"Spectacular growth!" Buy now!

Well, okay, actually, our Oscar's not a nickel stock, and while we may be taking him public, he's not for sale. But if he were, he'd leave all those namby-pamby flim-flam Tech 2.0 offerings perpetually groaning from my fax machine in the dust. This is a fast-growing venture with virtually unlimited potential, as we learned at the pediatrician's today.

The verdict: Oscar has gained a staggering 22 ounces in two weeks (that's just 14 days!) for a total of 9 pounds, 13 ounces -- a gain the doctor pronounced "Spectacular!" That works out to... Well, okay, so I'm innumerate, but it's north of an ounce-and-a-half a day. Average is a half-ounce to an ounce. "Spectacular" doesn't even really cut it. You need to throw a lot of colorful adjectives (and exclamation marks!!!) at a number that substantial.

In the above shot, the slumbering colossus regards Central Park's Angel of Bethesda with, well, let's say sleepy disdain. We carted him around the park on Sunday, showing him the roller disco, The Ramble and the kiddie zoo (where we briefly got stuck in stroller gridlock) while Jen regaled us with stories of the great Central Park eccentrics of yore -- Adam and Eve Purple, The Crowtations and the urban shaman who went around ringing a bell at people's hoo-has and whatsits to ward off venereal diseases. Afterwards, we went to Gramma and Grampa's for a change and a feeding, stopping at an uptown outpost of The Soup Nazi's sprawling culinary empire.

Oscar is now alert almost as much of the time as we are, and he's much more engaged -- tracking sights and sounds and staring intently at faces for minutes on end. He seems increasingly responsive and attentive when being spoken to or otherwise distracted. On the downside, of course, he won't be lulled to sleep by a simple bouncy walk or stroller ride anymore. But there's just nothing like staring into those little eyes, knowing they're staring back into yours and, best of all, being rewarded with one of his rare and fleeting half-smiles.

Infants -- perfect, as-yet uncorrupted, helpless and utterly captive to the graces of imperfect old us -- have a purifying effect. A kid comes along, and you're cleansed of all your sins, your failings and frailties. None of it means a good goddamn anymore. All that matters is the child, the tabula rasa with the longing, searching eyes who will, for a time, regard you with the awesome gravity we once did the sun, and depend on your life-giving sustenance just the same. Which brings us back to Bethesda Fountain.