Ruth told me in an email that her thought on looking at the first Joey pictures was that he looks a lot like Cricket. I was a little upset, tried to think of a polite way to tell her how wrong she was, gave up—but it was really important to me that Joey looked nothing like Cricket. Well, last week I looked at early Cricket snapshots for the first time in a long time and got even more upset; the boys look incredibly alike. Joey has more hair—that’s just about the only difference.  They even have stork bites in the same places.


It was honestly kind of a stupid move on my part. My detective work was preceded by plenty of stressful stuff: my uncle explaining that I’m probably going to kill myself to the assembled family, my mother telling me at length how important it is to hit your kids and the right ways to do it, plenty of weirdness related to my grandmother’s death. . . . Did I mention that I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep? That’s not really Joey’s fault at this point; I think he just needed a couple of days to adjust to California, and has been sleeping beautifully for the past few days. Even my mother has officially retracted his “rotten little baby” label and is trying to figure out how soon she can make it up to Stumptown.


This post is a bit rambling, eh? My brain is sort of fried, but my mood is still good, for which I am truly thankful. I feel like I’m constantly keeping a weather eye out for signs of postpartum depression, and while I haven’t seen any yet, I’ve got a full year before it would be just garden-variety depression if I started to go off the deep end. I am finding it very difficult to be productive, but all in all we’re both delighted and talking about the yet-to-be-conceived final Book baby. I had two Christmas presents for Joey already—one from us and one from Santa—but saw a deal and caved and now he has an extra gift coming. Mr. Book doesn’t have to work on Christmas and will be off work early enough on Christmas Eve that we can have a nice evening together capped off by midnight mass. I’m not sure that you’re supposed to take babies to midnight mass, but it’s one of my favorite masses, so we’re at least going to try.


Breastfeeding is still remarkably easy. This has been more on my mind recently, as I’m part of an online group of parents (mostly moms) and four boys were born within a week of each other, Joey being one; two of their moms are trying to breastfeed and having an incredibly hard time. Joey loves to nurse, I make enough milk for triplets, and being at home means that I can feed him anytime he starts to make hopeful fish faces—we are lucky. That said, I’m glad that I resisted repeated offers of a pacifier. Why tempt fate?