The tusami.

The Gabster, ~72 hours old.

Her chubby cheeks photograph larger than they really are, though her face and barely existent cone head do look more like she's three weeks old rather than a three days.  I never saw the rest of her since since she was swaddled, though apparently her body looks like a legitimate newborn.  Nose like mama.  Upper lip like papa.  Temper like a Comrie (the nurses tried to blame the temper on Tim since he's red headed -- hah!).  Farts like a Buckholz.  Lower lip and jaw quiver competitive with hummingbirds.   Likes the world through squinty eyes.

All in all, eight pounds of wonderfulness.

I joked before leaving for KC that friends should batten the hatches, get the duct tape ready and start storing water.  No storms were predicted for the trip, but that never stopped Mother Nature before.  Since blizzard, earthquake and hurricane were already checked off the list, I figured a winter tornado or an Australia-sized comet or an alien invasion was next.

Turned out to be the year of the tusami.  Sic erat scriptum.

Saturday night we went to a mexican restaurant.  Good food, good times.  The waitress was spot on with her duties and knew the menu inside and out, though had absolutely not a clue as to beer and was prone to letter swaps in the same way I am.  Mom: "What do you have on tap?"  Waitress: "Biller Light, Mud Light... oh, wait, um..."  Nothing of our order got mixed up, so it was forgivable.  But it did set a tone of humorous clumsiness for the evening.

We talked of baby Gabby, of life as new parents, of news with each of us.  Mom asked if a woman a few tables away would qualify as the so-called Jersey Girl look she has read about but not seen in person.  I gave an adapted version of my redneck vs. hillbilly vs. hick vs. white trash lecture, though tailored to Jersey Girl vs. white trash.  (One day I hope to make a Venn diagram of my redneck vs. hillbilly vs. hick vs. white trash lecture, having been inspired by the Nerd Venn Diagram that rectifies the differences between nerd vs. geek vs. dweeb vs. dork.  But that's a different conversation for a different day.)

Then our waitress returned the credit card receipt for my dad to sign.  Dad reached across the table diagonally only to send a midwest-sized glass of ice water across the table.  I witnessed the entire event without blinking an eye.  The glass was full to something just shy of a liter, and the flood-turned-waterfall went straight for my mom's lap.  Mom froze and her eyes got big.  Sam, at Mom's right, started leaning away with an "Oh snap, look at 'er go!" look on his face.  Dad grabbed and uprighted the glass, though by then all the water was well on its way.  Kristin watched on from the far side of the booth with a half smile hidden by a cupped hand in surprise.  I yelled "Mom! Move!"  So she did -- and she started shoveling the ice and water towards Sam like a luau gone Red Cross disaster relief, delicate flick of the wrists and all.  Needless to say, the luau was not very effective for water redirection or for swimming.  Sam, with one butt cheek still lofted, now opted for his one eyebrow look of "Whaaa?"  I yelled "Mom!  Get up!  GET.  UP."  She grabbed her purse and coat and fought her way out of the booth to standing.

Half a beat passed before we all crumbled into laughter.  Ten full minutes of beat red faces (and we are German and Irish -- we can turn RED), crying, and hickuping in attempt to actually breathe.  Lots of reenacting.  The hostesses and other waiters kept peering over to make sure none of us blew a blood vessel and needed an ambulance.  I continued to spontaneously burst out into laughter on the drive home.  Usually this is met with eye rolling; this time it got everyone laughing again.

Back home we -- and by "we" I mean everyone excluding Mom -- pondered how to refer to that evening in the future.  "The year of the flood?"  "The year of the waterfall?"  "Tsunami?"  Mom started to chime in at that one, "The tusami..."  I cut her off, "Tusami?!?  That fits perfectly with the luau method."  So ensued another reenactment, and another round of gut busting laughter. 

Gabriella Marie, you've got yourself one helluva family over here.