Well everything went wonderfully with the c-section and Sophie was born at 6:37 on Tuesday night. Which means that she is almost a week old. We went for our first pediatrician visit today and a potential heart issue from the hospital (PAC, pretty common so I hear) had completely dissipated by this morning. Other than a little jaundice, a very little, Sophie is in the pink. I haven't really been sleeping a whole lot, Kristi has to recover from her surgery so I stay up and bring Sophie in for feeding, but things are getting better. Kristi even went out to Target to get some clothes that might fit a little better than the ones we have. Most of them are for babies 8lbs and up, Sophie weighs in at a hefty 5lbs 8oz as of this morning so the clothes we have pretty much swallow her up. Getting the hang of the whole feeding and sleeping cycle is a bit of a challenge, but the pediatrician gave us some good advice about how to deal with it so I am confident that things will continue to improve.

Being home so much has allowed me to get back to baking a little and cooking some more. I have been baking sourdough pretty regularly and a couple of nights ago made some pumpkin walnut bread. I am also realizing the importance of a good, hearty soup that can hand out in the fridge for a couple of days and be lunch/dinner. Nathan and Geoff are both coming into town for the holidays and I am pretty excited to see them both. In fact Nathan is coming into town tonight so while Kristi and Sophie sleep for a while, I am just relaxing and reading.

I promise this won't turn into a baby blog, but just wanted to put this out there.


http://picasaweb.google.com/oldsoulproductions

Today, after sitting around the house all morning trying to come up with something interesting and failing. We decided to go and buy some books. I used to read a good deal, but lately I have had a dry spell where writers are concerned. I grew tired of stories that went nowhere. Stories that all took place inside a mind. Or a boat. Or the bottom of a dried up well. As good as these stories were, they did not hold my interest. They put me to sleep. Literally. I was trying to decide what I was interested in reading and finally had a couple of ideas. I was going to find something semi-literate but young, something tragic and hopeful, something that bled or something that said "I wasn't written in an office." I decided to find something by David Foster Wallace, the broken down and dead author who went through years of depression only to end it all in one moment. And how does that one moment stack up to the years of suffering? That would be a good question to ask. He may have answered in a voice too tired to continue or just pointed to the mess on the wall. I drove to the store and picked my way through the shelves. Kristi stopped by the promise of a little pink pig in a dress. Dame Edna reading Olivia, something my as-yet-unborn daughter will doubtless listen to a million times before the technology outpaces the CD and moves on to something else. I walked through the stacks and made my way up the stairs not knowing what would be there. Used bookstores always have that question hanging over the door. What will be there? I walked through the shelves, scanning. The smell of wood and paper, something of mildew or mold as well. Looking up, I see the black plastic trash bags they have used to protect some books from the leaking ceiling, the acoustic panels pregnant and brown with the rain; or some toilet or bathtub overflowing from the apartments above. I finally make my selections The Girl With the Curious Hair by Wallace and The Twenty-Seventh City by Jonathan Franzen and wander down to find Kristi. We talk about whether to buy a fairy tale book and I ask, "Should we read the Disney versions of these to our kid?" The answer of course is no, there is something missing in the world of the macabre that fairy tales used to supply. I walk up to the counter and see a young woman at the register. She calls me forward to buy my books and I can smell her, unwashed and see the chest hair that she missed shaving this morning. Her nails are dirty and it is then that I realize I am speaking with someone in transition. We have a nice conversation about the holidays and she mentions she wants the haircut of the person on the cover of the book I am handing over to be rung. I walk out of the store and head down the street for some coffee. You can't judge a book. I hadn't even looked at the cover.