(Usually I avoid this sort of disclaimer, but: I will be talking about pregnancy and babies and whatnot, below.)
So. Wednesday night.
The moon went copper red in the sky during the total lunar eclipse.
The Red Sox won the World Series for the first time since (all together now:) 1918.
And my sister gave birth to a beautiful daughter, eight pounds nine ounces, a little bit after midnight. Both are now recuperating in the hospital, on antibiotics for fevers that have since come down. Lord willing and the temps don't rise, both of them ought to be home within a week. I sure hope they are.
Natalia Rose, as the newest member of the Leery clan and the first grandchild, will, according to custom, sacrifice her dried umbilical cord stump to the insatiable hunger of some relative's black-and-white Chihuahua -- ours, in this case. This tradition began with me and a snappish piglet of a dog named Tiny, and it has brought me nothing but good fortune.
So, Natalia Rose, may you enjoy a reasonably idyllic childhood of mess and tadpoles and dress-up clothes, hours of uninterrupted play, a jumble of siblings and cousins in filthy Daddy t-shirts; may you be allowed to eat the batter with the raw eggs in it; may your diary remain inviolate. May you play oblivious on the floor while your mother and aunts tell appalling jokes; may you launch a projectile bowel movement at an unsuspecting parent and giggle irresistibly; may you never take up smoking. May you be surrounded, always, by the warm and raucous laughter of your entire family, who have loved you beyond all reason since before you were born.