I Thought All Babies Woke up Crying

So everyone talks about the second child as a lifelong series of short-sticking, emotionally scarring injustices. Hardly any photos of their babyhood. All the holey-kneed hand-me-downs. No overly precious baby book carefully glue-gunned just-so during six months of afternoon naps. And, applying the same basic theory to the internet, these second babies don't get their very own blog either (please see The Making of a Casserole addendum above).

I remember vowing this would never happen, but sweet, chubby Ollie turned five months old last week, and he hasn't had a single entry to himself, forget his very own blog. By this time in Cass' infant life, I'd dutifully, obsessively chronicled his first bath, first roll-over, first case of crusty cradle cap, and the first time I tried to shove some ceremonial rice cereal down his throat. But writing about Ollie feels kind of like bragging: Ollie sleeps through the night (and has since he was two months old). Ollie doesn't cry. Ollie wakes up cooing in his crib. Ollie giggles at the mere suggestion of a smiling face. Ollie drinks from a bottle. Ollie loves to nap. Ollie babbles at the chandelier while lounging peacefully in the clean-lined Oeuf bouncy chair Cass refused to sit in for more than three minutes straight. Ollie likes the baby carrier. Ollie once fell asleep in his stroller while it was--wait for it--standing still. Ollie changes his own diaper!

I'm just going to come right out and say it: Ollie is an easy baby. I am fully aware that this statement alone, according to the universal bylaws of The Official Child-Rearing Handbook of Justice and Karma, means that I have just predetermined a teenage fate rife with back-talking, curfew-blowing shenanigans, sure to rob me of my fair share of sleep. I will be the first to admit it: He's a dangerous one, all right. But that's not why.

Babies this exquisitely, inexplicably... deliriously happy are exactly the kind who trick parents into having another one. Therein lies the danger: Babies like Ollie don't happen twice.

Like Mike

Ryan's cousin came to town for a Detroit visit. He's a big dude--a sort of hulking policeman guy with double tattoo sleeves. It wouldn't have been exactly shocking if Cass, who would happily pick a toy unicorn over a plastic gun any day of the week, was a little intimidated. I'm pretty sure that wasn't the case though.

A few days ago, Cass busied himself at the dining room table with art supplies while I put Ollie down for a nap upstairs. Unable to contain his excitement for another single millisecond, Cass greeted me on the stairs, flashing a mischievous, pleased-as-punch grin and two arms covered with marker tats. Arms spread out akimbo, "I'm just like Mike," he announced.

At least he has good taste

Sometimes Cass tells me he'd like to be a girl, so he can wear pink like his best friend Penny or be a mom someday, just like me.

But I don't believe him. I think it's all about the shoes.