Blog Four: Easter

Today we made the Brighton-Kingston trip. We got the first two toys for BabyRickJay, a giraffe that plays Brahm's Lullaby and a bunny. The bunny was from my grandmother, the giraffe from Flakey, my father-in-law's (henceforth Dad-Brighton) girlfriend. I call her Flakey because she's a flake. There was this hilarious exchange upon greeting her:

FLAKEY: "So do you put your hand on her every day (demonstrates placing hand over belly) and say `Bless you, baby, be well'?"

ME: No.

F: Oh.

Like, what the hell is that? The baby is eleven weeks old. It doesn't know a lot of English; I'm not positive but I don't even think its ears function yet. I don't think a New Agey little mantra's going to help as much as, you know, making sure Mrs. RickJay is healthy and rested and has waffles when she needs them. And I'm not playing Mozart to the fetus to make it smarter, either; that's a stupid urban legend. If I am going to play any music to the baby, I'm going to play the Stones, AC/DC, and the Hip so it grows up to be cool.

I am, incidentally, a skeptic. I do not believe in ESP, ghosts, Ouija boards, UFOs, alien abductions, telekinesis, auras, chemtrails, dowsing, homeopathic remedies, fairies, the Loch Ness Monster, or any other pseudoscientific baloney. If you want to believe in that crap go right ahead; it's your right to do so, and it's my right to make fun of you.

We then went on to Kingston, and had a very nice pork roast cooked by Dad, who has gotten into cooking since he retired, and is very good at it.

Then we drove home and now I'm blogging in my office, kittens crawling over my feet, Mrs. RickJay an arm's reach away listening to Simon and Garfunkel. Ahhh. This is where I belong.