A Journal of Urban Living

Is this a sign that Simon is developmentally ready for solids?

I was trying to read the other day so I let him play with one of those annoying reply-by-mail cards that’s always falling out of magazines.

literary pretensions

Before I knew it, he bit a hole in the paper. Well, actually he slobbered and drooled enough to gum off a piece. I went fishing around in his mouth for it, but it was gone. Down the hatch!

We were planning to keep him on momma’s milk for 6 months. Maybe he’s trying to tell us that he’s ready to branch out from breasts. Or maybe he’s just tired of board books and wants to read some ambitious long-form journalism.

No, we’re not planning on going anywhere exotic any time soon. But it never hurts to be ready. So we went to the post office to get Simon’s passport. (Both of us, so one of us doesn’t kidnap him and flee to another country.)

Peter propped him up against the white wall of the bathroom.  I snapped a photo and after some choice words for the printer, this was the result:

Passport photo #1

Not the most flattering shot of our adorable child, but we thought it would do. But at the Glassell Park post office, the postal service worker didn’t like our photo. She said that the background wasn’t white enough and Peter’s thumbs shouldn’t be in the shot. And she hated babies. Well, she didn’t say that but it was clear.

I explained that Simon couldn’t sit by himself yet and tried to reason with her. But in the end, we paid $15 more to get it over with already. (We had already made 2 trips to the Highland Park post office but the lady who does passports was never in.) We had to extract a sleeping Simon from his car seat, and balance him on a stool without a back. Meanwhile, the line of people waiting for service got longer.

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Actually, it was just our local greasy burger joint.

from back in early Oct.

Here is the requisite Halloween photo of our offspring.

Boo!

This is the best we could do this year, what with the sleep deprivation and constant whining and screaming. If Sally hadn’t got him the Curious George-pumpkin onesie, he wouldn’t have had anything Halloween-appropriate.

I know he won’t remember. But it seems that posting photos of your costumed kid to Facebook is one of the joys of parenthood. I must be missing the boat on this one. We’ll try harder next year.

I told Peter to get a “Simon-sized” pumpkin but there was some confusion. I meant proportionate to Simon — baby-sized. He thought I meant about the size of a baby — equal to Simon. The little green pumpkin is a Kabocha squash that we grew. That’s what I meant by Simon-sized.

pumpkinheads

We spent All Hallow’s Eve strolling around the neighborhood and admiring the house decorations and costumed kids. We were relieved to know that the kids here trick-or-treat at the proper time — after dark. At least Halloween wasn’t canceled, like back in Ringwood.

Our observations helped us establish some family rules for future Halloweens:

• No trick-or-treating until you’re fully ambulatory. (No wagons or strollers, unless they’re part of your costume.)
• No candy until you can pronounce “trick-or-treat” correctly. (No tWeats.)
• No sexy anything. (Even the boys’ costumes are all weird and muscle-y these days.)

We all went along on Peter’s biz trip to SF in early Oct.  P went to work, R took care of S (work), so I guess Simon is the only one who got a proper vacation. And he doesn’t know the difference!

But we did have a yummy dinner at the Fifth Floor.

Peter ordered the Sazerac as usual

And our hotel room had a deep spa tub so we all piled in and gave Simon a bath. (No photos of naked people on this blog. Only naked babies.)

We visited P’s office, which has a view of the ferry building and the Bay Bridge. More importantly, Salesforce.com has a lactation room. How enlightened. That’s how you get on those best companies to work for lists. (No photos of boobs on this blog.)

Peter's under-utilized cubicle at the SF HQ

More after the jump.

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Simon was baptized back on Oct. 1. It was also the Blessing of the Animals at St. Dominic’s that day. Babies, animals — what’s the difference in God’s eyes?

Both sets of grandparents came and we threw a big party. J.P., who came from Maryland, and Joanna, who drove down from her new digs in Santa Cruz, were deputized as godparents and entrusted with the kid’s soul. Gabe came from the other side of LA and Tom, Paula and Ben came all the way from Chicago.

We have lots of photos to prove it. It was a well-documented event. Here are some of the highlights.

For the record, I did not give Simon a faux-hawk. His hair ‘do — a sort of reverse tonsure, sparse on the sides with a completely bald spot in back — is the product of rubbing his little head against the crib mattress and the floor.

Some moms at a breastfeeding group asked me if I cut it that way. I did not. He has his daddy’s wispy, fly-away hair. It sticks up like that when it’s clean. I just brush it straight back so it doesn’t stick to his forehead and get oily. When it’s greasy it gets plastered to his scalp.

He has baby-pattern baldness. The only cure is time and learning to sit up.