Good Morning Gentle Readers:
Unlike this morning, which is cool and rainy, the day we welcomed Jake into our home was hotter than a blast furnace in the 'Burg in August.
Like a dork, the car seat I picked up was designed for a ten year old porker raised on McDonalds fries. Keep in mind that Californicate is way out front on the Nanny Curve. Fifteen years ago hospitals had already been pressed into service by the social welfare polezei. Their job? Walk the baby out through the self-opening double glass doors and carefully strap The Boy into a child safety seat. After that starchy little Candy Striper saw the size of the car seat and finished with her apoplexy (stern lecture followed) there was a group conference to determine if we would be allowed to depart with our child. The soft-sided insert didn't cut no ice with these people.
Shut up you idiots (on the inside). I50 million bebes rode home from hospitals in the front seat with our mother's arms wrapped around us tightly. Before that babies were born at home under less than ideal conditions (boil some water and bring clean towels, Aunt Mabel).
It's taken about two weeks since we were getting him into the car at the hospital and we're already discussing getting him a car.
Jake & Cousin Mad-a-line
Happy Birthday, Son. You're a good one.