See more adorable here.

Look at the neph sacked out on his papa, all lank and trust (and 110th percentile in both height and wit). Now go here and see how things have changed in 17 months.

God, I miss the little fucker. And my fucking mutts, as well. This life I’ve chosen is conditioned on missing; there’s always someone I’m longing to see:

Photos by Grandpa Phil…thanks!

Welcome to California, where I’ve been drawn to the Mothership for a little in-person indoctrination. I’ll spend the next three days biting my tongue and being a biddable yesbosser, in hopes of leaving here with a plan so I can get some shit done. But I’ll settle for a sense of connection and a week without incident or outburst. (Low expectations are less disappointing. Soothing, even.)

When you work at home for a long time, you lose your corporate office edge, but grow other edges in its place. For me, they’re like bizarre fins that are hard to hide under the work drag I wear when I have to go spend the day in a real office with actual coworkers. So I’m sitting here with a towel around my middle and another over my head—a terrycloth hula-nun—avoiding the issue of how to clothe myself for as long as I can. I have about 5 minutes left before I have to make a decision. Apparently, pajamas are “inappropriate.” Fuckity Fuck.

Baby lemurs never ask themselves whether to wear those itchy tights or the slacks that gap in back.

Lucky lemurs.

PS: Itchy tights, it is, worn with a purple sweater-dress, tall black boots, and a stripey scarf that’s meant to say arty-rakish but which may actually signal neckshy-elderly.

When you first start taking pictures, you have to take a lot of shots before you begin to see what kind of photographer you might be. I’m still narrowing in on what my natural subjects are, but one thing I know for certain: I love taking pictures of things with eyes. I guess I like looking at something that looks back.

Here’s what I know about portraits so far: focus on the eyes, take a lot of shots, and blur that background, because the subject is everything. And we all know that this particular subject really is my everything:

Only this blueeyed gaze…

In honor of your big day, mom tells me you busted out some new language. Apparently, you said “thank you” when she handed you a bottle yesterday, and that’s great because manners matter, even in an age when civic life feels more like reality television.

You also said “Du-u-ude” in an appropriate context, which shows that you’re socially aware, as well as being a talented mimic and one chill little hondo.

So happy birthday, dude; your birth changed everything.

I love you, neph.

Ford, you had your first haircut today, and it was a struggle. Aunt Cake had her hands full, but look how handsome you look, just in time for your first birthday. I’ll miss you while I’m on the west coast for three weeks. By the time I get back, you’ll be walking, running, cracking jokes and genomes. That’s how fast you’re changing these days, Ford; I feel lucky to draft off all your evolution.

Happy birthday, nephlet.

I wasn’t kidding when I said you were my favorite person.

XOXOXOX,

Yr. Aunt Banana

I keep meaning to post, but I’m at my friend Sheila’s house in San Francisco for the next few days, to help with her 11-week old girls while her husband is off on a work trip. It’s true what they say about babies: nothing else gets done except the feeding, the changing, the endless snorgling. The twins aren’t newborns anymore, but they’re still all twitchy and neurological. Maddie keeps sticking her tongue out at me (she’s the one I’m tucking in my backpack; shhh, don’t tell Sheila!):

And Adriana can pull a big-eyed grin that has you wondering whether she has gas or if she finds you UTT-er-ly hi-LAR-i-ous (a skill that’ll serve her well in dating life):

As one of the 3-day unwashed, my life right now moves from coo to wee to projectile milk-hork, with the occasional elastic-lunged shriekfest thrown in for punctuation. This double-baby immersion program confirms for me that I have what it takes to be a new mother (or a new mother-equivalent):

> Ability to go for days without bathing, willingness to go for weeks without shaving legs.
> Practiced at sleeplessness with a propensity for napping.
> Repertoire of silly voices, made-up songs, and creative pet names.
> A love of literature that extends to board books; willingness to elaborate in service of good story.
> Good in a crisis, excellent in a lull.
> Fearless around poop and other bodily substances, including blood, snot, and whatever it is that grows inside ears.
> Fully equipped with hairtrigger hormones and an advanced snacking mechanism.

The only thing I’m missing is:

> A baby (or three)

My ovaries were bored while my brain was editing high-tech press releases, so I got them all riled up with a video. It’s bedtime with Ford and his folks, sometime in the recent, pre-surgical past:

I’m particularly fond of the self-referential triangle between Ford, the camera lens on his left, and the mirror in front of him. He’s out to beguile them all, himself most definitely included.

What also strikes me is how young he looks here, how much less crackling with curiosity he seems at nine months versus ten (although he seemed ultrasonic back then, ungovernably abloom). Of course, he’s wearing seven league boots, developmentally speaking, so every day’s a new frontier to discover; he’s manifest destiny with diapers and drool. I can’t quite keep up with him; I’m the east coast, already mapped and settled, while Ford’s a tiny pioneer.

Head west, young man, and I’ll follow behind, marveling at your locomotion.

Vid from dad’s flickr page.

Ford is splint-free for xmas, after one of his casts fell off unexpectedly:

One rushed trip to Omaha later, and he’s now free to move his wrists and elbows. Pretty good present, eh? Full motion in four joints—yay! That’s Ford’s beloved Papou in the background. You know him as Quiver.