Jacob graced us with his presence at 6:06 am on Sunday, January 7, 2001 after a stunningly short transition to the world. (God love that boy!)
He started out life at 8 pounds 13 1/2 ounces (bigger than all the Yorkshire Terriers that live next door combined) and 20 inches long (fits in a breadbox). His parents hoped to say something witty and/or profound at the moment of his birth, but failed utterly. We could lie to you, but that would set a bad example for him, and there are plenty of people who will do that for us.
He was attended by his mother (obviously), his father (damn straight), Alice SanPere (midwife) her daughter Layla (midwife assistant), and four antsy grandparents.
At this writing, he has developed a wide range of faces, not limiting himself to the typical Winston Churchill. There's the Alfred Hitchcock, the Winton Marsalis, the Dennis Quaid, the completely adorably kissy face, the accidental (but no less heartwarming) Monklike Beatific Smile, and only moments ago, the Elvis.
He lost his umbilical cord on his Fourthday, and his mother got all sappy and cried because (sniff) it was the last connection to her.
He has allegedly written two lines of code, although only his father was witness and cannot be depended upon for unbiased reporting.
His first words will undoubtedly be "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
It has been suggested that he learn to play the saxophone, because it gets the chicks.
He smells wonderful.
When he has mittens on, he looks like a sock puppet.
He has learned to coo.
He doesn't have a nickname yet, as it is felt that "Jake" is far too macho for such a sweet little boy and "Cobie" sounds too preppie. His mother calls him her little bear cub, his father calls him the ManCub. "Yakko" has possibilities. We are taking all suggestions.
Pamela
