Double Vision

Children's features change. Harry's certainly have in just a few short months. But so far, Charlotte is the spitting image of her mom as a newborn (and not just the shock of reddish hair). Right now, anyway, I have my own little mini-me. Even her lips, which I thought favored the Barnes side, look like mine did as a baby. We'll just have to see how things shake out in a few months. Baby Charlotte is pictured on the right.

Cold Duck

Harry was a spring baby. Charlotte basically made her debut at the end of the fall and wow, today I discovered just how hard it is to take a picture-postcard perfect walk with your baby when the wind is whipping and the chill puts the temps down in the 30s. My sister-in-law Jessica assured me last week that hey, the Inuits take their babies outside when it's 20 below, what's a little cold in DC? But man, we got about a half mile when I decided Charlotte was just too cold and we turned for home. So, we sat inside watching cheesy Pay-Per-View (me, not her) and I knitted while she napped on my lap. Overall, a picture-perfect few hours of bonding, but hardly a fresh-air bonanza. On the plus size, her sweater is half-way done. Maybe it'll help her stave off the winter chill on our next outdoor "adventure."

It's All Happening at the Zoo

I learned three things yesterday. Sometimes it doesn't matter if you forget to pack the pacifier, the wet-wipes, the camera or the right stroller...or even argue about it with your husband. You can still have a great time at the zoo. Harry got remarkably up-close-and-personal with a couple elephants (a word he still can't pronounce...hey, it's a big one), the pandas and even the super endangered and reclusive red panda, which sidled right up to him. Credit the blustery cold, absence of crowds and a little luck. We are officially a winter zoo family, declares Paul.

Number two: It doesn't matter how closely you watch your children, they can still surprise you with horrifying feats. Chartotte was two inches from me, seated in her bouncy chair, and somehow Harry managed to take the Swifer pole and plop the square, hard mop head on her head. Creative, yes. But oh so wrong my friends. I'd show you a picture but I was too busy slowing my heart to grab the camera.

Three: Do not leave any child below the age of 12 alone with your knitting. I'm making an adorable, very hippie sweater for Charlotte...if Harry will let me.

When Harry Met Charlotte

I was a writer in my former life. Then I had a baby, then another baby. Now I work as a magazine editor, beating up writers for a living. While I've missed writing, blogging has never, ever interested me. How I laughed when I saw the latest Doonesbury storyline: Veteran Washington Post reporter takes a buyout and begins blogging. However, and you knew there'd be one, recently my friend Jen mentioned that she'd been keeping a blog as a journal for her sweet daughter Caroline. While I'm pretty good at sending the in-laws photos, I constantly chasten myself for having yet to begin a baby book for our 18-month-old, Harry. Now enter Charlotte, our newborn. Do I even remember where I put her hospital bracelet? So in essence this blog will serve as a chronicle and an ode to my beautiful and funny children, the babies I hold so dear.

It was six sleepless weeks ago that Harry met his sister. Despite untold worry, they hit it off, or I should say he hit it off with his sister, without hitting her. In my zest to hold back the inevitable tide of sibling rivalry, I insisted we buy him a tricycle, the "Air Navigator," a triumph of German engineering and inflatable tires. While the trike brought great joy, it was totally unnecessary. Harry immediately took to calling Charlotte his "baby baby" and loves to stroke her hair, albeit with the ham handed graced of a toddler. When she's awake, he tries to feed her the dog's kibble, and rocks her with vigor in her bouncy seat, to which Paul and I shriek "no!" and ready our explanations to social services. At this moment he's trying to convince her to play with his blocks by dropping them on her head. It's a tall order for a playmate who is still trying to master the fine art of passing gas.