The Family Portrait

I never envisioned myself sending glossy Christmas picture-postcards from Shutterfly, but with a photo moment like this in our archive, it will be hard to resist.

The Jumperoo Vs. The Bumbo

When I was pregnant with Cass, I resolved not to be the kind of lazy, consumer-crazed parent who buys all those cheap, plastic gadgets and tacky, disposable toys. I had visions of bratty kids at birthday parties, unwrapping towering piles of plastic junk, thoughtlessly tossing these toys backwards over tiny shoulders without so much as a thank you.

No, it would be all puzzles and books and wooden toys designed in Germany. We would read poetry before naptime, finger paint in the afternoons, and I would rock my newborn to sleep myself!

The first breech, a shower gift, was both battery-powered and plastic—and capable of rocking front to back OR side to side, with four different, very soothing musical selections. The Nature’s Touch Papasan Cradle Swing—likely named on behalf of the beige and pistachio green color scheme and cricket noises—resembles an alien in our living room, hogging as much space as our dining room table, and we absolutely love it. Cass loves it. The swing has come to represent daily freedoms, like making a pot of coffee, brushing ones teeth, or checking email.

So when I heard about this thing called a Jumperoo that every four-month-old simply must have to exist, I was torn. I didn’t want another piece of plastic crap in my living room, turning my otherwise spare and tasteful home into an infant funhouse, swirling with mis-matched colors, plastic gizmos, blinking lights and electronic boinks. But every time I thought about depriving him of something that could make him giggle the same way he giggles when his dad swings him back and forth in his arms, like a heavy bucket of water he’s trying to empty, I crack. I must buy it for him, so I, too, can be responsible for that kind of giggly euphoria.

With palpable excitement, I prepare Cass for our big Toys R Us outing, which involves an unexpected diaper change after I’ve already bundled and loaded him into the car seat. The Toys R Us is attached to a Chuck E. Cheese, and the parking lot is littered with trash, including a Dominos pizza box—a detail I find amusing. A heavy-set woman with the faint outline of a moustache, stares past me and insists that they do not carry it. “But it’s a very popular toy,” I say, deflated. She seems unimpressed, even after explain how I had to drive from downtown—and there was a lot of traffic. The thought of packing Cass into the car and driving 30 minutes to a disgusting suburb only to return empty-handed makes me want to complain to the manager. I also consider making a beeline to Target, but I have several gift certificates for the R Us family, and it’s a pricey operation at $65. Instead I set out to find another salesperson, a nicer salesperson…someone who will tell me that they have the Jumperoo. And guess what? My pleas totally work! She heads into the “back” with a walkie talkie and radios the desk where I’m waiting: “Is it by Fisher Price?” My heart does a somersault. I nod enthusiastically. And she emerges with an awkward rectangular box. Apparently, it’s called the Deluxe Jumperoo. I imagine a regular jumperoo with a spoiler on it.

When we get home, I assemble the thing with Cass balancing on one knee or tucked under my arm. I’m so excited, my fingers can’t move fast enough. I uncover three AA batteries—the exact number necessary to make it beep and blink—and gently fit his little legs into the seat, ready for the ensuing giggle fest. Nothing. He looked bored, and then angry. He yanks at the plastic blue arc, sporting twirling trinkets, with an aggression that scares me a little bit. Then he starts crying. A lot.

I take him out and hold him tight. I feel guilty for subjecting him to that soulless contraption, and I think ahead to the drive back to the dingy Toys R Us to return it. But I am also proud of my little guy. He’s a wooden-toy-sans-flashing-bells-and-whistles-kind-of-baby, after all. Anyway, he's perfectly content hanging out in his other new baby device--the Bumbo seat. So take that Jumperoo.

As a genius four-month-old, Cass has kept us incredibly busy, developing with godspeed and learning fancy new tricks. Like grabbing his feet and blowing bubbles--in this photo, he displays both skills simultaneously. Brilliant. Seriously.
















He's learning how to sit.












And fall with grace.













He went to his first Tiger's game.
























where he shows consternation after a sloppy, missed double-play. Later in the afternoon, he initiates the wave, rallying the team to victory.





He's eating solid foods! Kind of. Almost.












“I’m not going to lie folks: This solid food business is not really my thing. Don't let my parents fool you. I will spit it out before it's even in my mouth. That organic rice cereal is gross. Look in that bowl. Would you eat that? Come on!”















Instead, displaying a fine taste for the exotic, Cass prefers elephant.

Bjorn to Grow

It's official: Cass is growing. Initially, I did not believe the nurse when she scribbled down his new digits at his four-month visit; he has doubled his birth-weight and has averaged an inch a month in length. But baby onesies don't lie. Even though I can still squeeze him into a few of the super cute ones, most of the 0-3 month numbers are ready to be retired. And, sure enough, he's facing forward in his front carrier these days.


Three Weeks-ish: The first time out in the Baby Bjorn, his little roly poly head barely peeks out of the carrier.

















Four Months: I can barely keep him contained, as he wiggles around, exploring his surroundings with an adorable seriousness.