One of the reasons blogging has been light - welcoming a new grandchild to the world ;-)

The most recent addition to my family is Miss Sophie Brooke Witt, sixth child and third daughter of my older son Charlie and his wife Mai Lea. Sophie was born at 12:42 in the morning on July 6, 2020, weighs 7 pounds and 14 ounces, and has all of the appropriate body parts, in the appropriate amounts.

It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species, that every baby born into the world is a finer one than the last.

~ Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby, Ch. 36

Infant Sorrow

by William Blake

My mother groand! my father wept.

Into the dangerous world I leapt:

Helpless, naked, piping loud; 

Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my fathers hands: 

Striving against my swaddling bands: 

Bound and weary I thought best

To sulk upon my mothers breast.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

Contrariwise, my blood runs cold

When little boys go by.

For little boys as little boys,

No special hate I carry,

But now and then they grow to men,

And when they do, they marry.

No matter how they tarry,

Eventually they marry.

And, swine among the pearls,

They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,

With parents who feed and clothe him.

Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,

But I have begun to loathe him.

Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless

This child who to me is nameless.

This bachelor child in his carriage

Gives never a thought to marriage,

But a person can hardly say knife

Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),

A-sleeping in the sun,

Without I turn a trifle pale

And think is he the one?

Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,

And then he'll want a pony,

And then he'll think of pretty girls,

And holy matrimony.

A cat without a mouse

Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,

And quietly sucks his thumbs.

His cheeks are roses painted on silk,

And his teeth are tucked in his gums.

But alas the teeth will begin to grow,

And the bubbles will cease to bubble;

Given a score of years or so,

The roses will turn to stubble.

He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,

And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,

And raging and ravenous for the kill,

He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.

This infant whose middle

Is diapered still

Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!

My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.

A fig for embryo Lohengrins!

I'll open all his safety pins,

I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,

And give him readings from Aristotle.

Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,

And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.

And an elegant, elegant, alligator

To play with him in his perambulator.

Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water

To marry somebody else's daughter.

Grandbaby pictures

Update August 22:

Addie

and Charlotte:

For those of you who requested it, here are some recent photos of the new girl cousins (Addie, born 2/4/16 is sitting up, and Charlotte, born 4/14/16, is reclining) in their semi-matching pink camo outfits:

And just hanging out:

Their "Best Friends" shirts, which their parents purchased when they found out both were pregnant:

Earlier, Addie, age 11 weeks, and Charlotte, age 10 days:

 Charlotte:

 And Addie:

And here's a group shot of all of our local grandkids (seven of them, out of a total of fourteen scattered about):

Baby Horoscopes

As many of you know, in addition to several older and well-used grandchildren (ages 17, 16, 12, 12, 12, 12 and 11, plus an extra 5 step-grandchildren), I have two brand new granddaughters in the family  - Addie, born February 4, and Charlotte, born April 14. 

Related: Grandmothers gave humans longer lifespans

As a result of these recent additions more than a decade after the previous batch, all things baby-related have been very much in our thoughts and conversations recently. Artist Jim Benton also seems to know his way around babies:

Napping together: Addie, age 11 weeks, and Charlotte, age 10 days. ;-)

Horoscope via Neatorama

My two new granddaughters sleeping together ;-)

For those who asked - Addie, age 11 weeks, and Charlotte, age 10 days. ;-)

Blogging will be light for a few days while I welcome ANOTHER new granddaughter to the world ;-)

Today we're welcoming Miss Charlotte Mae Witt, fourth child and second daughter to my older son Charlie and his wife Mai Lea. Charlotte was born at 1:40 this afternoon, weighs 7 pounds and 9 ounces, and is 21 inches long. She has a good amount of light brown hair plus all of the appropriate body parts, in the appropriate amounts.

The most recent addition to the family prior to today was Charlotte's cousin Addie, born February 4, 2016.

It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us.

~ Dickens

Infant Sorrow by William Blake

My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
And an elegant, elegant, alligator
To play with him in his perambulator.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

A loud noise at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other. 

~ Ronald Knox (attributed)

It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species, that every baby born into the world is a finer one than the last. 

~ Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby, Ch. 36

Blogging will be light for a few days while I welcome my new granddaughter to the world ;-)

It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us.

~ Dickens

On February 4, 2016, my younger daughter Amanda and her husband Scott brought forth into this world their third child (and first girl) Miss Adelaide Sandra Virginia White, aka 'Addie', at 12:40 PM. She weighs 6 pounds and 9 ounces, is 19 inches long, and has the appropriate number of body parts.

Infant Sorrow by William Blake

My mother groand! my father wept.
Into the dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my fathers hands:
Striving against my swaddling bands:
Bound and weary I thought best
To sulk upon my mothers breast.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children 

by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
And an elegant, elegant, alligator
To play with him in his perambulator.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

It is a pleasant thing to reflect upon, and furnishes a complete answer to those who contend for the gradual degeneration of the human species, that every baby born into the world is a finer one than the last. 

~ Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby, Ch. 36