Destination: Baby

I'm in Maine.

As you might expect from my household, preparations for the trip east combined the tender drama of "Grey's Anatomy" with the spectacle of Cirque du Soleil.

Dolores spent much of our final day in Chicago on the telephone, trying to make nice with Barbara Bush, who was extremely put-out that we would not be flitting up to Kennebunkport during our stay. According to Dolores, she and Mrs. Bush crossed sticks during a field hockey tournament at Wellesley years ago and have kept in touch ever since.

"I remember junior when he was only this high," said Dolores. "I used to throw a blanket over his head and we'd watch him try to find his way out. Took him about three hours on a good day. Bar says now he can do it in under two if Condoleeza Rice stands nearby and shakes a bag full of Jolly Ranchers."

Harry, who couldn't join us because of an improvisation class at The Second City, presented me with a sampler for Abigail's room done in quite accomplished cross stitch. Over a picture of a bunny rabbit in an onion patch he'd worked the alphabet and a verse:

LIFE IS LIKE AN ONION.
YOU PEEL AWAY
LAYER AFTER LAYER
UNTIL YOU HAVE
NOTHING IN YOUR HANDS
AND TEARS IN YOUR EYES.

"I believe in telling kids the truth," said Harry. "Plus I thought the little bunny was totally cute."

"It's...crying," I said, peering closely.

"Life is suffering," said Harry.

I couldn't argue with that.

Mrs Teitelbaum came over and contributed a small but heavy package wrapped up in pink paper with little green kittens all over it and a tag that read FOR BABY FROM MRS T AND TINKLES.

"Do I need to worry about putting this through the security X-ray?" I asked, giving it a delicate shake.

"I don't think so," said Mrs Teitelbaum. "It's tomato paste. The nice government man on the phone said it's okay."

"Tomato paste?"

"I'm always running out," she explained. "But I can go to the grocery and get more. A baby can't do that. So I got ten cans. That should last a while."

"Indeed."

"I hope nobody else has already given her some. I know you have Italian relatives and whatnot."

"I believe they're all giving pasta and sardines," I said.

"Oh, well then," she said brightly, "I'm so glad I went with my second idea instead."

With all the baby gifts there was barely room enough in the suitcases for clothing. I had to resort to the usual subterfuge of locking and hiding my bags to keep Dolores from secretly substituting three extra hats and a kimono for my underwear and socks.

Meeting Abigail

She was sleeping when we got to the house, but shortly after she roused herself enough to hang out. They handed her to over to me, took a couple of photos, and then wandered off, leaving us alone together.



I have precious little experience of infants but remembered that they like being sung to. I opened my mouth and realized that suddenly the only song I could remember was Bessie Smith's Gimme a Pigfoot.

Oh, what the hell.

By the time I got to They all congregates at an all-night strut, Abigail was gurgling and bouncing and we carried on nicely all by ourselves through two verses and a go-for-it encore.

On the whole, very promising. Tonight I'm going to see how she feels about Stephen Sondheim.