Heidi is nine months old. Sometimes when I see her and Michael, I almost don't see "kid and baby"; rather I see "bigger kid and smaller kid".

I also notice some differences between the two siblings. For example:

Michael as a baby was easily frightened. Things that alarmed him included: a large purple exercise ball, the reflection of dining room lights in a dark window, the AC vent on the ceiling above the bed, and the industrial-sized noise that came from the Busy Ball Popper after I installed the batteries. None of these bother Heidi. I think this may be because she is the second child. Practically since birth she has had to deal with banshee-like wails, drill sergeant-like shouts, startling gestures and so on.

Heidi isn't much of a crawler. Her brother used to putt-putt around the house at speeds I found tiring. His sister only crawls if there's something she wants to grab. In and of itself, crawling seems to bore and frustrate her. What she really likes is to cruise, or have an adult hold her up so she can "walk" around the house (with a proud look on her face).

I was a stay-at-home dad during Michael's first year. Not being particularly resourceful, I frequently ran out of ideas and had to fall back on the old standby -- reading him a story. As a result, he quickly developed an interest in stories, which continues to this day. Heidi is not interested in stories. I haven't yet succeeded in getting through "One Fish Two Fish" -- she just wants to eat the book.

Michael is more attached to his daddy; Heidi to her mama. Like her brother did, she enjoys granting and withholding permission to hold her. She has a hierarchy of preferences. If the choice is between my mother-in-law and me, she usually prefers me. If it's between me and Y., she prefers Y. I always feel a bit dismayed for my mother-in-law. She has cared for four grandchildren now, and they have all treated her the same way.

***

There's a power outage at work. We stand around commenting on the situation. One person says "screw it" and goes home. The rest of us feel helpless, irritated. At some point, it becomes clear that there's nothing to be done, so we head downstairs and outside. There are chairs and cafe tables on the side of the building that looks onto the woods. It's a great place to sit and relax, though on a normal day the only people who do this are the various smokers in the building. Today, though, a truck has crashed a power line three blocks south, and thanks to this the rest of us are being forced to sit and relax.

Conversation proceeds stiffly at first - we talk about work stuff, the new docking stations being installed in place of the old-fashioned desktops. Then, somehow, the topics shift to less utilitarian topics -- office gossip, etc. The new editor confides that she has a secret admirer, someone who makes eye contact whenever he passes her desk. She won't say who. Pretty soon we're all discussing, with great relish and ease, the best subject of all: men and women. We talk loudly, to hear ourselves above the noise of the backup generators. And then the noise suddenly falls silent, indicating that the power is back on.

***

Stopping at the mail cubbies at daycare to pick up the monthly statement, I pass another parent.

"It's just like the mailbox at home," she says. "Nothing but bills."

Even though I was his primary care provider for most of his first year, I have trouble recalling our son as an infant. I'm used to him as a three-year-old (almost four) and it's hard, for instance, to think of a time when he couldn't talk.