Welcome Our Little Bundle of Joy: 2017

Alexandra Reinecke, Art and Literature Editor

Family members and friends,

Following the tumultuous experience of last year’s miscarriage, Brad and I are excited to welcome more than 4.5 pounds of down-pink colored wonder into the world; we’re looking forward to putting away all the anxiety and grief the events of the previous year brought us. While, as Hemingway so aptly put it, we have had, for three weeks, beside the glass pasta containers Brad bought from William Sonoma, the white arcs of little leather feet “baby shoes, never worn,” we’ve taken out the husks of happiness with last week’s Wall Street Journal (have you seen the recent stint of bias?), a bag of orange peels (Brad’s so big on those now, the little clementine critters), and a used bin of Max’s toys, among which, as Brad so handsomely pointed out, was a decapitated plush Williams College cow which looks just like Max (Oreo coloring etc. etc.). It’s a dog eat dog, err, cow, world, we’ve discovered.

The baby was delivered with little difficulty and much celebration at 12:00am, January 1st in the 4th private room of the Long Island General Hospital. Baby 2017 has been looking cheerful since we brought her home from the hospital last week; she’s taken a particular liking to Gerber’s mashed sweet potato and to watching Max stand behind the plastic doggie fence like those refugees we all failed to let in last year (but, like my therapist says: you only lose what you cling to, and it’s a new year? 2017 has inherited Brad’s cheekbones with my coloring. She screams relentlessly. You can trace the start of a chip on the shoulder on her left side, over which Brad talks to me sometimes, in rocking her, a result of her so terribly lost and obviously Harvard-bound brother, now dead.

For those of you who have inquired as to how to monetarily welcome this little sucker into the world (Wild Ollie says, “no man is rich enough to buy back his past”; I say, with Brad working at Lehman and all you so similarly well-positioned, the $23.50 Sophie the Giraffe teether from Neiman’s or a navy plaid double-decker stroller wouldn’t hurt). Brad showed me an article in The Times which pointed out the versatility of the NutriBullet blender for new couples; apparently it’s heavenly at breast milk-shakes (delightful!). How perfect that Brad has expressed an interest in channeling his precocious mid-life crisis into the hobby of trying out all the Asian-oriented from-scratch recipes out of Gwennie’s It’s All Easy; I’ve been meaning, through liquid means, to come around to kale for years!

The shower will be on Saturday, January 6th, at home in the dining room where overpriced hand-frosted cookies in varying shades of cream (we couldn’t decide between Portland cod, buttercream and eggshell) will be served alongside thin-rimmed mimosas, and, for those of you looking to take up some of baby 2017’s coloring in your cheeks, a club set of Grey Goose (come back college days! I mean it!).

Keep in mind that middle names are still up for grabs; we’ll be holding a silent auction for 2017’s 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th middle names, with ascending order determined, of course, by generosity of donation, so for those of you looking to wedge an old family name or wanting to claim distant connection to a future president, or almost-president (too soon?), get those ballots in! (I’m looking at you, Pam; we all know those boys aren’t getting any infamy but bloody noses out of those boxing lessons, even if they are at Dartmouth center). Thyme, Basil, Sage and Cilantro are some of our favorites, though we’re open to suggestions, and are open to the assignation of up to 15 middle names, which The Times style section says is very trendy (traditional Hispanic-chic, right?!).

Here’s hoping we see you next weekend (with loads of presents and a checkbook!). Brad thinks I’m kidding about the name-auction, but Brad doesn’t remember my young and compulsive days! (I’m not kidding).


Grace, Brad and Baby 2017 Miller

P.S. Licks from Max, the little self-canibalistic rascal, whose got himself in a cone.

P.P.S. Gifts are mandatory for admittance. (This isn’t the YMCA, people).