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We’ve known since birth that L is allergic to milk and soy, but with the onset of some recent food aversions we really wanted a complete, concrete picture of what he still is and is no longer allergic to.

We met with a pediatric immunologist and for the quickest results we agreed to a few panels of skin tests, which involved a small game of “prick the skin and measure the welts”. Since we got out of bed on the lucky side that morning, we were greeted in the testing room by Angry Standoffish Uncommunicative Nurse Lady. The dirty black oil her heart pumped apparently got in the way of performing the tests properly, and we were initially told he had one hell of a rice allergy and we should run home and throw out our entire fridge’s stock of rice milk (the last milk substitute he was allowed to drink). They also claimed he was no longer even slightly allergic to cow’s milk, so we scheduled a tolerance test called a “milk challenge”, which is surprisingly not at all related to Double Dare with Marc Summers.

We hadn’t quite made it back to the returns desk at Hippie Whole Foods when we got the phone call that Angry Lady read the test upside down or sideways, and for safety’s sake we should just repeat the tests, on their dime.

The corrected results showed violent allergies to milk, eggs, soy, peanuts, and beef. All I could think of when I saw his back was the fistfight joke from our parents’ generation, “Boy, if that’s what Panel A looks like, I’d hate to see the other guy”.

Though the peanut allergy is cause for alarm, what spooked us more was the doctor’s comment that the projectile vomiting and hives that went along with his severe milk allergy were most likely an anaphylactic reaction and we’re lucky nothing more deadly serious happened.

Aside from the more obvious detriments to having potentially fatal allergies, this also means we’re doomed to years of misunderstandings with well meaning people trying to relate, where we have to explain that no, their husband’s plumber who is lactose intolerant is not in the same situation as our son with an off the wall milk allergy and no, fatal anaphylaxis is not the same as a bad case of the farts.

E and I had joked for years that with our respective ailments and horrific allergies, we should consider never having children, never actively polluting the gene pool with such obvious disdain. We never dreamed that our jokes would come half-true, and our diaper bag would be filled with hypoallergenic stuffed toys and Epipens.

Time has a habit of running together during the madcap adventures of a munchkin growing up from age zero, I could have sworn I was thirty four last year. Regardless, I managed to squeak by the Grim Reaper long enough to reach this new and somewhat anticlimactic milestone. I’m constantly surprised I made it past twenty with all the shenanigans I pulled as a youth.

In sharp contrast to my violently unstable teens and twenties, life today is mostly white-picket-fence and HGTV. And it sure as hell better be, we are shaping the life and future of a little one, so anything but stability is entirely selfish. At some point right around thirty, the proverbial fork appeared in the road. Either I was going to continue to hold onto the dream and act like I was twenty two, recklessly pursuing fast music and even faster cars, or I was going to grow up and go the age-appropriate route, calming down enough to start a family and mold a happy, healthy home.

I obviously took the path that has speed-bumped around to finally arrive at a stable home life, and I’ve not had a single regret. I’m frequently asked whether I’m enjoying family life, and I have to fight off the dry heaves as I actually find myself standing on the brink of using words like “fulfilling” or saying “I’ve found my greater purpose”.

To celebrate my birthday, E treated me to a trip out to Fort Worth to see the Zoo’s Museum of Living Art, their newly constructed reptile and amphibian house. What started out as an excursion allowing me to take some photographs of the animals happily turned into a chance to watch L see all the wildlife for the first time.

By the time we ran around the Zoo a few times trying to escape the unmistakable stench of elephant poop, L was wiped out and went narcoleptic on the car ride home. Italian food and films capped off the day’s indulgences, and we all slept soundly that night to the sound of a thunderstorm. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.

Three months with no updates has felt like an eternity. Between all the food feeding, poop scooping, day care driving, and rerun episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba, the Internet had all but disappeared.

Liam is now eighteen months old, and trying to either disassemble or climb on everything he sees. I keep my camera ready, looking for those rare quiet moments.

In April our friends planned an Easter egg hunt for the kiddos. After looking upon individual eggs with wonder, and giving all his eggs to mommy to make sure she had enough, he wound up with very few himself.

Though he inherited my horrible allergies, his newfound love du jour seems to be slobbery dog kisses. We finally brought in the big guns and let the lawn service conquer the backyard jungle, so it’s quite the little place to run around now. The pup pups are enamored with him, and tolerate even the most awkward of ear tugs and tail pulls.

L’s other newfound love is the telephone. Every ring elicits a loudly yelled “MAMA!!”, no doubt having had the phone associated with E’s evening calls to home during late work nights. Though we continually position the phone out of reach, he continually finds chairs to push over to the high table and scoots himself up to fiddle with the buttons and call people from the saved phone number directory. At one point we caught him having successfully started dialing “011 44″ followed by not much of anything on his part as we quickly snatched the phone away.

But no matter what destruction befalls our home by his hand, every night when he sleeps our twenty four hour amnesia kicks in, and to us he reverts back to being just our pure, angelic little munchkin.

Speaking of fickle weather, a few days after the snow melted, Dallas saw some gorgeous weather up in the low sixties. I took L outside for a walk while E had a few go-rounds with the camera.

Though my idea of a walk is the standard cinematic father and son mosey down the sidewalk with some rock kicking and the occasional stumble, L is more inclined to tear ass down the street as soon as his feet leave the lawn and hit pavement. Half the time the walk is more of a chase, and what appears to be a comforting hug on film is more a grab and lift in the case of approaching traffic.

E got me over my phobia of being too far from the front door by going and actually locking it, so I agreed to roll down to the park for some swings and slides. We hit the mulch and L nearly forgot he had parents.

At first we thought the swings would be innocent enough, but after placing L in the swing in the correct direction he somehow found a way to make it weird and uncomfortable. He refused to sit up, and just drooped his limbs down like dead weight and leaned his head over the edge pointing everything straight down like a dead sack of potatoes.

Finally we turned him around in the swing so he was sitting backwards, the higher back portion of the swing under his armpits. He straightened up a bit and gave us some high fives.

As soon as we freed him of the swing’s shackles, he made a beeline for the slides. He was able to climb most of the stairs himself (under supervision), and took to the smaller slide like a fish in water.

Just as suddenly as he lit up at the idea of the park, he was done. He gave us the big adios, and tried to tear ass across the park to wherever it was he thought he was going.

Just out of frame, of course, is E giving chase.

As New Yorkers, we never get used to the fickle Texas weather. Last week it went from sixty degrees and sunny, to below thirty and snowing. When all was said and done, we received twelve inches of snow in a twenty-four hour period.

Having been let out from work early to get home safely, I picked up L from daycare and went home to the warm house. We played in the living room for most of the afternoon, but I couldn’t resist bundling him up for a few minutes outside in what was then roughly six to seven inches of snow.

He stomped around with big stomps for a few minutes, made it all the way down to the sidewalk and back onto the front lawn, before the fun ended and he started getting cold and uncomfortable.

He at least managed to avoid the yellow snow left against the base of our trees by the neighborhood dogs, for which I am quite thankful.