Björn again no more
Parties, parties, parties – that's the life for baby fluffy. Two weeks ago he was in attendance at Santi's birthday where he was very much a secondary centre of attention for the assemblage of young female Indonesian co-celebrants. Clearly they have their priorities right in the South Pacific, for as bf's designated press officer I found myself fielding rather less of the customary "how old is he?" and rather more "how many pound[s]?" Their manifest admiration for his physical perfection was only enhanced as I proudly disclosed his impressive 25lbs of gross tonnage.
Then just last weekend he was the youngest guest of my colleague Derek, a charming Irishman co-celebrating St Patrick's Day, his recent engagement, the warming of his house and his birthday simultaneously; you can review proceedings from the host's perspective here. Bf enjoyed himself by batting a ball around and I helped out by thickening the fondue.
That day also marked the end of a happy era; Ethan's last voyage in the Baby Björn, in which I have lovingly transported him since his arrival here on planet Earth. Rachel had been good enough to notify me of the recommended weight limit of 22lbs and, though I remain confident of a considerable built-in engineering tolerance, maternal anxiety trumps my lackadaisical attitude. To be completely honest, carrying 25lbs of baby before me and a further 25lbs of groceries on my back had become something of an encumbrance, and this realisation combined with the fact that his feet were now dangling at an altitude where an absent-minded backswing could easily put pay to all possibility of sibling rivalry, mean it's probably for the best. However I could not help but entertain a certain melancholy as I unclipped him from the contraption for the last time; it was not unlike a constant hug, with his all-natural swirly hair-do temptingly exposed for an impromptu kiss if the mood struck me. For his part, he certainly appeared to enjoy the panorama of worldly delights revealed from this elevated vantage. But 'tis no more. It's the pushchair "going forward" as we would say at the office (though I have heard tell of an integrated backpack affair for 'hiking' – as they would have it here – that is, most any self-motivated trip beyond the parking lot).
Travels in a baby björn; on this occasion a relaxing hike through Tryon Creek Park one recent Sunday.
I'll tell you something, he can really motor about in this thing, not unlike a young Davros.
Sitting up in his crib / cot "like a big boy" as Rachel would have it.
Il bambino soffice, as he is known in Italy.
El niño esponjoso, as he is known in Mexico, post bath-time.
I call this pretentious shot "le bébé touffu". But it could also be called "qui est-il?" (excuse my french), since it simulates the game of "who's that?" that we play of an evening, using our reflection in the mirrored door of a kitchen cupboard. This involves me barking "oo's vhat?" in my gruffest Ray Winstone voice and him smiling.
Then just last weekend he was the youngest guest of my colleague Derek, a charming Irishman co-celebrating St Patrick's Day, his recent engagement, the warming of his house and his birthday simultaneously; you can review proceedings from the host's perspective here. Bf enjoyed himself by batting a ball around and I helped out by thickening the fondue.
That day also marked the end of a happy era; Ethan's last voyage in the Baby Björn, in which I have lovingly transported him since his arrival here on planet Earth. Rachel had been good enough to notify me of the recommended weight limit of 22lbs and, though I remain confident of a considerable built-in engineering tolerance, maternal anxiety trumps my lackadaisical attitude. To be completely honest, carrying 25lbs of baby before me and a further 25lbs of groceries on my back had become something of an encumbrance, and this realisation combined with the fact that his feet were now dangling at an altitude where an absent-minded backswing could easily put pay to all possibility of sibling rivalry, mean it's probably for the best. However I could not help but entertain a certain melancholy as I unclipped him from the contraption for the last time; it was not unlike a constant hug, with his all-natural swirly hair-do temptingly exposed for an impromptu kiss if the mood struck me. For his part, he certainly appeared to enjoy the panorama of worldly delights revealed from this elevated vantage. But 'tis no more. It's the pushchair "going forward" as we would say at the office (though I have heard tell of an integrated backpack affair for 'hiking' – as they would have it here – that is, most any self-motivated trip beyond the parking lot).
Travels in a baby björn; on this occasion a relaxing hike through Tryon Creek Park one recent Sunday.
I'll tell you something, he can really motor about in this thing, not unlike a young Davros.
Sitting up in his crib / cot "like a big boy" as Rachel would have it.
Il bambino soffice, as he is known in Italy.
El niño esponjoso, as he is known in Mexico, post bath-time.
I call this pretentious shot "le bébé touffu". But it could also be called "qui est-il?" (excuse my french), since it simulates the game of "who's that?" that we play of an evening, using our reflection in the mirrored door of a kitchen cupboard. This involves me barking "oo's vhat?" in my gruffest Ray Winstone voice and him smiling.
posted by Richard Tammar at 10:15 PM
2 Comments:
All these years there has been a nagging feeling you were swapped at birth, and now it's clear- Ray Winstone, the likeness is uncanny.
Glad to hear you are all well :)
Rick & Max
yes, I get that a lot.
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