mirror images.

pj +jp

the wright sisters sit in the living room, each with her firstborn son on her lap.

cheeky monkey.

here's looking at you, kid.

Apparently, the family and friends who were waiting patiently at the hospital on the day that Jack was born had a betting pool to see who could guess his birth weight. Since the babies in my family are historically...ahem...larger (the first John Phillip weighed a reported thirteen pounds at birth), it didn't surprise me that the English side won the bet. Granddad Clive guessed 7lbs 8oz.

He invested his winnings in a bottle of champagne and we all toasted to Jack's good health on Christmas night. We celebrated his first Christmas and in my heart, I hope for one hundred more.

the whole truth.

At our house, Santa Claus always left his presents unwrapped in front of the hearth. For that reason, my parents insisted that Lizzie and I come and wake them up and wait for them to be ready before going into the living room for the big reveal. Every year we promised. And every year, we crept into there together before getting my parents up and then after sharing our geniune oohs and ahhs with each other we would wake our parents up. Then we would pantomine our surprise, but no matter how good the performance, there was always a tinge of the fake.

We were pleased with our gifts, but we had kept that first, most wide-eyed wonder for ourselves. It just seemed to take my parents too long to get ready.

My point is this...when it comes to appreciation, it is tough to be a parent.

This year, Richard and I woke up with our best gift snuggled between us. It was a beautiful bright morning and as we looked at Jack--all seven pounds of perfect little human--I marvelled aloud at how we never expected to be here this year.

Richard smiled and hugged us both closer.

"Jack," I said, "what do you think of your family, huh?"

There was a momentary pause and then on cue, Jack went f-art. Ffffaaart. f-art. f-art. f-art.

Like I said...

the tiniest santa claus ever.

first family christmas photo.

(rein)deer caught in the headlights.

the greats.

Somewhere I have a photo of me, my dad, my grandmother (Mimi) and my great-grandmother (Mammaw Alexander). We are standing on the porch at Mammaw's house. I am two and clearly tentative, clinging to Mimi's hand, unsure about this whole scene, even though Mammaw--never a large woman--was shrunken and wisened so that I am sure I could have knocked her over with a single chubby push.

As far as I know, that is the only time I met a great-grandparent.

Jack has three living great-grandmothers, two in England and one in Dallas. I don't think I have to tell you that the one with the gigantic earrings is the one from Big D. (Incidentally, she wants to be called Big Nanny--from Big D?--and since she is now all of 5'1'' I just can't do it. I told her we could call her Nanny-cita or "little Nanny" in spanglish.)

I think he benefits from longer life expectancy and younger great-grandmothers on Richard's side of the family. I am anxious for him to meet Olive and Doris. He is the latest in a brood of boys that they have been loving for more than thirty years. It is my hope that they will have plenty of time to love on this boy too.

When my grandmother came to visit us in the hospital, we had a conversation that we've had many times over the last fifteen years. She said she wished that my grandfather (who is one of Jack's namesakes) could be here to see this new J.P. I agreed.

I told her that I felt he had a connection to all the "greats" on my side of the family as he is named John Phillip Stafford after her husband who was John Phillip Ruth. His nickname is Jack, just like my other grandfather. And he happened to be born on the day that my Mimi died. I suppose that should be sort of morbid, but I like to think that it shows that all things--even sorrow--really can be made new. Somehow these tenuous connections, these things that may mean nothing to him, they are everything to me. They help him to share a story that began long before he was born. They remind him that he is connected to these people who flew planes and fought Hitler, who danced to big bands and who had big dreams. They were the greatest generation. Now they are the greats.

So I said to my grandmother, "And of course, you get to meet him in real life."

My Aunt Judy said, "Aren't you the lucky one."

"Yes I am," said Nanny-cita.

Yes we are.