Mr. Baby

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

Standard

‘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

I can highly recommend my grief counselor

Standard

‘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