Family Nonsense

In case you didn’t know it already, I love weddings.

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‘Even weddings I don’t get to go to.’

This weekend I’m flying to St. Louis to not go to a wedding. Yup, The Kids are invited to a nuptial event in the Gateway City and asked me to come along to watch Mr. Baby while they throw rice, sip champagne and join conga lines.

What I’ll be doing instead of eating wedding cake

I’m really looking forward to it, even though I just checked and it’s gonna be 95 degrees. (Fun Fact: Members of the British diplomatic corps get hazardous duty pay if and when they are stationed in St. Louis; the climate is that harsh.) Well, at least I don’t have to stress out about sweaty pantyhose. Heck, I’m not even packing a dress. Just plenty of carrot-proof clothing.

The only wedding hotter than a St. Louis wedding? A Carlyle wedding. This sweaty event was one of Roger’s

Oh, before I forget. The picture at the top of this post is of another wedding I didn’t get to go to. It was The Child’s first wedding; the one at the Grand Canyon. I didn’t feel bad about not going — it was during the pandemic and nobody could go. (Though of course I wrote about it: see “Runaway Bride” for details and amazing height-defying photos.)

Whooping it up with The Bride and my Favorite Sister at Wedding #2

The Kids had another wedding a year later that people could actually go to. I’ve written about that one too, in “Two Weddings Are Better Than One.” In fact, I’ve probably written about weddings more than any other topic, except maybe His Dudeness, who has been a treasure trove of good material.

And, of course, there’s this guy. I’m just getting started on him.

But back to weddings. Like I say, I love them. All of them. The hot ones. The cold ones. The wet ones. Even the really really looong religious ones. Why, I even went to the wedding of two FBI agents. The bride was, of course, beautifully begowned in white — and packing heat. (Another Fun Fact: FBI agents are always armed, even when they are off-duty and reciting wedding vows.

No, this wasn’t the wedding where the bride and groom were packing heat. In fact, it was rather chilly

I can honestly say that I’ve never regretted going to a wedding. Though I have regretted not going to them. I’m still kicking myself for not going to My Oldest Younger Brother’s, and not just because it was in Vegas. After all, weddings should trump trips — even trips with Dr. Dude.

I’ll end by saying that this weekend I’m sure I’ll not regret not going to that wedding in St. Louis. I will be otherwise engaged.

Amagansett, New York. June 2025

Somebody needs a nap.

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‘There’s a reason people have babies when they’re young.’

Well, except for Yours Truly. I wasn’t all that young when I had The Child. I was pushing forty. An age which now, in my grandmotherly dotage, seems positively dewy.

Her Childness, when she was about Mr. Baby’s age, and I was relatively young(ish)

I haven’t posted for a while because, well, I’m exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, but still. The Child and Mr. Baby and, eventually, the SIL, and, a bit later, our nephew’s family (including three little girls) were all here for an extended visit that began in mid-May and lasted till after Memorial Day.

Mr. Baby as the cousins’ Center of Attention

The Child, bless her brave little heart, came all on her own with Mr. Baby. Of course, back in the day I flew solo with her too, clutching a baby carrier and a diaper bag when she was three months old to visit her Grandma and Grandpa. But that’s all I carried. These days, babies need gear. Lots of gear. When I met The Child/Mom at her digs (no surprise we couldn’t put them up in the Ken & Barbie House) she was toting — in addition to His Babyness — a duffel about the size of a Volkswagen and a backpack as tall as me, which is two inches shorter than I used to be, but still. (See my thoughts on babies and gear here.)

Mr. Baby birdwatching from the comfort of his bouncy chair, which was supplied by Yours Truly, though it could have fit in that backpack

During the time in New York, we went to the Central Park Zoo, the Museum of Natural History and a baby shower. We dined out several times and even dodged a parade.

Saturday in the park with doting grandparents

Digging the gems at the Museum of NH

In between bouts of Family Fun, I was able to brush up on my babysitting skills, dealing with (in ascending order of difficulty) squirmy limbs while jammie-dressing, teething squalls and poopy diapers too numerous to mention. (Well, I will mention the poopy diaper I managed mid-poop, for which I deserve extra credit.)

Checking out the ocean for the first time. (He thought it was too cold; he was right) The pool, however, was a big hit. (See video, below)

Shooting pool with Grampa and Cousin Alex

I must have passed muster with my babysitting skills because I’ve been asked to provide them again in a couple of weeks. I am going to watch Mr. Baby while The Kids go to a wedding. St. Louis, here I come!

How we “visit” in between visits. (Yes, that’s a big ole crumb stuck between Dude Man’s front teeth)

I could go on and on — I’ve got ten days’ worth of oversharing I could subject you to (!) but I have to wrap things up and get back to Normal Life, such that it is. I got so distracted by the visit that I forgot to do Wordle and broke a 99-day streak. *Sigh* Now that’s exhaustion.

New York City. June 2025

Babies like balloons about as much as they like clowns.

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‘Which is to say, not much.’

There’s a reason that Stephen King puts balloons in his stories. Balloons are scary. They bob around in your face, they squeak,  they pop. If you rub them, they’ll even pull on your hair. 

Sometimes the balloons in the stories are being held by a clown. Which is, like, doubling down on the scariness. Why, even before Mr. King wrote It, I thought clowns were scary. Circus clowns, TV kid-show clowns, even McDonald’s clowns. All of them: scary. I honestly can’t think of a clown I find amusing. And I’m 73 years old.

Check out the expression on that girl right behind this clown. Maybe she’s hungry for a Big Mac, but does she look amused?

Being over 70 means I remember John Wayne Gacy. He was a suburban serial killer guy who liked to dress up as a clown and lure young boys to their deaths. I’m not sure how this worked, since, if I saw a clown as a child, I was the opposite of “lured.” At the very least, I would shrink away, if not outright run for the hills. (Fun trivia note: Lots of serial killers have “Wayne” as a middle name. You can read more about that right here in my story, “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Wayne.”)

My childhood reaction to balloons was pretty much the same: a definite shrinking away, sometimes in tears. As I recall, The Child had a similar childhood balloon aversion.

I don’t have a photo of The Child being scared by a balloon, but I do have this one of her wearing a fish hat. Enjoy

So, imagine my surprise when Her Childness told me about an outing she and the SIL took last weekend. They went — with Mr. Baby — to an exhibition at the Palace of Fine Arts that featured balloons. It was called “EmotionAir,” and featured many examples of what they call “Inflatable Art.” (Which, ahem, I call “balloons.”) Balloons you could blow up. Games with balloons. Rooms filled with balloons that you waded into and frolicked among. I can honestly say the photo they took of Mr. Baby surrounded by “Inflatable Art” is the only one I can recall seeing that features him not smiling.

See? Not crying…but most definitely not smiling

Well, so much for balloons. As far as I know, they haven’t exposed Mr. Baby to clowns yet. Well, except for one. As you can see from the video below, she was pretty funny. And she wasn’t even wearing a wig or makeup.

New York City. May 2025

I can highly recommend my grief counselor

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‘AKA the Emotional Support Baby’

Well. We finally made it out to see The Child and the SIL and Mr. Baby. We tried to go visit them in Flagstaff a few weeks ago, but they got colds. Then we tried to visit them in San Francisco, and Dude Man caught a cold. (Actually, more like “the crud:” icky snorty sniffy symptoms that stuck around for what felt like forever — especially for The One Who Had to Keep Hearing About It.)

The Little Family in Flagstaff, before colds were caught

And boy, did we need this visit. Dude Man because he hadn’t seen His Babyness since Thanksgiving. And me because I lost my Mom not even a month ago. (Feel free to read my bittersweet little ode to her, “Beautiful Swan,” if you are so inclined — and have access to tissues.)

The Child was diligent with FaceTiming her Gramma. Here is a screenshot from one of their *sniff* last sessions

I have to say, even if this baby were not the most attractive baby ever to be born to any human, this trip would still have distracted us from fits of sadness and/or grief. What with all the activities we packed into three measly days, we were literally too busy to be sad.

Scott and Mr. Baby engage in a charm contest

We walked in Golden Gate Park, we went to Petaluma to play with Uncle Scott and Aunt Susan, we hiked on Mount Tam, we visited the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

Grampa and Mr. Baby resting along the Mt. Tram trail

Why, on Friday alone we spent three hours visiting Alcatraz, then marched from the pier up more than 1000 steps to reach Coit Tower. And after that, we prowled City Lights Bookstore. I’m exhausted just writing this paragraph!

The Child springs Mr. Baby from solitary confinement on Cell Block D. He was in the joint for stealing his Gramma’s heart

We still had lots of time to chill and engage in baby horseplay. These days, the Baby in Question is keen on chewing on his fist(s), grabbing anything orange, yellow or red, wriggling around while kicking mightily, and lighting up when he sees a person he likes. Which is practically everyone. I liked to glance to the rear as we were tooling about, to catch the gobsmacked expressions of the baby-spotters in our wake.

Mr. Baby appreciates a painting. But not nearly as much as the museum goers appreciated him

Grampa Wayne taught him to say “oooohhh” and Uncle Scott taught him the joys of peek-a-boo. And a splendidly good time was had by all.

Mom would have loved it.

Mom and I share a Baby FaceTime on my last visit

New York City. March 2025

Beautiful Swan

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‘Remembering Mom. With a story or two’

Perhaps you’ve heard. Perhaps you’ve heard about it too much. But, in case you haven’t heard, my mother died. On February 16, to be exact. I posted an obituary on FaceBook just last week.

I can’t figure out how to share the darned FB story, but here’s what it looked like

If you’ve lost a parent — or even if you haven’t  — I’m pretty sure you’ll understand that it can take a while before you can attempt to be amusing again. So I haven’t posted a story since my last one a couple of weeks ago, which, ironically, was about my last visit to see her. The one where we force-watched some line dancing. (It was called  “My Mom Likes Line Dancing About as Much as She Likes Yodeling” in case you missed it.)

Our last *sigh* photo together on my last Mom Visit

That post was pretty well taken up with line dancing and yodeling, and I ran out of room before I could share some Mom stories. Which I have a million of, as you can imagine.

So I thought I’d take a crack at sharing some. First up is a story that Mom used to tell. It has to do with a hair bow and some roller skates. (Mom was somewhat of a hair-bow expert. She used to tape one to the top of my follically-challenged two-year-old pate so that people could tell that I was a girl. And check out her young fine self rocking a hair bow in the photo at the top of this post.)

I keep that photo on a shelf at the Ken & Barbie House with other prized possessions, like the tiara Laura gave me and drawing by The Child

But back to Mom’s story. It seems that one Christmas, young Mom yearned for some roller skates. I’m not sure if an actual letter was written to Santa, but she told one and all that she wanted roller skates more than anything. And, sure enough, come Christmas morning, there was a heavy rectangular gift-wrapped box under the tree with her name on it.

Mom and Laura admiring the last batch of Christmas fruitcake. Well, unless Laura and Dave keep making it, which they probably will, having had plenty of practice these last few years (!)

Her Uncle Warren happened to be over at Mom’s Grandma’s house with the other aunts and uncles and cousins. (I remember Uncle Warren. He was missing an arm — lost in a farm accident involving, I believe, a baler — and used to give us kids little cubes of Chiclets gum he would squeeze one-handed out of the package.)

Anyway. Uncle Warren saw Mom handling the package, testing its heft for roller-skate-content possibilities, and said, “Hey, I bet that’s the hair ribbon you’ve been wanting!”

Mom enjoys a laugh…perhaps at one of her own stories

Poor Little Mom. She believed her Uncle Warren — even though the box was waaay too heavy to contain something as insubstantial as a hair ribbon — and burst into inconsolable tears. But of course, the package did indeed contain her roller skates, so all’s well that ended well, Christmas-morning-wise.

A Christmas featuring large collars, but no hair bows

I bet about now you’re wondering what the title of this post means. “Beautiful Swan?!?” (Well, Angica knows. Hi, Angica!) As much as I’d like to tell you that “Beautiful Swan” refers to my mother and her childhood bow-bedecked loveliness, it is, in fact, a card game. A card game we played at Laura’s kitchen table on my last Mom Visit. The game involves bluffing about the contents of your hand and is actually called “BS.” Which, of course, stands for “Bullshit.” (And it’s an actual game. I just looked it up!)

Mom in a kitchen, but not playing cards. This is when she met the SIL

A player declares, for example, that he or she is discarding two threes, and the rest of the table has a chance to say “bullshit.” Which means you are calling their bluff. If you are correct, and the player was bluffing, they have to take all the cards piled in the middle of the table. If they weren’t bluffing (er, bullshitting) then you have to take them, the object being to get rid of all your cards.

Mom at Mo’s, enjoying some chowder. But not playing cards. Though she certainly looks like she’s just won a game

The game is called “Beautiful Swan” at my sister’s in homage to her friend Lori, who wanted to play the game with her young children without exposing them to bad language. (“Bradley and Kaitlin, I’m going to teach you a card game called ‘BS!'” “What does ‘BS’ mean, Mommy?” “Why, “Beautiful Swan! That’s what it means–Beautiful Swan!'”) 

And Mom was ruthless and competitive and very very good at it. Farewell, Beautiful Swan. I’ll be back with more Mom Stories as soon as I stock up on tissues.

Mom looking beautiful — and rather swanlike — at Nephew Phil’s wedding

New York City. February 2025

My Mom likes line dancing about as much as she likes yodeling

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‘Which is to say, “not one bit”‘

Again with the excuses for not keeping up with my posts! But these days I have two unbeatable ones: 1) visiting my grandson, and 2) visiting my Mom.

Visiting grandson and mom at the same time via Facetime (!)

A couple of weeks ago, I got to do both in person. I’m finally settled down enough to write about these visits, so let’s start with the one to see Mom.

Mom recently moved to a new apartment at her senior living place, and this was the first time I got to check it out. I’m glad to report that it is as cozy as her former pad and even brighter and sunnier — and much more quiet, once I figured out how to get her heater to stop clanking. (Speaking of clanking, her old place overlooked the loading dock; it’s a good thing I like to wake early, since beefy guys were out there clanking and yelling every morning around 5:30.)

A view of Mom’s former building, with her room (second floor, corner) overlooking the loading dock

Anyway. New apartment = new friends. I got to meet a bunch of them at Mom’s breakfast table. (Hi Eugene! Hi Ann-Without-An-E! Hi Candy! When I mentioned to Candy that I had never met an actual person named “Candy,” she said that her mother wanted to name her Denise, but that her aunt said “there’s no way I’m going to have a niece named “Denise!” and that was that. Read that last phrase aloud with a Sopranos accent to see what Candy’s aunt meant.)

Mom may have changed rooms, but Snoopy and Woodstock were still on Christmas duty at this house on my morning walk

Anyway (again). This place is kind of like high school; Mom has “her” table in the dining room, and we sat with these new friends at Happy Hour on Thursday. Happy Hour starts at 2:30 in this joint (since dinner is from 4:30 to 6:00), and is very popular, with real booze (a popular cocktail is half Sprite, half “blush” wine) and live entertainment. This Happy Hour featured a singer attired in a fancy pearl-buttoned western shirt who played guitar and sang cowboy songs. (One of these was a chestnut called “I Am My Own Grandpa.”) My Mom rather enjoyed this one. But then Mr. Singer told a story about once having the great pleasure of hearing Eddie Albert sing — and yodel. Now, if you don’t know what yodeling is, you can, in my opinion, count yourself among the lucky. But if you are curious, you can watch this video with guys in cowboy outfits yodeling away.

I wonder if Mr. Baby is smiling because he just heard some yodeling?

And not only did this guy yodel, he invited us all to yodel along. Now, my Mom hates to be asked to sing along, so you can imagine how she reacted to being asked to yodel. Well. Not only did Singer Guy’s enthusiastic audience yodel along, but some of them got up and started line dancing. 

Now. My mother hates line dancing about as much as she hates Whoopi Goldberg. Which is right up there with her hate for Robin Williams. Or root canal. But line dance these folks did. While yodeling.

Now, I’m betting Mom would have loved the line dancing at The Child’s wedding (see photo at the top of this post, and the video, below). But then again, maybe not. At least they weren’t yodeling.

There was room at Mom’s table for a few more music-listeners, not just Mom’s pals. There was a couple seated to my right; the man was an enthusiastic yodeler. When the yodeling at last reached a screeching halt, I leaned around the woman and said to the guy, “Hey, that was pretty good!” After which the woman (I’m assuming it was his wife) looked me right in the eye and said, “Thanks a lot.”

Shortly after the line dancing/yodeling session at Mom’s, I was on my way south along the coast for the grandson half of my visit…to be continued!

Amagansett, New York. January 2025

The Security Saint at JFK

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‘An airport story with a happy ending’

My plane leaves tonight at 7:59 (why don’t they just say 8:00?) so of course I’m getting ready to go to the airport. (It is now 1:12 PM.) As everyone in my family knows, I get super-stressed about getting to and from airports even under the best of circumstances. (That’s when Carmel Car Service picks me up, and on time.) Oh, the picture at the top of this post is of me trying to alleviate stress by walking around my snowy NYC courtyard.

Another stress-management technique: stomping around Central Park

But, for the Kids’ Thanksgiving visit, I dialed my stress level to the max — I offered to pick them up from JFK. Yes, in the car. Which I was driving. By myself. Well, at least until they got into it.

I cannot stress (see, there’s that word again) enough that People Who Live in New York do not pick people up from the airport. You tell them to get a cab for which you graciously offer to pay. Or, if it’s people you really like, you order a car service for them.

You really really don’t offer to pick them up. But the people in this case were The Child, the SIL, and — most important — Mr. Baby.

Who wouldn’t offer to pick up this adorable person — JFK or no JFK?

I thought about ordering them a car to drive them out to Amagansett, and it didn’t cost as much as I feared, but. I reasoned that Mr. Baby might need feeding or changing or whatnot, and, even with trusty Carmel, that could get a bit complicated. So, pick them up I did.

I’ll spare you much of the sturm und drang. Suffice it to say that the two hours I allotted to get to the cellphone lot were all used up by the time I got there and found said cellphone lot. (There is massive construction going on at JFK — “Building you a better airport experience!” signage cheers you up at every wrong turn. At least there were trailers outfitted as bathrooms at said cellphone lot. I think I was the only one who used the women’s. I know I was the only one in the lot not wearing a turban.

I knit most of this hat while waiting in the cellphone lot

Anyway. Pickup goes reasonably well. Me: “Where are you?” Child: “We’re outside Area C!” Me: “I don’t see you!” Child: “Oh, it’s Area D!”

And the visit? Extremely well. I wrote all about it last week, in “Joy to the World,” if you’d like to catch up and see some incredibly cute baby pics.

Here we are at dinner in the same Japanese place that was The Child’s first restaurant experience!

But, like most lovely visits, this one ended before I felt like it had even begun.

More Mr. Baby. Because, well, why not?

And the next thing I knew, I was driving them back to the airport. At least I had Other People in the car with me this time. The Child, in fact, was an excellent — and calm — navigator. Me: “Which exit is next?!?” Child: (in very soothing talking-to-a-suicide-jumper voice) “This next one, A42 South. Right there. See?”

So, we make it to the airport. Though we were routed round and round in an impossible circle to get to Terminal 4, we made it. Got Kids and baby gear off-loaded. Got good-bye hugs and kisses distributed.

Mr. Baby on the plane on their way home. Not stressed out, it would seem

But, dang it. It had been hours since we left, and even though I had carefully limited my fluid intake, I had to, well, pee. And of course, since this was right after a holiday weekend, there was a Security Guy motioning everyone dropping people off to move along, please. He was even motioning cars along with a thing that looked like a billy club (though I think it was really a flashlight.) Anyway, I was intimidated. But not intimidated enough not to go right up to him.

“Sir? Excuse me, Sir? Could you tell me the way to the cellphone lot? He gets a very confused look on his face, then shakes his head forlornly, admitting that it would be very complicated for me to get to the cellphone lot. “What do you need to go there for?” Well, I admitted that I had to, um, use the facilities.

So he says, “Oh! No problem! Just go right in to the terminal here. I’ll watch your car for you.”

So I did. And so he did. And when I came out I thanked him profusely. I almost gave him a hug, too. But decided not to push my luck.

Another shot of Mr. Baby not stressed out on the plane. Again, because why not?

Happy New Year, everyone! Now I really must restart my getting-ready-to-go-to-the-airport pacing.

Hmmm…when I get back, we could crack this open. Better than pacing!

New York City. January 2025

Joy to the world!

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‘The Grandchild has come!’

I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in years. Not since The Child was an actual child and I could send a photo of her enclosed inside. (This was waaaay before you could incorporate a photo into a design of your very own.)

Her Christmassy Childness, in former Christmas Card times

But I always said that I would start the Card Thing up again if and when I got me a grandkid. And, lo and behold…this year I finally did. (Do you think my subtle hints had anything to do with it? Like when I would look The Child in the eye and say, “I don’t want to pressure you, but, since you are an only child, if you don’t have any kids I will never ever be a grandmother.“)

So hey. I sent cards this year. Lots of cards! (If you didn’t get one, I apologize. Consider this post your Christmas card, okay?)

Here’s what was on the back (!)

Anyway. This year had a whole heck of a lot of other cool stuff to commend it: weddings and parties and family visits galore, not to mention two trips to Brazil and one big honkin’ trip to Australia.

Dude Man and me relaxing in Australia, basking in the knowledge that we finally made “grandparent”

But, since it’s the last day I can write and still call this 2024, I’m going to stick with the GK and the heck with the rest. Till the dull days of Endless January, that is. Then I’ll catch up. Or not. Maybe I’ll just read a ton of books.

Or knit. I have this sweater to finish up. Its progress was interrupted by baby sweaters, natch

But back to Mr. Baby. (Gosh, I think I just invented his blogname. I was going to call him GK. But I’m thinking I like Mr. Baby. Even better than The Baby, since if he ever gets a sister, I can call her MIss Baby. If he gets a brother, I’ll deal with it then.)

I defy even those of you who, like W. C. Fields, prefers his or her babies well-done, to watch the video below and then not urge those of your acquaintance who are capable of procreating to do so immediately. This is one heck of a cute baby.

I can show you this video because The Child created a shared album in iPhoto where she plops new shots almost every day. If that sounds like Baby Photo Overload, then you are obviously not a grandparent. Not one who lives a whole continent away, anyway.

I’m only a continent away. His Dad’s family lives in Canada — where Mr. Baby is right now, get celebrated — and acclimatized

Okay, I’ve got to go soon. I’m going on a pan-generational visit next week — to see both my one-and-only mother and my one-and-only grandson — so I have a ton of obsessing to do.

Meanwhile, here’s another Happy Photo to close out a very Happy Year!

Amagansett, New York. The last day of the last month of 2024

 

It’s a good thing this baby is so adorable

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‘Because he sure needs a lot of gear’

Poor UPS Guy. He and Amazon Man have run themselves ragged these past few weeks, delivering load after load of baby supplies to our house in Amagansett.

See, I’ve been getting ready for the much-anticipated Thanksgiving visit of The Child and SIL — and our brand spankin’ new GK.

Our GK getting ready for Thanksgiving

And I have to tell you, that kid needs a LOT of stuff. There’s diapers and wipes, sure. But also changing pads. Bottles and formula, natch. But also a sterilizer. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind. In fact, I volunteered to get supplies. They have to fly from San Francisco to get here. The least I can do is rustle up a baby bed.

The aforementioned sterilizer. I didn’t borrow one of these; they didn’t exist back then. Or at least I was unaware of them

After all, I figure the easier I make it for them to visit, the more often they’ll want to come. That baby bouncy chair is bait.

The bait, er, baby bouncy chair. It cleverly converts to a walker and a highchair for later use

The irony of all this acquisition is that I didn’t do any of this for my own baby. See, when I was expecting The Child, I was, well, a bit long in the tooth, motherhood-wise. When you’re pushing forty, it doesn’t make a lot of economical sense to buy a bunch of baby gear that you’ll probably only use for the one baby you’re apt to have.

The Child in her borrowed crib

So I borrowed stuff. Basically everything. I borrowed the crib, I borrowed the car seat. I borrowed the bouncy chair and the swing and, eventually, the highchair. I even borrowed baby clothes. They were hand-me-downs from boy cousins. What with her mostly-blue clothes and mostly-bald head, I got, “What’s his name?” a lot. 

Just for fun, here’s The Dude in his crib. Too bad we didn’t save that one. Or maybe it’s a good thing

Then, once The Child outgrew whatever it was, I gave it back to whomever I borrowed it from. Easy-peasy! Perhaps it would have been nice to have a crib or car seat in the attic to drag out for the GK’s visits, but the technology’s improved so much that we’d probably get arrested for using something so old — and so unsafe. I know that the crib we borrowed thirty years ago would definitely not pass muster. (Those wooden slats are head traps for sure. Yikes!)

GK in his own personal bouncy chair. Note warning labels. Though it says nothing about staying away from cats (Note: This cat stayed away from him)

So I got stuff. A lot of stuff. I drew the line at a Diaper Genie. (“Um, what’s wrong with garbage bags?”) And a changing table. (“Gee, when you were a baby, we, well, we laid you down on the bed.“) But I knuckled under on a lot of nice new baby gear.

Nice new bed all ready for nice new baby. Changing area (ie “bed,” in foreground)

And I did find some nice recycled things in the attic I think he’ll enjoy.

Some of The Child’s stuffed animals. Yup, these I saved

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all! “See” you next week.

My favorite photo (so far) of the amazing GK, here seen in a special bathtub. Nope, I didn’t get one of those. But I bet he won’t notice

Amagansett, New York. November 2024

Forgive me for not posting in a while.

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‘I’ve been a bit, well, distracted.’

I was on the phone with a friend the other day (remember phone calls? remember friends?) when she said, “Gosh, you haven’t posted a story in a while!” Which is how I knew that A) She was, in fact, a friend, and a very good one at that, and B) that gosh, I haven’t posted a story in a while.

Well, I have a very good excuse. I mean, besides the fact that Dude Man and I were in Australia for five weeks. (That’s right, folks — five weeks. Four in Australia, plus one in Tasmania.)

Five weeks, people. Five weeks. But we sure covered a lot of ground. (And air)

My excuse? His name is Alexander Whitmore Leakos, and he was born on October 5, when we were roaming Little Desert National Park somewhere on the Southern half of the Australian continent. The New Parents were in San Francisco. (In spite of the time difference — it was 5:00 AM for us and noon the previous day for them — we were able to participate in a very satisfying Facetime call.)

The photo that greeted us at 5 AM

Needless to say, Dude Man and I are thrilled beyond measure to be grandparents. As I told The Child, “Now I can die; I have fulfilled my biological imperative. My genetic material (such as it is) has been passed on.”

My genetic material (or some of it, anyway) made flesh (fresh flesh, at that)

Of course, there isn’t much of my genetic material that’s discernible in this tiny person. This grandkid (shorthand for whom is to be GK) bears an uncanny resemblance to his father. It’s like someone took the SIL and put him in the dryer–on high.

I rest my case. All that baby needs is a teensy little beard

But who knows? Maybe he’s inherited my sparkling wit and/or engagingly hilarious personality. Heaven knows I’m glad he did not get my Swedish Head. (In case you don’t have one, and/or don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, read “What’s that in the road — a head?”.)

Baby doing his Thinker Thing. Note nicely-shaped noggin

Anyway. One of the first things The Child did (after our Facetime, that is) is invite us to join a shared photo album, where she’s been posting photos of our little GK practically every day. I’ll shut up and share a few:

Baby meets Grampa Wayne

Baby meets Uncle Scott (make that great-uncle) and Susan the Great

Baby meets Halloween. We weren’t there for this, but they still had the Mama, Papa and Baby Bear costumes

And one of the first things we did after we got back from Australia — well, actually it was the first thing we did — was visit all three of them in San Francisco. Quite literally it was the first thing. We got on a plane in Hobart, Tasmania, at 6:00 AM, then flew 14-some hours to SF, landing at 6:30 AM and Lyfting our way to their Haight-Ashbury pad in short order.

Baby goes out to dinner

More about our visit — oh, and some stuff about Australia too — when I can catch my breath. And when I can stop scrolling through that shared album.

Can’t resist sharing just this one more. Till next time!

Amagansett, New York. November 2024