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More later. Time for our daily North Jersey excursion.

Things that seem to make Charlotte happy: long walks (perfect in 90 degree heat), long drives (perfect in the season of $4/gallon gas), food (understandable) and mainstream jazz (I can’t invent a reason why this is bad).

At least today, everything not on this list unleashes her wrath.

Here are a few more photos…

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Charlotte had a busy morning, taking meetings with her great-grandmothers and spending some time with the Zmijeski family.

She held back her tears until her visitors were long gone. Here’s today’s photo diary…

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Tonight we spent our usual blogging time working on Charlotte’s birth announcement. So today’s update is short and sweet. I’ll get a more in-depth photo recap posted tomorrow.

Time for sleep…

Today was a day of firsts: first pediatrician appointment, first walk around the neighborhood, first baby bath. Charlotte was excited by exactly none of these momentous occasions.

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We survived our first night home with Charlotte—and without the wonderful team of 24-hour nurses a call button away. Initially, Bailey was curious, barking up a storm when her strange new roommate started crying. But by 3am, she’d realized the best response to a screaming baby was hiding on the quiet side of the house.

Here are a few more pictures from Charlotte’s homecoming:

We’ll be throwing each other high-fives in no time

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[Previously: A Baby Story: Charlotte Lynn English.]

Charlotte Lynn has spent much of her first few days asleep. But she managed to open her eyes often enough for me to take six dozen pictures.

I promise not to share all of them.

Thanks for all your great comments, emails, Facebook messages and texts. Baby Charlotte is loving the fan mail.

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At 4:02pm yesterday, after 21 hours of labor and with a full moon on the rise, Charlotte Lynn English entered the world.

She seemed a bit skeptical of us. This was her “Seriously, I’ve been here for 30 seconds. Put down the camera” look.

I hadn’t held a baby nearly this young since my cousin Samantha was a month old. She’s now a junior at the University of Delaware.

Ellen’s due date was Monday, July 21. (Though we were never clear whether they’d factored in the Leap Year.) On Thursday morning, we arrived at the OB GYN for a routine appointment. Ellen’s blood pressure, which had been high for weeks, had reached the go-directly-to-the-hospital, do-not-collect- your-belongings level.

Her doctor decided it was time to call it a pregnancy and began the induction that evening. We were starting from “completely closed.” But things progressed overnight, as we were watching classic sitcoms. The episode of The Golden Girls where Dorothy takes a young Mario (”A.C. Slater”) Lopez under her wing. The episode of Saved by the Bell: The College Years where A.C. Slater admits his name was originally A.C. Sanchez, but his father—ashamed of his Chicano heritage—had it changed. And episodes of Wings, Roseanne, Frasier and Seinfeld that did not involve Mr. Lopez at all.

Progress stalled Friday morning, so we played the waiting game. This game is not a fun one. Around 1:30, the doctor decided the baby needed to come out now. We know some couples are crushed by this development, but not us. Not at all. We just wanted to meet our son or daughter—and put Ellen out of her misery. When I heard “C-section,” I thought “scary but painless.” I was mistaken.

Now I know what it feels like to play a doctor on TV. Had I gone to med school, I would have asked patients to call me Dr. Jay. This fantasy was derailed when I used Geology 41 and Biological Anthropology 93 to satisfy my science requirements at Duke.

During a C-section, the mother is awake. My role was mostly ceremonial. I scrubbed in (well, I washed my hands) and sat beside Ellen’s head, waiting for someone to hand me our first born.

There was a quirk with the anesthesia—an “epidural window”—and in one region, Ellen absolutely felt pain. This was rare and obviously unexpected. If I had to rank the most frightening moments of my life, these few minutes would top the chart. But the doctors were incredibly calm and, like everyone else we’ve dealt with during our stay here at St. Barnabas, just wonderful. They eventually pulled out a healthy baby girl—7 pounds, 9 ounces, and 20-inches long. Ellen was stitched up, and I followed Baby Charlotte to the nursery.

Grandma Lynn and Grandpa Chuck were thrilled to meet her:

(Charlotte broke out the anti-paparazzi look again.)

“Is there a history of deafness in your family?” was the first question the nurse asked me. I was stumped. When I realized this was part of a routine questionnaire, I was able to mumble a “Nope.”

Later that evening, Grandma Helen met Baby Charlie.

…as did Grandpa John.

Also born on July 18: Joe Torre, Nelson Mandela, Hunter S. Thompson, Richard Branson, Steve Forbes, Kristen Bell, Vin Diesel and Anfernee Hardaway.

Charlotte has been with us all day, greeting visitors with minimal tears. Mom is resting comfortably—or at least as comfortably as someone who just had invasive abdominal surgery and hasn’t eaten since Thursday morning can be.

I’d bet this won’t be our last photo update.

I need to do a better job keeping up with the ad press. Noah Brier (pictured, on right, at the 2006 Renegade Holiday Party) was written up in Adweek after being named the new Director of Strategy and Planning of The Barbarian Group. They’re the ones who built The Subservient Chicken for Burger King. And, most likely, lots of other stuff.

While he probably didn’t mention it in his interview, Noah helped set up this site, and he’s helped me out of many self-inflicted technical jams. I expect big things. Congratulations!

Bailey thinks a little body heat might just hatch this baby.

I took these pictures because she was hogging my spot.

But judging by this photo from last weekend, I guess I’ve pulled the same stuff on her. On a different topic, those shorts sure are shiny.

Ellen’s brother Mark has a new roommate. Keep reading for a few pictures…

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Our future child’s welfare was the subject of today’s Quick 10 list on mental_floss. I feel like Angelina Jolie.

Ellen and I would like to go see Swing Vote, but it opens August 1. Anyone up for some early babysitting?

Better yet, anyone know anyone with the cachet to get an advance DVD copy? That would make a great welcome-to-the-world present. (The baby will also take a copy of Wall-E.)

The sandy streets of Ocean Beach were not designed for dog walking—in fact, the signage strictly forbids it. So yesterday morning, Bailey and I drove a mile north to see about draining her fully charged battery.

She was super excited by all the new scenery and scents. Wherever we turned, a chorus of barking dogs welcomed our arrival. (She’s huge in the dog community, which goes to both our heads.) But all of a sudden, the puppy-razi came a little too close for comfort.

To our right approached a car that chauffeured a yapping dog not happy to see us. “Get the f**k out of my neighborhood,” I think he was saying, but we paid him no mind. This further enraged him. And as the vehicle passed us, to everyone’s surprise, the dog jumped out the back window, landing on his head.

Like a knocked-down boxer struggling to his feet, the dog regained his balance, his bearings, his composure, and his rage. “He doesn’t bite!” yelled his driver, which the dog treated as an attack command, showing his teeth and coming right at us.

After a few rotations around me, I picked up Bailey, and the other dog was restrained. They must have lived nearby, because the man left his car running and walked in the opposite direction, no longer confident in his car’s ability to contain the pooch.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said.

Too winded to be angry, I put Bailey down and prepared to resume our journey. “Hey,” I responded, “it’s a story to tell.”

And then both our batteries were drained.

Today’s extra special mental_floss quiz asks if you remember where superstar athletes finished their careers. Let’s see how well you know the career trajectories of Joe Namath, O.J. Simpson, Keith Hernandez, Yogi Berra and many more.

Take the Quiz: Surprise Endings: Where Players Wound Up