It seems like only yesterday that Amelia was just splotches of black and white on an ultrasound, and here she is now, a month old and rushing headlong toward her first Christmas.
I've gotten used to recognizing her little face in its various moods and body in its varied positions in the photos my daughter and her mom, Annie, e-mails to me.
I have to say that none of the ultrasounds even hinted at what she'd really be like, her personality changes, her switching positions, indeed, even what appears to be a screen test for a movie that could be titled "When Ladybugs Attack."
Sometimes, she appears thoughtful; others, dead to the world. Sometimes, seriously sulky; other times, mischievously mirthful. Sometimes, tuned in to watching a mobile spin; other times, zoned out after bellying up to the trough. And, of course sometimes sassy, others gassy.
But she's come a long way, that baby, since she looked more like an inkblot test in the sonogram.
However, I dare say her first picture looked a wee bit better than the most recent sonogram I've been perusing. Oh, lest you think Annie and Kevin decided to morph into a quick-turnaround baby franchise, this isn't theirs.
Rather, it will be the firstborn blot of my son, Brendan, and his bride, Erica. Sorry, but I do have to call it a blot because Brendan doesn't want to know the gender 'til the infant pops into the glaring white and freezing temp of a delivery room or, perhaps, into the more gentrified scene of a modern delivery suite with more warmth and character.
Erica kinda-sorta-maybe-for-SURE would like to know the gender, but she is heeding his wishes, as far as I know. (Wimmin can be a wiley sort, you know, finding out such info and then trying like HELL to avoid the inevitable slip of the tongue that will hoist them on their own petards.)
So, the array of photos accompanying this column are to let you figure out which ones are Amelia and which one is Blot.
When Erica sent me Blot's photo, I replied that, no offense, but it looked much like a giant picture of a hookworm I recently ran across. I even included a pic of the parasite to prove my point. (Say THAT one 10 times as fast as you can.)
She took umbrage, even though I had TOLD her not to take offense. The graphic photo of the hookworm's maw was disconcerting, she said, adding that I had ruined her appetite. It didn't seem to discombobulate her for long, though, as she was Dairy Queening the next day.
I'm not including the photo of the hookworm here because, well, because you might be eating breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper. Or a snack.
Meanwhile, the sonogram set me to thinking about Christmas. Well, I mean The Christmas Carol and Ebeneezer Scrooge's protestations that the apparition was no more than, well, a ghost: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"
I guess that's a gentler description of Blot than a hookworm: perhaps a bit of undone potato. Oh, I know that Scrooge is suggesting that he's seeing things because of indigestion. And I think Blot looks a bit like an undone potato at this point.
I'm sure he or she will become more appealing as time goes on.
Of course, it took Brendan and Erica awhile to announce their bundle of Blot on Facebook, so I kept mum about it myself. But then I wasn't able to read the announcement because I refuse to join Facebook.
That refusal makes me the constant target of barbs from my kids.
Annie whines that I could see lots more photos of Amelia she posts daily instead of just the ones she e-mails to me. Allison whines that I would have known she was stranded in Europe without luggage and only the VERY casual clothes she was wearing because all the stores were closed for a holiday — IF I were on Facebook. (So what good would that have done, besides worry me? Or did she expect me to overnight her a bra and a thong?)
And Erica not only whines but also taunts me with missives such as this the day after she announced Blot: "I think you should join Facebook . . . you're just AFRAID you would like it too much and get addicted! If you woulda joined you coulda seen all the comments people made in response to my big announcement yesterday. Here are just a couple:
"What!?" — Brendan (My son is SUCH a joker.)
"Here's your chance to show your real Cubbie blue. Clark for a boy and Addison for a girl" — Aunt Dawn
"Congrats! Looks like it's time to get that Coach Diaper Bag" — Heidi (I don't know Heidi, but I would guess she's a shopper, with tastes leaning toward designer duds.)
"Oh great, the polluted gene pool moves on another generation . . . " — My Dad (That would be Larry, Erica's dad, and I haven't figured out which end of the gene pool he's in: shallow or deep. Even if I knew, I wouldn't malign a man of the cloth [or a woman of the cloth].)
Anyhooooooooooooooooooo, that's Erica's pitch: Join Facebook and have full access to such comments.
Sorry, but no thanks. I'd rather be waterboarded — maybe even with boiling oil — than be on Facebook.
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