The Little Emperor in Autumn

The mercury touched the 40s this weekend, and we had to tell Noah that in addition to fleece pants, socks, and a wool cap, we'd be stuffing his arms into puffy jackets as well.


You've got to give it to him: the kid can do melancholy. Then we added the bits about giant piles of leaves to roll around in, snow days, and reminded him that even though we're halfway through October, the Phillies are somehow still playing baseball games.

In Training

Noah hit the six month mark on October 7th, and turned those big indeterminately colored eyes up at us, as if to say "enough fooling around." There is no doubt that Noah is in training. We think he may have adopted his dad's goal of being able to dunk until he is 40, given the serious bouncing he does in his Jumperoo. His shorter term goal, however, is clearly to crawl before he cuts a single tooth. And, like his age and gravity-defying Dada, he is going after this motor milestone with singular focus and a cross-training strategy. See him roll. See him turn. See him scoot backwards on the slippery hardwood floor. Watch him do his baby sun salutations. (Is there a gene for yoga prowess?)

Thankfully, the little man also knows how to unwind. After a long day of practice he likes to kick back in his jammies, grab a stuffed animal pal and make faces at the old folks.

Let the Rudeness Begin

The Beach

Another brokerage failed, the largest insurer in America went into government receivership, and the "fundamentally sound" economy needed $700 billion from taxpayers to stay afloat. Noah ate his first carrots and bananas, and discovered that the whole point of having feet is to get sand between the toes. What a week.

Like a miniature version of his dad, only with windmill arms in place of teeth, the bug always approaches dinner with optimism.



And just like his dad, the little copycat knows how to convey an elegant "ready for dessert" signal to the wait staff.



Then he likes to read.





Only it turns out that Faulkner uses too many pronouns for someone with a 15-second attention span.





What the camera couldn't catch was Noah's first attempts to crawl. It's quite a sight. He must have seen a tricycle somewhere, or a plow. Those back legs get working, all right, but the rest of his weight is borne exclusively by his forehead. Is it efficient? No. But could he trace a primitive furrow in patch of topsoil? Get out your gardening gloves.

And when you're a baby thinking you might just crawl, and your parents have put you to bed at 7 o'clock, when do you like to practice? Noah answered that riddle with a resounding in-the-deadest-hour-of-night. Who knew a Pack 'n' Play could take such a beating. You kind of expected sunrise to reveal a hole in the bottom of the thing and the bars bent backwards into the carpet. As best as we could work out, the poor guy was dreaming Sarah Palin into the White House and plow-crawling like mad to escape the nightmare vision. Which would explain the abject moans.

But you just gotta wash that away with a shot of water, and remember that there are worse fates than the end of summer -- although you're still allowed to put on a long face at the prospect of shorter days and longer sleeves.