Luke is now officially two months old. He can smile. He entertains us with witty sayings such as, "A goo ba goooo um." He has a proceeding hair line, chubby little arms, and feet that I absolutely must kiss whenever I see them. He enjoys eating, watching the rotating animals in his mobile march in endless circles, eating, staring at Christmas lights, eating, and he prefers to be elevated and moving at all times. If you bounce him contrary to the beat in any music that might be playing in the background, he notices and complains. That's my boy.

A friend pointed me towards this music video. It features Alessandra Ferri from the ABT accompanied by Sting playing a Bach tune on an acoustic guitar. Very cool. Check out this woman's echappes. Right. So that move only looks retarded when I do it. Good to know.

Many people have asked how the cats are taking our new family arrangement, especially Meeko.

Ben, for his part, barely seems to know that there is another person on the house. Aside from the fact that we are frequently holding something that makes us less efficient head scratchers, I'm not sure that he notices or cares. We could be holding a large sausage. In fact, a sausage would be more interesting. It might be salty.

Yesterday was my first day home alone with Luke. I was concerned initially. Nothing makes you admire the eight-armed octopus more than when your two measly arms are caught up holding an infant. We did well though. By noon I had us both dressed and I had even brushed my teeth and my hair and put on pants. I note this as a major accomplishment.

In the hospital, they put a security tag on a leg band around each baby's ankle that looks quite a bit like the kind you'd see on a pair of jeans in a department store. And there are matching wristbands for mom and baby that the nurses compare often. Mothers are encouraged to compare them often too, to avoid any mix-up, I suppose. This is probably some insurance-mandated security. I understand the sentiment and as a new mother I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a touch nervous in some respects. (I confess I don't like seeing anyone else hold him.