The day Jake came home, we celebrated with a bottle of 1993 Justin Isosceles Reserve. I drank most of it, but the Missus did have a sip or two.
Spectator wasn't that impressed but I remember it being a pretty good Meritage. Given the time that has passed since we welcomed Jake to our home I can't give it a decent review today.
Meritage is a term cooked up by the wine boys in California to fill a gap in the vocabulary. It means a Bordeaux style red wine that is a blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and usually Petit Verdot and Malbec. Yes, there are white Meritages as well.....
I don't care for the terminology, which combines Merit with Heritage to morph into something that rhymes with heritage. Guess we're stuck with it though. Typically, a Meritage will be the high end offering of the winery and these wines are often excellent.
Like a dork, I bought this child seat designed for an obese ten year old. Keep in mind that Californicate is way ahead of the Nanny Curve, so even back then the hospital had been pressed into service by the social polezei and the child welfare department. Their job? Walk the baby out the glass doors and carefully strap him into the awaiting child safety seat. After that little Candy Striper saw the size of the car seat and finished with her brain hemorrhage (stern lecture followed) there was a group conference to determine if we would be allowed to depart with our child.
Shut up you idiots (on the inside). I50 million of us rode home from the hospital in the front seat with our mother's arms wrapped around us. Before that babies were born at home under less than ideal conditions (boil some water and bring me some clean linens, Harriet).
Jake was supposed to be especially quick as first babies go, but he got the cord tangled around his neck. It was difficult for Mrs TWC and the anesthesiologist kept a bedside vigil for six long hours, occasionally breaking it up a little with a bit of football patter. The significance of his constant presence was lost on me until much later.
Because he was born blue, there was no touchy-feely things happening. No, here dad, cut the umbilical cord, followed by a plop onto mama's tummy for an immediate and warm welcome to the world. Instead, he was whisked away to the sterile, stainless steel oxygen machine in the corner where I watched him turn pink, like a litmus paper.
Twelve years later he's brash, impulsive, full of himself, confident, gregarious, mischievous, thinks he's Mr Cool, and definitely all boy.
Although he still can't spell his way out of a wet paper bag he has completely bested his dyslexia and reads like a champ. OTOH, if the terrorists demanded that he spell C-A-T or they'd boil his Ma in oil, she'd die a painful death.
He's a stand up guy, too. His teacher told us that when the ADD kid needed a bunkmate at science camp, Jake's was the only hand that went up.
Little kids flock to him like rats to the Pied Piper. Oh look, it's Jake! Jake! Unlike many of the bigger boys he doesn't send them home to tell momma she wants them.
Jacob Michael also shares this special day with the Godfather of Free Market economics, Milton Friedman and Harry Potter's birth mother, who happens to be one of his favorites. I think he said he read her latest offering six times.
Jake in jail, Mescal Arizona. Figures he'd have the keys.
There are a few other pictures of Jake here.