Okay, so we stick him in the car seat cause it’s time to go.  The night before he puked on one of the seat straps but I’ve wiped it with one of his wipes and examined and smelled it and it seems fine.  Fred does well in his car seat and he sleeps much better in it than he does in either his bassinet or crib.  At home if he’s not on one of us, he’s probably in his car seat sleeping.  I’m always scared I’m somehow going to click his penis off when buckling him into the seat.  Most likely impossible but bad odds never calm me down as much as they should.

This is his car seat:

Lugging him out to the car is a viable bicep workout.  He is getting heavy.  I open the door to our new Hyundai, a car we like very much due to the fact that the engine starts when you stick a key in the ignition and turn it.   I lower his seat into the base until I hear and feel it lock into place, then take a seat beside him.  I’ve become accustomed to sitting in the back seat with him.  It’s both comfortable and comforting.  I was never in any hurry to call “shotgun” in high school and college because the backseat is roomier and you can relax with your thoughts.  I like being crammed back there with him.  Realistically he probably doesn’t require a great deal of supervision in the car at this point.  He’s either going to fall asleep or look out the back window with an expression of intense concentration on his face.  Or he might look at a crinkly frog toy attached to the handle of his car seat that he seems to have mixed feelings about.  I don’t need to be back there but it’s become part of the routine.  I fear many things, but tight, enclosed spaces are not among them.

The drive to Lincolnville is a pleasant one, through towns like Searsport and Belfast that have a lot of colorful buildings full of overpriced non-essentials.

A lot of antique places and flea markets, establishments I have a weakness for, but with a baby the phenomenon known as the side trip becomes a thing of the past, or at any rate gets put on hold indefinitely.  This does cut down on my shopping/browsing satisfaction but it also aids immeasurably in preserving our household budget, so in my case having a baby is probably saving us money, preventing me from purchasing more things like this:

That was five measly dollars at Target.  I’m not made of stone.  I haven’t watched any of them yet, though I did see “Black Belt Jones” in high school at some point but I don’t remember a frame of it.  “Black Samson” looks to be about a cool black man who owns a lion, “Three the Hard Way” is Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, and Jim Kelly kicking and shooting anyone unwise enough to approach them, and as for “Hot Potato”, well, God only knows, but the mind positively reels with wonder and excitement.  The following short collection of clips of Jim Kelly rapidly pretending to harm people is culled from “Hot Potato”.

So Joel and Kate and their family rent a camp in Lincolnville every year, and we go hang out with them at it every summer, a fledgling annual tradition that we look forward to and one that previously did not include offspring of ours.  This being a Maine camp, to reach it you have to drive directly into the woods on a narrow, single-lane dirt road on which head-on collisions seems all but unavoidable, yet somehow never occur.  The camp is nice without being too nice.  It still feels like a camp.  There’s a very agreeable beach and the lake is somehow always the perfect temperature to swim or wade around in.  I can’t really swim at all, but I love wading.  Walking around in shallow water picking up weird rocks and sticks and trying to find gross plants to threaten to touch people with is a favored and all-too-rare summertime activity of mine.

Dammit, I did it again!  And I wasn’t even talking about Erin Gray!  I’m still not done and nowhere near the  heart-pounding, edge-of-your seat conclusion!  I need to attend a blogging seminar.  Well, more to come!


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