reef and Finn are fearless. I’ve always taken a lot of enjoyment over watching their antics at the park, or playgroups since nothing stops them. No force is greater than 2 brothers with a mission to explore.

Robots

Soon the 3rd musketeer will be old enough to climb, shimmy, and rush headlong into the fray with his older siblings. But until then he watches them with wide eyes, sometimes you can almost hear him say “you fools are crazy… can I go to!?”.

Goodbye Sock

The hour long shoot was an awesome time of playing catch up with the boys. It reminded me of what happened when my brothers and I were at the beach. Climbing on logs, running through the brush, and peering over bridges. These boys couldn’t be happier to be on that bridge.

Bridgeview.

And even though little Kai couldn’t be peaking over the edge with them, he was looking around on his own.

Kai

Bribing them with the promise of chocolate pudding, we even got everyone looking at the camera a few times.

I am excited to continue to watch these little guys grow. I admire their tenacity and desire to explore. I don’t envy the emergency room bills that will likely occur in the future, but my brothers and I all survived it. As did my mother, and so will Julie. My only advice is that if it has value no matter how high the shelf it, they will get to it. Put it in a box and hide it until they are teenagers… or maybe in their 20s.

A friend is a brother who was once a bother. ~Author Unknown

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The Indoor Park

Sometimes in Oregon it rains. But only sometimes.  Other times it might be drizzling, misting, sprinkling, pouring, or most often as the weather man dictates “showering”. We like our different words for water falling from the sky. This land where children are so often confused by learning the sky is blue, since around here it is mostly gray. But with these many gray days, wet days, and completely erratic weather days we parents need places to take the kids to run in circles that is not just the living room at home.

We started attending the indoor park at the city rec center about the time my daughter could crawl. The array of toys wasn’t extensive, and the probability of injury was high for the most part. Crawlers intermixed with toddler’s just able to reach the pedals on the tricycles, but not adept enough to steer them, resulted in the occasional scene from “Red Asphalt”. Ok, that’s a bit dramatic. It seemed, though, like there was a frequent invasion of just a couple bigger kids to show the littler ones what kind of dare-deviling could be achieved . . . then all of a sudden that was my child.

Her mother gave the go ahead on this, not me!

As the parents (typically moms) stood along the sideline it seemed that the older the kids got the fewer mad dashes across the room to pick up a crying crawler would take place. Coffees in hand everyone could stand and chatter with the frequent interruptions of “don’t throw that at him/her” or “no, you don’t need to take off your pants”. Without fail, mouths open wide, the kids would come running. It was snack time.

Bartering, Sneaking. Begging. Stealing. All the typical jailhouse cafeteria decorum would take place around the little Fisher Price picnic table. We wonder why our little people are sick so often, then you watch them share food. They sit, they eat, they run off and quickly the food is picked up by a mom so that a wayward crawler isn’t learning whether he/she has a nut allergy yet. But for 2 hours twice a week its a place to go that is dry, and gives us a chance to count home many laps the old fella with a limp can make it around the track above us. Well worth the $2 entry fee.

At The Park

The sun is deceitful on the Oregon coast. You can look out a window to a clear blue sky, the sun above, then walk out to the bone chilling wind. It’s not rain though, and for the parents in the area that means time to go to the park.

When I was a kid it was called a playground. Now that I am a parent it’s more like a meeting ground. The adults hold tightly to their various coffee mugs, exchanging tales of what their little person did today. Intermittently breaking up the conversation are the “gentle” reminders to our kids to not eat bark chips, as they are not real chips, or as they get old not to physically accost the other kids. There is always a “no” for every age.

They find their friends from school, from dance class, the ones they shared library time with as a toddler. That’s the nature of a small town. Even the kids all know each other before they realize what it means to be social, and exchange stories as well about what has been going on in the respective circles.

When I am not feeling particularly social it gives me an opportunity to follow my little blonde whirlwind around the playground catching some snapshots. My favorites are when she and her little friends don’t even think about my presence, and in this case while playing on some of the unusual equipment at this park, I got my shot.

And no, that’s not a UFO above them. Just because we live in Oregon doesn’t mean we all claim to see UFO’s… often. 😉

Spinning

A person’s a person, no matter how small – Dr. Seuss (Horton Hears A Who)

Raven Hair Sisters

When my daughter was very young we began taking her to the local library for toddler time. They would read stories to the kids, then they could all be “social” and play with the train set and puzzles with the other kids. Plus, this was networking gold for the other moms (and occasional dads). But as any parent knows keeping a newly mobile toddler in place to listen to a story is not always easy. Velcro on the butt crossed my mind a few times. I even suspected it of some of the other more crafty looking parents. I was always fascinated by the attentiveness of one of the girls there, Willa. Over time we got to know them and I had the pleasure of photographing the family when their 2nd daughter was born last September.

Serafina Brand New

Born with the same thick head of black hair as her sister Serafina immediately began hearing the constant reoccurring comment of “oh my! she has so much hair for a newborn!”. But today while we sat in their comfortably warm and well lit home, it felt more like a window into how they sit with eachother and enjoy family time together than a photo shoot. Brad happily pulled out his guitar to add some nice background music to soothe the baby, and I of course brought some candy incentive for 4 year old Willa. 

Willa and my daughter go to school, and dance class together. So even though she knew who I was (Natalie’s dad, or, guy-who-always-has-camera) I was still in her space and she withdrew a bit. It was a lot having a brand new sister in the house.

But ultimately she quietly accepted that I would be there for just a short while, and when she didn’t think I was there could be caught being “Willa” and having conversations with her folks. Then she overcame all of her shyness to have a picture taken of herself, her new baby sister, and her equally raven haired mother, Tanya.

I was excited to be asked and incredibly honored, to come and do more family photos when Serafina approached her 6 month birthday. Watching her growing personality at dance class while my daughter and her sister were in practicing they arabesque, there was now a chatty, happy, jet black haired little girl.

Trip 2 to the house for photos showed Willa a much more confident older sister. Not only wanting to be in the pictures, but helping in trying to get baby sis to smile!

"Chubby Chubby" as she says.

It quickly moved from a 6 month old shoot to a very happy and fun sister shoot!

Since the guitar had been such an integral fixture in the first shoot we thought why not incorporate it this time too!

We’re not going to discuss here what happened while she was in there, but I think I owe them a new lining.

When she was a newborn the shoot was broken up with feedings, naps, diaper changes but this one was just a happy smiley baby the whole way through with a confident sister by her side the entire time.

I feel honored and privileged to have been given the opportunity to document this important moments in this family’s life. I hope these pictures act as a reminder of this time with their little girls at their house at the beach.

Kris

Tiny Dancers

When I was in the 1st grade I wanted to try everything. Basketball, baseball, soccer (definitely not for me) and gymnastics. Living in Gold Beach, OR only afforded so many actual opportunities to do these things as there weren’t retired NBA stars or Russian Olympian tumblers living just down the street. But, the community made it work

I don’t actually remember how long I participated in the gymnastics program, from what I recall however it was not for very long. I had one goal, and that was to master the balance beam. I trotted along curbs enough that how hard could the balance beam be? It was just a narrower curb elevated a few feet off the ground, no big deal. For some reason they kept  dissuading me from the beam, which at the time angered me, but now leaves me relieved that I didn’t suffer some agonizing fall, straddling the beam and eliminating my change to have my daughter later in life. My daughter who now is in dance class, and gets to walk across a balance beam at the end of each day.

"Warming up"

In December all of us parents finally got to sit in and watch a small demonstration of the class. Since these are all 3-5 year olds a curtain typically hangs across the door so we don’t act as a distraction glued to the glass cheering them on throughout class. But for this day we got to line up along the mirror in fold out chairs and quietly cheer on the little ones.

They stretched. They pretended to be various animals, as well as rocks. They jumped, and swung their legs at the barre. All the things their awkward little bodies could muster. One of the families was going out of town so the older sister did her demo with this class too. The rivalry was minimal.

Sisters

They jumped some more.

Jete`

Finally they twisted and turned, and giggled as little girls in tutus do before a bow from all and a stuffed bear given to each one of them from their dance teacher.

I am glad we can provide these opportunities for my daughter. She’s the blonde with the dual braids by the way. Its an outstanding group of young people. I once remember hearing one of the other dads say “watching them just gives you hope”. Granted, he had been working with them backstage at last years show so I can only imagine he was heavily sedated, but ultimately, I think he’s right.

Desktop

Aside

At 7 years old I was sharing the “master” bedroom of our house in Hunter Creek, Or with my 2 younger brothers. Not for a lack of space in the house mind you, but because this particular room was unique. It allowed for all 3 of us to easily fit 3 beds, a full dresser, and within the 3 mirrored closets along the wall all our belongings. It was a bizarrely large room with red and black shag carpet. The mirror on the wall had a bull fighter gold etching on it. Tacky does not begin to describe the oddities in this space.

Being the very particular child that I was at 7 I approached my parents with an outlined plan as to why I should take residence in the “den”. First and foremost it was important that I no longer be forced to try to sleep in a space with the “loud sleepers” that were my brothers. Much to my surprise, request was approved. My own space was on the horizon.

I shuttled all my things down the narrow hallway, far from the sighing, snorting, crinkling plastic bed cover sleep noises that had been my early introduction to insomnia and never looked back. The den, with its book case, 2 closets and most importantly the desk space. There was an inset wall between the 2 closets that allowed for my grandfather’s desk to slide in perfectly. A dark hardwood home base to GI Joe figurines and a place to pen down my many overcomplicated thoughts for age 7. I began journal writing in that place. Realistically it should have been titled “Love Lorn at 7 – Whininess of an Elementary Student”.

For some reason it was so important to me to have that space. I always wanted to feel like a grown up, and with the oversized (for me) chair, heavy drawers and desk light I was able to feel like an overworked middle class adult. Now I am blessed with a daughter who often shows signs of wanting to be a grown up. She has a small table that my mother painted the alphabet on for her where she draws, paints, colors, cuts paper down into the tiniest of pieces just because she can. Her friends come over and they sit across from each other and have meals, giggling the entire time. This table, her desk, has given her that place to explore and be the grown up writing her name on a pad of paper, or the preschooler cramming Dora stickers to every inch of a 3×5″ card. My goal is to always give her that work space she wants to be an artist, to be a writer, or to pretend she is a middle class desk worker, whatever it is she wants it to be.

Sometimes her desk becomes her oversized chair.

Those Hands….

Feminine. Dainty. Elegant. These are all words I’ve heard to describe my hands during my life. As a young boy that was right up there with women telling me they wished they had long eyelashes like mine (nearly took scissors to the eyelashes when I was 9, I clearly remember the view of sharp metal just inches from my eye). Not really the reassurance of masculinity I may have been looking for.

I have always had a fascination with other peoples hands. They are a feature I notice. Maybe because so much attention had been drawn to my own, but a girl with pretty hands was always a priority on my list of shallow things to find attractive. The “toe-thumbs” of Megan Fox are a clear example of something I would not be able to get pass, similar to Jerry Seinfeld and his many quirks.

When Natalie was born I waited to hear the doctor say that all those fingers and toes were accounted for. That fear of the unknown as she came into the world of whether or not she was done baking in the oven. As she entered and here little fingers squirmed uncontrollably I immediately realized I just wanted to hold those little hands and never let go.

1 month old Natalie asleep on my lap gripping my thumb in her sleep

As she grows through the stages of first just trying not to poke herself in the eye, to placing blocks through matching slots, holding a spoon or fork to practicing her handwriting, I am constantly amazed over what her little hands can accomplish. She has small, elegant, slender fingers that fit perfectly in her nose, where they can often be found.

Her nails are always short as she shares my bad habit of nail biting. Without knowing it I was passing down to her something I inherited from my mother, and who knows before her.

Easter Hands

She’s nearly 4 now. Her arms can easily wrap fully around my neck where she can interlock her fingers and nearly choke me out when she tries. She has the strength to hang upside down on the monkey bars on any playground. The preferred mode of transportation is still to be carried if she can get away with it, and post nap every day (when she still manages to take one) she sits up, wraps her arms around my neck, locks those dainty, elegant, feminine fingers together and for all I care doesn’t ever have to let go.

 

Sleepy Hands