The Great Bib of Prophecy

(Yeah, we have some hospital material to get to – and we will – but this one was too hard to postpone. Enjoy.)

For Christmas, (the newly engaged) Spud and Julie got Baby Clara a small gift. (For an unofficial Baby’s First Christmas, it should be noted that she had quite the yuletide haul.) Simple, yet stunningly hilarious, the gift was a baby bib. In plain, non-descript, black letters, the plain white bib read:

“Hi. I’m Super Baby. This is my cape. Mom just put it on backwards.”

But do the clothes really make the man? Or in this case, does the layette make the newborn?

Our kid could have a guest spot on Heroes.

Last night during a 3:30 AM feeding (which are in fact rarer than one would expect), Clara was up and hungry. Mom sat at attention up in bed with young baby in arms, while Dad stumbled around the room getting various needs (cloth, pillows) with all the grace of Peter King at a press corps buffet table. Now there was a little light in the room, thanks to what lies directly outside our bedroom window. Even prior to dawn’s early light, Fairfax Corner is alive with the post-close patio lighting of the restaurants, parking lot lamps, Christmas lights on the trees, and the soft glow surrounding the movie theatre. It’s city living, but without the pretzel carts and taxation without representation.

Sure, it was light enough to find my way around the bed, serving as the operation’s runner. Katie seemed okay with the minimal incandescence, and Clara was enjoying some late-night chow, so she had no problem. That is, until she had a little too much.

Babies don’t exactly have the lengthiest digestive track in the world, and to borrow a page from Micro-economics, one cannot allow supply to outpace demand. If supply does outpace demand, the market may decide to return some goods to the warehouse. And since the warehouse is closed, that can only mean one thing.

Spit-up City.
Normal babies spit up, and there’s minor consequence. Some baby clothes get wet. Maybe someone develops the hiccups. You might use one more burp cloth than you had allocated. But remember what I said earlier – my baby isn’t normal.

3:39:42 – Clara Grace spits up.
3:39:45 – The entire power grid of Fairfax Corner goes dark.

That’s right. Our child can sneeze, and make Thomas Edison cry.

It’s a pretty eerie thing to stare out over a landscape usually so littered by bright lights. It was complete darkness around Coastal Flats, leaving a poor delivery man to read his clipboard by the dashboard light. Rio Grande and PF Changs were reduced to giants monoliths of blacked out regional cuisine. The traffic light stood colorless, and the occasional vehicle proceeded with caution. Oh and inside our apartment? Baby continued to feed, Mom continued to remain calm, and Dad continued to trip over everything in sight and try and find solace in a candle and the awesome Headlamp that I was given as an Christmas gift years back.

And for those fifteen minutes of blackness, I sat wondering (and nursing my slammed ankle) just what else the most photographed human on the planet is capable of. And whether or not I should try and send her pictures in to J. Jonah Jameson at the Daily Bugle.