To Claire, who is dangling above him, cooing: “I have you in my eye, sir. I have you in my eye. I control the weather by means of my mental powers.” Pause. “If by weather, you mean Claire. And by mental powers, you mean hands.”

1. Nipples get hickeys.

2. If you hold the baby above your head, she can drip saliva up your nose.

Outside… WUB wub WUB wub.

J: I was trying to work out if that car was playing some interesting electronic music, or if it was just really sick mechanically.

Today we are learning all about J2EE application frameworks.

Claire’s contribution is to sprawl peacefully on my lap, kicking me as I type. Occasionally she makes a noise like a small air raid siren and wakes herself up.

Back at the office. All changed, changed utterly, yet mysteriously exactly the same.

Poor Claire is now a latchkey kid, and has been mournfully playing contentedly with Jeremy and Salome all day.

One of the pleasures of being alive right now, and especially of having a child, is the vast improvement in the design of everyday things since I was a kid. We bought a good tent, oh, four years ago now. It has carbon-fiber poles and I can put it up, single-handed, in about five minutes. A far cry from the orange pointy thing that used to take the four of us half a day to pitch in the back yard.

Kids’ stuff is even better. No more scary safety pins, or even three-way-claws – today’s nappies are secured by purest velcro. Much as I love my nappy service, I have to admit the disposable nappies we use when we go out are even more impressive. They have some kind of super-absorbant gel which, according to an article in one of last year’s New Yorkers, wicks the “insult” away from Claire’s tender behind.

Best of all are the toys. About five people independently gave us different Lamaze toys for newborns. They’re awesome. They’re brightly colored and contrasty and clockwork and crinkly, and obviously based on a sophisticated understanding of child psychology that just didn’t exist when my mother scolded me for burning my doll Goldie’s foot on the gas heater. (I was just trying to keep her warm!)

It’s a scary and depressing world in a lot of ways, but people are still inventing small, useful things that simplify camping and make babies smile. Western civilization not a total waste of time.

Good Flash.

Husband as Cousin It.

Not sure Claire’s passport application will go too smoothly. Jeremy and I watched, with silent but increasing hilarity, as the office guy filled out his section. In spite of the fact that the word Australia is correctly spelled elsewhere on the form, as well as on both our passports that he was copying from, and in spite of the fact that he asked us and we spelled it aloud for him, he got it right exactly none out of four times. Instead:

Austrail
Austraila
Austrailia
Austraililia

They’re going to think we’re Austrian. Oh well. Otherwise, he seemed like a jolly nice chap.

Noelle: Look at her face. Check out how she’s looking at you!

Me (proudly): She thinks I’m cool!

Laughter.

Tina: You just wait.

Me (chagrined): Well, she thinks milk is cool.

Tina: That’s more like it.

Hooray for the Warming Hut, one of the few decent cafes in San Francisco with both a interesting bookstore and a water view.

Woman at the counter: Where are you from?

R: Australia, but I’ve been here five years.

WatC: You’re like the eucalypts. A transplant.

R: Yep, we grow too fast in this fertile soil.

WatC: You’re much more benign, though. They’re a pest.

R (darkly): You don’t know me.

I said: “I think I’m getting better at burping her. I just sit her up and sort of, fold her.”

Later, when she was gassy, Jeremy handed her to me: “Here, try origami.”

Against the war, again, still. We just missed the cavalry charge on Mission Street. We must have been going down the stairs into Civic Center BART when it began.

Later we had juice at Papa Toby’s. A sweet young thing came in, amped on adrenaline.

“They had us surrounded,” he said. “They just kept closing in. They wouldn’t let us leave. People were just sitting down and chanting, and then they started hitting.”

“Are you okay?” asked his concerned friend, touching his arm.

“Yeah, I’m great,” he said. “I feel… empowered!”

I say: “Can I interest you in parts of my body?”

She comes at my bare breast like Jaws at a dinghy.

In my old passport photo, taken shortly after my bible study leader days, I have long brown ringlets, huge round glasses and what Grant so memorably calls That Hard Look That Virgins Have.

In my new one, I’ve got white blonde hair and lots and lots of laughter lines around my eyes.

Talk about before and after shots. Mothers, take heed! Don’t let your daughters go to the cesspit of sin that is Dublin! Or Mardi Gras! Or Burning Man! They’ll end up… err… happily married, with babies of their own? Wait a minute, that can’t be right…

I mail Jeremy: I think the woman behind me is a vegetarian, or lactose intolerant. She hasn’t stopped farting since she sat down.

The mail flies through the aether to Jeremy’s laptop, which sits opposite mine at our table at Atlas.

He looks up thoughtfully. “Maybe Buddhist?”

Spent Sunday afternoon in Sunnyvale, which as a consequence of watching far too much Buffy I keep pronouncing “Sunnyd – Sunnyvale”.

Christ, that place is a *goldmine*.

As we walked past Starbucks, I heard a woman say: “He could be stalking me – and I wouldn’t even know!”

In Pasta Pomodoro, the host came by to admire Claire.

“We have two of our own,” he said.

“I keep thinking she’s going to call Child Protection Services: ‘Help! My parents are rank amateurs!'” I said. “We only started talking about it a year ago, and here she is.”

“Same thing happened to us. We adopted both our boys, and the first one came seven months after we applied.”

“Oh, cool. Did you do an open adoption?”

Okay, dumb question, I know.

“No,” he said. “No, we didn’t. Our boys are both African American, and their mothers, their highest ambition in life was finishing High School. And we just didn’t want that whole, that worrying about a whole other family. I mean, if when our boys are old enough, they want contact, I’ll be fine with that, I’ll take them to Chicago, we’ll all do it together. But they came from a very… impoverished background, and I’m confident that when they see what we gave them, and compare it with the life they would have had otherwise, they’ll be glad.”

Pause.

Me, weakly: “Well, congratulations. And good luck.”

“You too,” he said, and glided away.

No mullet shall remain unstunned.

I’m very tired. I keep spoonerizing randomly. A recent highlight was “Liffey Jube” – not the gay Burning Man camp I was reaching for, but a tasty Dublin treat.

There’s a new cafe in town! Papa Toby’s Revolution Cafe on 22nd Street between Mission and Valencia is the new Atlas – much as jumping up and down is the new brain surgery.

In other news, how spoilt is your cat? Not as spoilt as mine:

Bebe is sprawled between me and the keyboard as I type, so this entry will be somewhat ergonomically challenged.

Busy weekend! Barnes arrived on Friday to inspect his new niece (he approves). On Saturday we went to brunch at Afshin’s and plotted our next move. Saturday night was Games Night at 795 Alcatraz. Sunday was supposed to have been a surprise birthday party in Palo Alto for Ian, except that Jeremy spilled the beans. On the bright side, Kat made trifle and Alusha made pav. I absconded with the remains of the potato gratin.

Bukes: I started rereading A Suitable Boy two days before Claire was born. I read five hundred pages in the first two days, fifty the next week, a hundred the week after that. My reading is gradually returning to normal speed. ASB was the perfect post-baby book, as it happened: soulful and episodic, so that I could read it in small bites between stops on the feed-burp-change express.

Once I finished that I tackled Sarah Blaffer Hrdy (not a typo)’s Mother Nature, a wonderful synthesis of thirty years of research in anthropology and biology, which explains exactly why new mothers are intensely territorial and ambivalent. (No word yet on why I was intensely territorial and ambivalent before I had Claire.) Mother Nature, which I intend to give to all my friends who are mothers, revisits a lot of the ground I covered last year: the Darwin biography and Goodall and Fossey and The Metaphysical Club and The Mismeasure of Man.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about reproductive success in game-theoretical terms, and how players try to influence the allocation of resources. Now I’m reading Imperial San Francisco, which traces corrupt dynasties through the Gold Rush and the earthquake and the water wars. The saddest aspect of this book is the lost opportunities: the extension of the Panhandle to Civic Center, to form a Parisian boulevard; the Frederick Law Olmstead-designed Central Park where South Van Ness Avenue runs today. In daydreams I walk through a ghostly San Francisco of the future that never was.

Meanwhile the nation juggernauts towards war and the rocket ship I watched on its maiden flight burns up on reentry.

R (ruffling through the front section of the New York Times): Is there any good news in here?

Barnaby: The Museum of Natural History is rebuilding its dioramas.

R: Oh. (Pause.) Good. How’s Claire?

B: Really cute.

Ian: I was thinking about Salome wanting humanely killed meat, and I had a brainwave.

Rachel: Here we go.

Ian: Abattoirs combined with petting zoos!

Rachel: We’ll see how that works out for you.

Ian: No, it’ll be brilliant. Imagine, seven-year-old boys wielding the air bolt.

Kat: And people wonder why I’m with this man.

Ian: Wave of the future, baby.

One of my belated Christmas presents was season three of The Sopranos on DVD. That’s probably why I picked up this exchange between the hepsters at the next table.

Gleeful Hepster: Fuck, man! You’re dating Meadow.

Gloomy Hepster: I know.

Gleeful Hepster: What are you gonna do when her Dad says “Fuck you, Jewboy?”

Gloomy Hepster: She says she told him about me, and he said: “Oh.”

Gleeful Hepster: That does not sound good…