Hey Jakey,

Today is your one-month birthday. There's so much that I should've chronicled before today, but you're such a handful that I just didn't have the time or the energy.

Here's a quick rundown: You were born four Sundays ago at Barton Memorial Hospital in South Lake Tahoe. It was 12:20 in the morning when someone named Dr. Gary Willen delivered you via c-section. Cherie, Laurie and I had spent the day in Tahoe City getting our hair cut and dyed, then went to Rosie's for dinner and a drink (I had liver and onions and a Pain Killer). On the way home, with Laurie following in her car, my water broke. I thought maybe I had just peed myself, no big whoop, so we stopped at the liquor store, then proceeded home, but the leaking continued. I called the hospital, completely ticked off that you were a week early. I had the whole following week planned out: see Lord of the Rings, one last trip to Babies R Us, a spa day, then on Friday, voila -- a planned c-section.

I'm lazy. Here's a cut-and-pasted account of my c/s experience from the on-line moms chatroom:

>>I'm kind of peeved at how my c/s ended up. I was supposed to have a scheduled c/s at the end of the week, but the weekend before, my water broke and I started having contractions. It was midnight and my doctor was out of town, and another doctor (a man I've never met before) was on call. He was very unpersonable, and afterwards in recovery, he came in, and halfway thru saying "congrat--" his cell phone rang and he just kind of wandered off.

During the actual procedure, my DH wasn't ushered into the room until about 10 seconds before they actually pulled the baby out of me. I did get to see the baby very briefly before he and DH were whisked away to the nursery (where DH gave him formula, ACK!!!), and I did not see him again for about 2 hours. Oh--PLUS--when I got the spinal, I didn't have a nice nurse holding my head and talking me thru it, I was alone, sprawled over a cold metal table, wondering where the heck my DH was. NOT like Baby Story or Birth Day at all!<<

Those are the boring particulars. Here's the important stuff: On Monday, Feb. 9th, during your first road trip (an afternoon loop down 395 to Bridgeport, doubling back to Yerington, then back around towards home) you heard Cracker's first album, Son Volt's "Trace" and Uncle Tupelo's "Still Feel Gone" all the way through for the very first time.

My nicknames for you so far: my little Fetal Pig and Snacky Snackerson.

Your Grandma Carol has been here all week and she's been driving me nuts. Enough said. You'll learn more about her soon enough.

Your sweet pediatrician Dr. Stevenson has diagnosed you as a colicky baby. I guess I dodged enough bullets with you, I was bound to hit a snag somewhere. There was a one in a bazillion chance that the radiation I took to diagnose my thyroid when you were a week old in utero would fuck you up. There was a one in 100 chance that the amnio would fuck you up. A one in 312 chance that you'd have Downs. Finally: a one in five chance that you'd be colicky. I look at it like this: at every turn, I'm dipping into a bag of marbles. A bag with 99 white marbles and one black marble. What are the chances that I'm going to draw that black marble and you'll have some kind of problem? Well, I finally drew a black marble when we found out you were colicky. I guess it could be so much worse, no?

You're so sweet so much of the time, but when you get started screaming, it's hard for your poor mom to handle. I pray that you're not in pain, and all the books and your doc say you're not, but you sure sound miserable. Hopefully the Dr. Karp book and DVD that are supposed to come in the mail tomorrow will help your dad and I calm you down. I'll let you know. I'm trying not to pin all my hopes on it, but it sure would be nice if it worked.

I guess there's a whole lot more of this first month I should tell you about, but its all become such a blur to me. I can tell you this though: I love you so much it hurts. I miss you when you're in another room. I cry when I leave the house without you. That serious look and furrowed brow you muster when you nurse melts my heart. I see the wisdom of ages and glimpses of ancestors I'll never know swimming in your eyes. I see me and your daddy, only sweeter and nicer and smarter and stronger.