Flipping for Fliers

Lately Dorian wants everything. A few months or even weeks ago we could just carry him around and he would be content to look over our shoulders at whatever receded behind him. Now, though, he insists on facing forward. Sometimes in his haste to become involved with whatever I’m doing, he'll turn himself so abruptly that I’ll sway from the momentum of his eager little body.

Yesterday, for example, I sorted the mail while holding him. Upon seeing my bounty, Dorian lunged forward and plucked a solicitation for DirectTV out of my hand. His face lit up as if to say: Great! I’ve been waiting for this!

Leaning back against my shoulder, he explored this latest phenomenon. He turned the envelope over and over, upside down and backwards.

Dorian held this piece of junk mail so reverently, so tenderly, as if it were a handwritten invitation, gilded and rare. An invitation he then jammed in his mouth.

To this little creature, there is nothing annoying about being spammed. It’s just yet another reason for rapture.

Splish! Splash!

It's hard to believe Dorian ever fit into this little bucket. It's now used as a ladle to fill the bigger white tub.

When these pictures were taken, Dorian was basically a passive bather. Now, half a year later, he loves bath time. It's a source of both pleasure and concentration.

His mission- one he delights in fulfilling- is to displace as much of the water as loudly and abruptly as possible.

This nighttime venture is most successful when mommy gets soaked. Extra points if she's soaked unawares. To this end, Dorian tends to favor the surprise kicks. (Is it possible to suspect a seven-month-old of stealth?) One minute he's peaceful, contemplative, slowly luring mommy closer to keen some long-overdue praise and then Splash! he kicks. Splish! He flails. Soaking faces, dripping mirrors, flooded floors. Very, very amusing.

Lately, though, the waters have receded. Global warming? No. Three tiny blue whales. Mommies know a little about stealth, too.

Now that he has toys in the tub, his mission statement has evolved. Dorian's purpose is to capture and hoard every last blue beasty. No easy task with such small fingers and such slippery creatures.

But, he's surprisingly good at it. He'll turn on his side and grab one whale and put it on his chest for safe-keeping. Of course it falls off as soon as he turns on his other side to go for another one. This doesn't bother him at all.

Meanwhile, I get to work with a washcloth and Dorian continues plucking and placing, barely noticing that these days he's the one getting soaked behind the ears.

The Final Frontier

On Sunday afternoon Mitch & I took Dorian to explore some far flung planets. He’s a flinging kind of guy, so we thought he’d be impressed.

He was.

As were we.

The Chabot Space and Science Center sits in our favorite stretch of woods atop Roberts Regional Park. We pass it on our hikes as we pant up the hill.

Nearly every time we glimpse its elegant dome glinting in the East Bay sun, Mitch mentions that he can’t wait to take Dorian there one day to introduce him to astronomy. (Not astrology- he’s interested in planets, not psychics.)

Chabot shares its toys with the public on weekend nights. Before Dorian came along, Mitch & I climbed the tiny ladder to peer through the 36” lens. This computer controlled telescope is so powerful that the staff astronomers use it to conduct planetary research. They do, that is, when Mitch isn’t using it to gawk at the rings of Saturn or exclaim over the Milky Way’s frothy swirl of planets.

So for Mitch’s birthday, Dorian & I got him a year’s pass to this wonderful place. Sunday was our first venture in as a family. It was so much fun to watch Dorian and his dad exploring together. Mitch encouraged him to touch all the 3-D models of the planets and turned in place so Dorian could watch some kids careening in circles. Dorian watched in open mouthed concentration as their shrieks rose along with their velocity.


We spent most of our time exploring the solar system exhibit, dropping balls into a gravity well (my favorite), adjusting the pressure in volcano simulation (Mitch’s), swiping at the rolling, shiny balls that simulate orbiting planets (you know who’s favorite).


Apparently all little people are born scientists, constantly conducting little experiments. They’re just so cute in their tiny white smocks, rubbing dimpled hands together and cackling over steaming beakers. In addition to a child’s natural predilection to hands on discovery, Dorian also definitely inherited his father’s love of exploring the natural world. (Until discovering the space museum, though, Dorian’s specialty focused on gravity and echolocation, as experienced through mashed peas.)


Leaving the interactive exhibit, we watched Searching for Life in the planetarium, a huge theatre with a 360 degree screen. We leaned back and took in the dubious pleasure of vertigo by soaring through space, visually exploring galaxies. The film was incredible. It took you from one mile below the bottom of our ocean, where life has been found not only in the absence of light, but in outrageously unappealing conditions. From the lava baths, the film pulled you up through the ocean and through the hemisphere to orbit the Earth and well beyond.

In the beginning of the movie, Dorian lay under my wrap, considering his napping options. However, the sound of Harrison Ford telling us that there are more planets than stars proved too exciting for him. When I peeked under the shawl to see how he was doing, I saw his curious eyes peering back at me, hands and feet twitching with appreciation.

I lifted off the privacy curtain and revealed to him the amazing sights his father & I were enjoying. At that point the movie was careening among the big gas planets, swerving and looping in the endless black space.

Dorian lifted his hand and tried to touch Jupiter. It was so moving to see his upturned face, marveling at the wonders of this world.

Planets, peaches, people. All rank equally high on our little scientist’s scale of wonder.

The Morning Sessions

Mitch, here.

Each morning I take Dorian out of bed at 7:00 sharp - for two reasons: 1) to have hi-energy fun with, create new songs with, create a new dry crotch for - and then supply a new diaper to, and often have a photo session with. . . him. 2) to give JoAnne another hour and fifteen more minutes of quality sleep. It's a win > win endeavor. (Here are the photographs from this particular day.)

Here's a sample morning from yesterday. I lift him up off of Mommy's chest on to mine (on the left side, with his head just about even with my shoulder - giving him two choices: shoulder pillow or no shoulder pillow). Then, it's straight to his room for a changing. I open the blinds to let the new day light spill in and place him on the changing table. He loves this, evidenced by the fact that he's grinning. The minute I detach one side of the diaper he flips on to his side to examine and scratch/touch the blue-painted wall. (He can touch it all he wants - it's non-toxic paint.)

Once he's changed we make our way into the living room at which time I place him on his colorful blanket on our fancy rug (our only non-IKEA household item - which is a good thing because all the IKEA stuff is getting wobbly). I place a few of his instruments by his side and he chooses his weapon of choice based on what I start playing on guitar. Yesterday it was two songs: 1) Deacon Blues by Steely Dan and 2) a new song I'm writing with Dorian. It goes like this:

"The sun comes up,

you chew on your sleeve,
you hop out of bed now don't call me Steve.

You rise everyday
with your foot in your mouth
Santa's up top
and Penguin's down South.

You can touch
the texture of the wall
of your blanket
of a flower in the fall

You can feel
the bark of a dog
of a tree
of a fireplace log"

He beats his drum and makes a breathing hissing sound with his tongue half out. At some point he gets a bit restless so I put him on my lap. Yesterday, while he was on my lap I played the guitar with him cradled in the triangle created by my chest, guitar neck and left arm. He was fascinated. Reaching out to touch the neck I decided to just flip the guitar over so he had access to the strings. AND HE WENT OFF!!! For the first time ever, Dorian played guitar! He reached for the strings and explored the gaps, texture (and taste of the wood). If only the so-called greatest guitarists in the world would do that! At one point he put his fingers gently around the 12th fret and I plucked, which created a really cool thumpy harmonic sound. For those who don't know what a harmonic is on the guitar just GOOGLE it. While some fathers might get nervous to have a child pluck and drool on his $1,700 hand-made guitar, I just figured, what the hell could he possibly do to fuck this instrument up? NOTHING is the answer. He could only enhance the character of the thing. (But good lord, keep my uncle Barry away from it!)

Then it's time to "show Dorian the day". I pick him up, we go outside and for 5 minutes I give him a tour of JoAnne's garden. I have him say good morning to all the flowers and plants. It's best to hold him horizontally, so that I can fly him over and through the forest. "Dorian, these are roses." He reaches out and I let him feel the rose with the back of his hand. (I've seen mites and other tiny bugs on all the plants outside and don't want anything to end up on his fingers - because that means it ends up in his mouth.) "Dorian, these are purple flowers" - he drools onto the bark chips. "Dorian, this is a Magnolia tree" - reaches for a leaf. "Dorian, this is a newspaper. Look Scooter Libby got 30 months and Paris Hilton got 23 days".

Back inside and to Mommy, who rolls over and can't believe that an hour and fifteen minutes have passed. She slept!!!! Nice. She's happy, Dorian's ready to be with her again, and I'm off to face the day with my bow and arrow to kill something and bring it home so my family can eat.

Mindful Tribe

On Sunday we took Dorian to a room full of babies, cute wriggly ones that he’s known since before he even knew he was a baby. (This picture is actually from our first reunion, three months back.)

It’s hard to remember a time when we didn’t know who Dorian was, but two short seasons ago, our smiling, kicking, gurgling boy was still just a mysterious creature swimming in my belly.

Now the world is sunny and full of flowers, but back then it was dark by five, cold and the gardens were all monotone. During those final months, we prepared for our new lives with a meditation course taught by Nancy Bardacke, zen practitioner and experienced midwife. Every Wednesday night for 3 hours we met with 8 other couples in her living room in Berkeley, blocks away from where Dorian would be born.

On couches and cushions we all sat in front of Nancy, a sprite of a woman with a shock of white hair and merry brown eyes who perched like an elf on her tiny stool in front of the fireplace. Constantly rearranging the shawl that dangled from her shoulders, Nancy had us sit in meditation.

Over and again, she taught us how to breathe. Not just your average inhale, exhale. But deep, mindful breathes that relaxed your body and revealed your mind. As our bellies grew and our futures neared, we all became friends, bonded by this most basic and transformative act.


We discovered that mindfulness is the only tool you need for everything, from the sacred to the irritating- from childbirth to traffic jams.

Since the babies all arrived, we’ve been meeting once a month. Now, though, the babies are finally beginning to catch on. When we first got together, the babies had no idea what was going on. We’d lay them on the couch or side by side, and they’d continue listening to their own songs, never tuning in to the bizarre sounds blaring from the other’s station.

Even here, where Dorian and Judah lie inches apart, both intently exercising, they did not once make eye contact or slow down their frantic movements, though surely they must have felt the draft from the other’s pummeling and kicking.



At Sunday’s meeting, however, enough time has passed that the little ones are beginning to notice each other. Mitch walked around, introducing Dorian to the other little guys (all but one are boys). They stared with gaping mouths. Then, like the little scientists all babies are, they slowly reached toward each other and pinched each others toeses.

When it's just the parents, we usually start with a brief sitting meditation and then spend the rest of the visit chatting about life and babies. Meeting with Nancy, however, the session was a little more formal, a bit more introspective. During the meditation, she asked us what was our biggest parenting challenge.

As we discussed responses, I realized my own trial had nothing to do with sleep or diapers, preschools or vitamins. For me, the most difficult challenge of parenting is accepting the fact of impermanence. Growth is so constant, never to be slowed or stilled.


I mean, it’s only been a few months since that last reunion picture, and look at how much we’ve all changed.

Lamb’s End

Unlike the plump, Dutch white sheep that star in Dorian’s naptime lullaby, his own Lamby is a yellow, lanky, blue-footed number from Brooklyn.

He loves it. (Thank you, Wizelmans)

On easy to sleep nights, he gently lifts its ears, squeezes its feet, pokes it softly in the eyes and coos out little bedtime stories.

Other nights, Lamby gets hurled.

This lamb has become a canary, albeit one in a crib, not a mine. At the end of every nap, Lamby’s condition tells me about the circumstances of Dorian’s quiet hour.

Most of the time, the passage to sleep has been smooth. Lamby remains curled on its side, cuteness incarnate. Sometimes, though, Lamby’s on its face, little yellow butt in the air, mooning the world.

No matter how much I keep the mommy radio dialed in to the soothing station, a certain amount of upheaval is inevitable.

Recently, for example, we set up his new bed, a gorgeous wooden crib from his cousin Kiernan. Such a beautiful piece of furniture- dark wooden slates, headboard arched like a sleigh.

As much as we oohed, the aesthetics were lost on our boy. He went from being lowered into a cozy (read: cramped) little PakNPlay to being dropped off in the end zone.

To complicate matters further, the same day his digs were renovated, he learned how to roll. Or rather, he rolled. By the look of astonishment on his face every time the world went upside down, I’m not sure how much control he had over the situation.

Suddenly he was in a space three times as big as he’d ever slept in before, with the disturbing ability to explore it.

The first night he made it all the way down the full length of the crib, dragging poor Lamby along for the ride. (You try that in a onesie.)


When I retrieve him these days, he’s positioned himself perpendicular to how he’d started the nap, keeping a watchful eye on the door. Today I found him with one arm draped over Lamby, crooning as they stared out the window. It looked like two fast friends just singing the blues.

But he’s getting used to his new freedom and his sweet new bed. He’s napping more or less easily, which makes the rest of the day so playful and sweet. Babies are so charming when rested, such cute little canker sores when not.

There are still rough patches, of course. Life is just that way. But by noticing if his Lamby’s end is up or down, at least we can track which way Dorian’s winds of fortune are blowing.

One Verb, Two Vibes

Like most mornings around here, yesterday started off quiet, gentle. Outside the doves and warblers sang soft songs about rain and grubs, and inside Dorian slowly grabbed and released handfuls of my shirt, sighing as he nursed.

It was nearing time for his first nap of the day. As he ate, his breathing slowed and deepened, his little eyelids fluttered and grew red with fatigue. I started to hum a drowsy, nameless tune.

Suddenly I smelled shaving cream as Mitch emerged, fresh from the shower. He passed through the doorway and stepped behind our enormous tiki plant ( Dracaena fragratissima).

The long green leaves fluttered as Mitch whispered loudly.

"Can I look at him?"

"Of course."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of blue towel as Mitch darted from the plant to behind the couch. He disappeared in a hasty crouch. I opened my mouth to ask what happened, but before I could say anything I heard "Meep! Meep!"


"What are you doing?"

Mitch peeked above the rim of the couch, reverting back to his stage whisper. "Making meep meep sounds."

"I thought you wanted to look at him."

"I do. I want to go meep meep and when he looks up I want to jump up from behind the couch."


At this he leapt quietly, flapping his arms, barely keeping his towel on. By his grinning eyes I could tell he thought this whole scheme was a great idea.

I looked down at our drowsy son. Somehow he was still eating, still falling asleep. Dorian had missed the latest show by his Jack-in-the box-fun-daddy.


"Um, he’s about to fall asleep, can you look a little quieter?"

Mitch left his hiding place and joined us. As he gazed at Dorian, I looked up at Mitch.

"I thought you were just going to come over here and take a silent peek at him." Suddenly I'm the one about to wake the baby. I tried to hold it back, but my shoulders started to shake. Dorian was lifted and dropped with each giggle.

I couldn't stop laughing as I thought about what different ideas we have about how to look. All my life this common verb had been so bland: I'd never considered spicing it up with meeping and leaping.

Lucky Dorian. Endless interpretations lie in wait for him.

Petal Faster

These tulips started out completely perfect. Orange and red orbs, seemingly illuminated from within. Every day for a week they kept us company, glowing while we ate, talked or read the paper. Time softened and wrinkled the petals, dropping them off slowly at first and then in batches.

The tulips only became more perfect.

I was so amazed by how much was revealed each time a petal fell: an entire universe, an elaborate scheme of stigma, pistils, anthers and stamen.

The Mother’s Day bouquet stayed on the table long after the petals had fallen. A soft heap of orange and red surrounded the vase. I could see the changes happen by the hour and couldn’t bear to have any part of it thrown out.

I took these pictures during the last evening of the tulips, a full week after their arrival. As Mitch and I talked over dinner, the last petal fell. Even then, I couldn’t remove the flowers.

It somehow was even more beautiful than ever, more fascinating, more alive. The green stalks, top heavy with black anthers seemed Seuss-like in their other-worldliness.

It reminded me of watching Dorian grow, in that the transformations happen right before your eyes, the transitions seamless and unstoppable. I think it would feel heartbreaking to experience each phase so quickly if it were not for the fact that whatever stage entered is even more wonderful than the last.

Another day means another inner wonder emerging from our child. The many petals he scatters may be messy, but they’re also too precious to tidy up in haste.

Splitting Hairs

Dorian discovered how to grab. Not just toys, but real things that go Ouch! Like faces and hair. Most people would prefer not to be mauled by an infant, but Mitch has been waiting for this day since we brought the little guy home.

Lowering his head over Dorian's chest, Mitch impersonated a friendly billy goat, only without the bump-bump. "Pull! Pull my hair," he'd cajole, giving his curls a tempting toss.

At first Dorian looked on, with dignified amusement, occassionally upgrading his response to an open mouthed giggle.

And yet, we knew he had it in him to grab hair. Not only because all babies do, but we'd actually seen him do just that when he first met his cousins. And Zach wasn't even trying.



So, finally, last week, Dorian grabbed his daddy's own wig. Tiny fists closed like cannonballs around Mitch's hair, Dorian pulled his daddy's lockets closer for a taste.

Suddenly, Mitch's encouraging chants transformed into an entirely different request. "Pull! Pull! OwOwOw! Stop! Stop!"

Once released, he recovered his dignity (dad, not baby- the little people never seem to lose their grace in the first place. We're the ones dancing on our hands just to see a smile.)




Project Hair Tug completed, Mitch offers our son another challenge:


"Okay, so how about my nose?"

What else is in a name?

In the previous post we learned about the history of Dorian's first name, Dorian. How many of you know how to pronounce his middle name? Rehbehn. Some do, I'm sure of it.

Most people just say, whazzat?

It's pronounced Ray-Bane. Dorian's middle name is the maiden name of my mother's mother, known to all simply as Mutti, German for Mom. When I hear Rehbehn, I think of her home, a small town on the Baltic in northern Germany, one filled with sailboats and sand, red houses and a wooden drawbridge that jumps the tiny harbor.

This creaky bridge was the constant excuse Mutti used for being late for class. She was probably putting the final touches on her hair, or changing skirts once more, and had to suddenly dash for the school. "Drawbridge was up again, teacher," she'd say, sitting down quickly in her seat. Her excuses transformed Eckernfoerde from a sleepy fishing village to a nautical metropolis.

When I hear Rehbehn, I also think of the three beautiful Rehbehn sisters, Hilde (Mutti), Anna and Gerda. I think of Mutti driving her little car up and down the coast, walking alone along the shore collecting stones. I think of how shocked and proud I was to have the only grandmother who would wear t-shirts blazened with "electric boogie".

I think of conversations that went from loud to louder, looped in circles and ended in laughter. I think of yellow fields of mustard and chilly museums filled with Viking ships.

Rehbehn also reminds me of qualities I'd like Dorian to inherit: independence, individuality, industriousness.

I'd like him to smell salty air in his name, to know when to be stubborn and know when to laugh.

"You're combining America and Europe," Mutti said, when we told her Dorian's full name. "You're sewing together your families."

What's in a name?

We didn't have a name for our baby until a few weeks before he was born. Mitch & I stalled whenever people asked, saying we'd let them know. Or, "It's a surprise!"

The last months leading up to birth were a flurry of feathers, mud & twigs. Hardcore nesting. One day we walked away from our responsibilities (one of us actually wobbled) and went to a cafe. A date.







This picture of Mitch hails from a different cafe, one near Yosemite, but his relaxed smile replicates the cozines we felt that day in Berkeley. We sat in a crowded soup cafeteria, choking on Thai chicken noodle as we got carried away with the possible names for our baby: Hold the Mayo Tobias! Toby T. Tobias! Fiddle D.D. Tobias!

My favorite suggestion was to simply call him Doctor. Imagine how impressed his kindergarten teacher would have been. "Doctor Tobias! Put that stick down!" He'd have been the most prestigous five year old. Ever.

After we wiped off our giddy tears, Mitch lowered his voice and said "How about....", anyway, you know the rest. What you might not know is that Dorian is the name of Mitch's favorite musical mode. The exact breakdown of what makes a mode Dorian is a posting I'll let Mitch handle. I do know, though, that the Dorian mode is in a minor key.

Minors can be very intense, very deep and thoughtful. Sometimes even melancholy. The major keys are the floaty, happy, silly ones. (Like I said, I'll leave the music jargon to Mitch).

But! The Dorian mode is unique because, even though it's a minor key, it has an uplifting quality to it. It soars just as well as it considers. The more I get to know our Dorian, the more this moves me. For this describes our boy: deep, yet cheerful.


Dorian: an upbeat minor.

Slaap Kindje Slaap

The first few weeks of his life, Dorian slept like a you-know-what. He could drop off anytime, anywhere. This picture was taken during those early days, which is obvious not only because of his size (small) and color (red), but because his Alexander Eyelashes hadn't yet made an entrance.

The following few weeks were rocky, sleep-wise. He would only sleep when carried in our arms or in his sling. His eyes would fly open as soon as we put him down.

Lindy, our midwife, explained that babies have an internal alarm that goes off whenever they're left alone. She said to think of the little ones as Hunter/Gatherer Babies. That they're still programmed to alert big people not to put down the littlest member of the tribe. Their squawks, she said, encourage us all to consider the dangers of saber-tooths and such.

Well now he's learned that our entire house, especially his crib, is a safe place to fall asleep.

It's a sweet period right now.

When I see Dorian get that faraway, sleepy look, I start the nap routine- reading, cuddling, humming. As soon as he's yawned twice, I take him to his room, dim the lights and sing him a dutch lullaby, one that my mother sang to my brother and me as babies.

Slaap kindje, slaap.
Daar buiten loopt een schaap.
Een schaap met witte voetjes,

dat drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes.
Slaap kindje, slaap.
Daar buiten loopt een schaap.

The first time Mitch heard me singing this, he wondered why I was calling our son a slob. I explained that it's a song encouraging a child (kindje) to sleep (slaap). The reason why? There are sheep running around. Sheep with little white feet, sheep that are drinking their milk so sweetly.

Mitch got really excited about that: "Sheep? White feet? Sweet milk? I'm in! Let's go to sleep!"

Since singing this consistently for the last few months, Dorian has learned what the lullaby "means." When he hears the first line, he starts sucking his fingers and cuddling into my shoulder. Even better: he succumbs to sleep while in his crib.

No more fearsome cats.

Snapping Gums

When we saw the pediatrician for Dorian's 4 month check-up in April, we were surprised to hear that Dorian was ready for solid food. I thought we had another two months. Doctor Butts assured us he was ready now. (Yes, that is his name. When we interviewed potiential MDs, that was the clincher. Can you imagine, we said, how hilarious it will be for him one day to greet this guy?)

Anyway, we bought some brown rice cereal on the way home and offered it that night for dinner. He was not thrilled.

Three days after this picture was taken, however, he is suddenly so into eating.

So dinnertime has become very exciting for all of us. As soon as he sees me stirring the cereal in his bowl, he kicks in anticipation. If I don't mix it fast enough, the kicking turns to soundful thrashing.

As the nutrients come in for a landing, Dorian tilts his head back, arching toward the spoon, lips curled, mouth and eyes stretched wide open. Usually he'll gurgle the cereal, spit, and/or swallow. (Bathtime is now at night).

Tonight, however, he still did the welcome dance, but instead of bathing us both in gruel, he chewed the spoon. It was very cute. I could tell how intentionally he was using his little jaw- up down, up down, up down. He stared at me and gnawed on the spoon, long after the liquid had passed down his throat. He protested every time I pulled the spoon out of his mouth, preferring to chew like he sees his big people do.

We're still only feeding him cereal, and still only at night. But if he could count, I know he'd be stenciling in little scratches next to his crib, counting down the days until he turns 6 months and can try some more food.

Especially fruit. The other day I held him as I was eating some watermelon. He watched the fruit go up to my mouth and he chewed air in unison with my (much tastier) gnoshing. I blew watermelon breathe on his little turnip face and he blinked, then chewed some scented air. (No, it's not cruel, just really cute.)

Hang in there, little tomato, only a few more weeks.

dancing fools

Family Day

Our first Mother's Day! What a great invention. Dorian's first present: sleeping until 6:30. His second: a loud good morning squeal. His third: spitting up on my jeans, not the couch.

Etc.

It doesn't end with the gifts around here.

Our boy got his generous spirit from his dad, who spoiled me silly on Sunday. Entering the dining room I was greeted by the most glorious sight: Our wedding crystal pitcher filled with gorgeous orange tulips; plates stacked with lachs, omelettes and his signature rosemary potatoes, garnished with herbs from our own garden.

(Mitch used to pilfer the strong herb from our neighbor's garden two houses down until I pointed out that we're growing two rosemary bushes of our own. So now he takes the scissors no further than our front yard, but I miss seeing him tiptoe down the sidewalk a la Pink Panther)

We spent the day as a family, treat of treats, going to the coast to check out the tide pools. We returned to Costanoa, an 'eco adventure resort' where we'd gone to a wedding just the week before. It's a campground/lodge in the middle of some of California's most beautiful, untouched coast. Best of all, it's only an hour south of San Francisco.

It was gusty when we arrived and Dorian squinted and grunted in the seabreeze under his yellow floppy hat. We sat on a sandy boulder protected by the wind and he nursed while I watched the ocean rush towards us, filling in holes only recently emptied.

Little hermit crabs scurried about, holding tight their shell houses. I held Dorian, his little feet kicking off his socks as he ate, toes rubbing the sandy rock. It's amazing that he can be exploring even while occupied with feeding. (Multi-tasking is a dubious gift from me. Mitch does a much better job of focusing on one thing at a time.) Meanwhile, Mitch clambered about the rocks taking pictures of seaweed and stones.

With a pang I realized how quickly Dorian will be done with this non-activity of simply sitting. Next year at this time, I thought, I'll probably be on the rock by myself, and Dorian will be hopping around with his dad, chasing crabs.

I'll just have to join them. Look out, crabs!

Why Toes?

Apparently, they're yummy. Dorian, flexible urchin that he is, has just discovered his feet. He curls up like a bear cub and rolls around, gnawing on his furthest appendages.

Anytime he brings something in for a taste, he'll fix his gaze on the incoming delicacy, eyes crossing as he tracks his snack, mouth wide open in anticipation. And somehow, it's all done best in slow motion. That's right. He's sneaking up on his own toes.

The other reason for naming the blog the Toe Show: since we brought him home, Mitch has been singing to Dorian about the world. One of his first songs was called the Toe Show, a playful (what else?) tune that describes the why's and wherefor's of each body part.

Dorian loves this. It's good, in fact, for all of us. Why take your toes for granted?

Everyone warned me & it's true: this sweet, sweet time passes so fast. As Robert Burns used to say, "Nae man can tether time nor tide." But this 18th century Scotsman never blogged. Maybe by sharing the Toe Show, we can at least entice Time to dawdle a bit before rushing off.

xo JoAnne