First off, I’d like to set up a ground rule. Anytime I tell a story where the beloved and I go somewhere or do something, it should be understood that the baby is with us. I don’t want to be forced to type “the beloved and my daughter and I” every FRICKIN’ time.

KJ is with us. Always.

For those of you with kids, you understand, and for those of you without kids, you just can’t fathom how much a baby is WITH you. Grocery store - there she is! Restaurant - there she is! Taking a shower - there she is!

It’s gotten to the point that this Kodak moment took place just last night:

(BIG walks into the nursery. BIG is not carrying THE BABY. He sees THE BELOVED standing in the nursery. She is also not holding THE BABY.)

BIG: (panicked) Where’s the baby?!

BELOVED: What baby?

(BIG passes out and wakes up five minutes later. THE BELOVED is still laughing her ass off. THE BABY is safe in the crib.

So anyway, unless I say otherwise, any story that involved both the beloved and I automatically includes the baby.

Last night the beloved and I (and the baby, but that’s the LAST TIME I’m telling you) went to Home Depot to pick out paint for the baby’s nursery. Now, the company I work for makes toilet seats in 72 colors. About 1/3 of those 72 colors are white. Kohler white, American Standard White, Crane White, bluish whites, greenish whites, reddish whites - I know how many different colors white can be.

Or at least I thought I did. There are so many damn shades of white. Primarily because we were intimidated by the sheer volume of white paints, we decided, on the spot, to go with yellow instead.

So we grabbed all nine yellow color cards, and drove to my office, where we have a lighting booth for color checks. After looking at all the yellows in both simulated daylight and simulated indoor light, we had one of those moments that affirms why we got married.

Without discussion or debate, we looked at each other and said “Moonlit Yellow.”

Love is wonderful.

On Sunday, D and KJ and I decided to spend Sunday afternoon at the new house, enjoying the living room furniture that was delivered on Friday and generally relaxing. However, there’s something about 102 degrees that makes it a little tricky to relax, especially when the original builders of our home neglected to put in air conditioning 125 years ago. Now, there are lots of shade trees around our house, and most of it is plaster construction, so it’s pretty cool inside. But the family room (where the furniture is) is drywall and only one story, so it was kinda warm in there. Two words leapt to mind - AIR CONDITIONER.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I am not “Mr. Handy Guy.” My hands are soft and uncallused from years of work involving a keyboard. My skin is pale and fair from the gentle glow of flourescent lights. I’m so mechanically inept that when I successfully changed a tire about a year ago, I almost passed out from surprise.

But, the wife and the offspring were hot, so your hero traveled to that mecca of manhood, Sears. There I consulted with Tim, the Appliance Guru. Tim was equally comfortable talking about laundry appliances, armoire-style refrigerators, and air conditioners. In a complicated and time-honored dance, Tim and I discussed what air conditioner I should buy. We discussed such things as room sizes, efficiency ratings, installation techniques and most important, BTU’s. Now, I know BTU stands for British Thermal Unit, but damned if I can envision what one British Thermal Unit looks like. A quarter-cup of sugar, that I can picture, but the best I can come up with for British Thermal Unit is a tiny regiment of Redcoats carrying thermometers instead of muskets.

“I say, it’s dreadfully warm in here.”

“Beg pardon, old chum?”

“I said, it’s dreadfully warm.”

“By jove, it is! Troops! At the ready! We’re off to fight the Hottentots!”

(Complaints about that rather obvious pun may be made to the author in the comments.)

So I selected an air conditioner and brought it home. After about an hour, during which time several f-bombs were dropped, several knuckles were jammed, and a virgin was sacrificed, I sweatily stepped back, and hit “Power.” Much to my astonishment, the machine hummed to life and began blowing cold air. I imagine that the pride I felt was just like when my caveman ancestor Ug made fire for the first time. And I imagine that 5 million years ago, just as today, Ug’s wife came over, looked at Ug’s handiwork and said, “What took you so long?”

It’s tough being a man.

Well, the experiment was proven right. If Little and I have a joint blog, we’ll ignore it TWICE as hard!

Some updates.

Katie is healthy, happy, hungry and sleeping fairly well. The beloved is a little tired, but very happy. I am not very tired, because D lets me sleep through the 2 a.m. feedings. For now. I’ll be taking over those feedings when we decide to use bottles or when D goes back to work - whichever comes first. And if any of you are PETA-level breastfeeding militants, don’t worry, we are going to be using milk pumped from Mommy, NOT formula.

We closed on our house on Friday. It wasn’t nearly as climactic as I’d expected - so many damn forms to sign. My favorites were 1) the form that I signed that indicated my name was really my name and that my aliases (with middle initial, without, first name shortened, etc.) were really also my names, and 2) the form that says the title company has the right to fix spelling and typographical errors on all the other forms. It was also fun providing documentation for all three of Dana’s names (maiden name, married name #1, married name #2) to prove to the Patriot Act that she isn’t going to use the house as an anthrax lab. Which we are anyway.

Anyone is invited to come up and see it - it’s a huge old farmhouse, built in 1878 and added on to numerous times. The interior is highlighted by the faux-Wrightian kitchen (c. 1965), the dungeon-like basement (c. 1878) and inch-thick lead paint throughout. Also, asbestos. On the other hand, lurking beneath the paint is gorgeous old woodwork, there is tons of space, a beautiful attic to be restored and six (count ‘em, SIX) acres of grass and mature trees.

And we’re re-doing the kitchen.

New baby, new house - I’ve never been more terrified or excited. Ever.

Senses overwhelm one another at times. Just as when someone talking on a cell phone sees something on the street and can’t speak, leaving their conversational partner repeating are-you-theres, the buzzing sound in the room allowed few thoughts to penetrate the mind.

There were clicks, pauses. Then the buzzing continued.

The first client, lying flat on a table, encircled by a supportive ( which was all they could be, as spontaneous anesthesia was not among their special powers) group, ground her teeth and endured the sensations streaming through her like a jackhammer through concrete. The second, across the room, quietly accepted the sting while listening to the first voice her concern. He awaited the sensation’s intensifying, but it never came.

Finally, a voice. “All done,” said the artist with the same name as the second client. The second stood, examined the work, voiced his pleasure, and returned to the first to provide a still-non-anesthetic (but appreciated nonetheless) second hand to squeeze.

Chie, or “Wisdom”, the second client’s skin now gleamed, as he watched the seahorse of his fiancee’s self-reliance appear on her swollen foot.

More buzzing, more squeezing. Finally, after one final digging-in of nails, it was done.

We’re inked.

Born 12:28 AM, July 2, 2005.

9 lbs, 10oz., 22 inches.

Welcome to the world, Miss Katherine. You’ve been eagerly awaited!