Max continues to grow. I know that many of you reading this (that is, four out of the six of you at least, and possibly all six) are thinking, "Quit writing things. We want baby pictures." Yes. So do we. We've discovered, though, that having Max around adds a lot of new tasks to each day:

1. Removing all of his clothes, replacing with poop-free versions.
2. Being awake and semi-catatonic all the time.
3. Poking him (gently) while asking, "He's breathing, right?"
4. Staring at him for hour-long periods.
5. Putting him in his bed, listening at the doorway for 20 minutes, concluding that he's asleep, and then waking him up to feed him.

Note that fiddling with the computer is not one of those tasks. But it should be, at least while I am at work. The digital camera and flash drive are a little conspicuous here, though. So text it is until I get home.

As part of the normal course of obsessively protective behaviors surrounding having a new baby around, we decided, like many modern, not-all-that-religious Jews, to sign him up for that bit of elective cosmetic surgery known the world around as the bris. Leah's cousin Ephraim drove over from Albany with scalpel in hand. This is ok because he is a real doctor.

We were nervous and Max was calm as Dr. Ephraim advanced with the clamps and novocain and various other pokers and gougers. But then Max had to be strapped to a little plastic board and have his diaper removed. If someone was coming after your boys with novocain, you'd need to be strapped down, too. Good instinct, Max! Anyway, he didn't like that one bit and reacted as he had to the last great shock and injustice in his life -- being born -- by screaming his tiny head off. Great wailing was heard in the land. Finally, after much careful poking, he was carried out to his granddad and the ribbon-cutting, such as it was, commenced. Max did not much like it.

What follows a bris is a surgeon's nightmare: an open, undressed surgical incision constantly bathed in poop. To at least make a stab at dealing with the preposterous un-sanitariness of this situation, we had to wrap his business in gauze for a few days upon his frequent diaper changes. Now, he only weighs a hair under 7 pounds, so all things in perspective, but there just isn't much to wrap that gauze around at this point. Not that it's ineffective: he can pee on your clothing and his at 50 paces. But still, a challenge to my dexterity in the half-light of a 3 a.m. rediapering.

But those days are behind us now and he is healed up good. He even gained two ounces, which is a testament to Leah's ability to not sleep at all and still remain cheerful and maternal. He tends to eat up a storm all night - maybe every 90 minutes - and then drift off for a good 3-hour nap just as I give up on sleeping and head to work at 6. The good news is that I can leave a little early when I get in at 6:30. The bad news is, well, being at work at 6:30 is just really, really bad news.