Idependent much?

Yesterday was Tyler's 4 month check-up. His current stats, as taken by the nurse, are: weight - 20 pounds 10 ounces, length - 27 1/2 inches, head circumference - 43 1/2 centimeters. That still ranks our little man above the 95 percentile in ALL CATEGORIES! And, he has officially doubled his birth weight in a stagering 4 months.

When the doctor walked in her first words were, "If you haven't bought him a basketball yet, you need to." We discussed other sports options, including men's volleyball and football (our #1 choice). She then asked me how tall Joe was. I said, "5' 10"", which I now know, and have been corrected on haughtily, is wrong by 1 1/2 inches to his favor. geez. Either way, the doctor was amused by this. She must have assumed (by the look on her face) that I had married a giant, which lead to my giant baby. No, no, no. She then said, "Oh, well you two combined have super genetics." She showed me how Tyler was off the charts, but how impressed she was at how symetrical his height and weight curves were. This means that I don't have a short & fat baby, nor a tall & skinny baby.

At this point I'm smiling and secretly blessing these super genes. One of my greatest fears about having a baby boy was my genetic code. I didn't want to have a short boy. They're not cute, when being cute is important (read: highschool), they don't get picked for sports, and they sure as heck don't get dates... until much later on when ladies realize there's more to dating than looks. I didn't want to curse my son with these things. But, Dr. Dana has confirmed that I no longer need to worry about this. -sigh of relief- The Dr. then continued Tyler's exam. He got mad, angry, and even pissed off, when she tried to look into his ears, as it required her to hold his head to one side. Kids have their moments, right?

Flash forward to this morning's bath. The high of my genetic super kid has worn off, and I'm trying to wash his arms. (Lately I've given him his own washcloth, because he likes to gnaw on it while I'm washing him, and it's hard to share one washcloth. Plus, no matter how safe Johnson & Johnson's claim that their soap is, I doubt that consuming large quantities of it is good for anyone. ) I extract one of his hands from the death grip that he had on his own washcloth, to wash his hand and arm, and he started screaming at me, as if I had hurt him. I know better. He's pissed at me because I moved his arm. I calmed him down, washed his left arm, and he resumed eating the washcloth with both hands. But... there was that other arm that needed washing. I knew what was coming, but it had to be washed. So I did it. He screamed at me for the entire rest of the bath. It was then that it all came flooding back to me....

He has my genetic code...
He has my genetic code...
He HAS MY GENETIC CODE...

Good god man! I've passed on MY independent streak, my bull-headedness, my "I'll figure it out on my own, thank you very much", and my "I'll do it my own way and in my own time". SH*T. We're in for a loooooong road.

Hear No Poopy, See No Poopy, Smell No Poopy

That's right folks, it's time for that never-ending, "god they are sooo parents now" topic... Poop. Now, normally no self-respecting adult would find themselves talking to another adult about poop. Joe and I happen to be parents of two dogs, one of which we've had for almost 5 years, and therefore have just about always talked about poop. Who (meaning dogs) pooped and who hasn't was always discussed after each outing. We somehow stumbled into bathroom-math when discussing the topic of our dogs bow-wow-els. #1 = pee, #2 = poop. So, in our secret language, I'd come in after walking the dogs and say, "Logan did a #3, and Delilah did a #1". There you have it. (Feel free to borrow this for your house.)

With this in mind, once Tyler was born we had no problem poop-talking about our son. It was a natural progression for us. Color, consistency, frequency... yes, we're just those people. Very romantic, I know. Shortly after we brought Tyler home from the hospital, and we were out of that retched meconium phase, I remember Joe reading me an online article (boldly) stating that breastfed babies don't have stinky poo. In fact, the author of said article went as far as saying that breastfed babies have poop that smells like "buttered popcorn". (ewh, I know. Ask Joe for the article... he MIGHT be able to find it again.) I decided that if this was in fact true, I could easily change Tyler's diapers for the next several months, having only sacrificed the guilty pleasure of movie theater popcorn. No problems.... except the fact that the author of this article is a FREAKING LIAR!!!!! Tyler has some of the smelliest poop, dare I say, ever. Sometimes, heck most of the time, it gags me. I know he could clear a room. And I know, you're lectures regarding my diet are on the tip of your tongue... but I assure you, my diet doesn't matter. I don't drink milk (it gives me migraine headaches), I take my vitamins regularly, and I try my darndest to eat well-balanced meals. hmpf. Clothespins anyone? Gas masks? I'll take whatever you got.

I would be completely disgusted by my own son, except for the fact that he is so cute when he poops. I usually get a front-row seat to his pooping-face, because he frequently decides that nursing time equals a good time to poop. I have my suspicions that he is just trying to make room for more food. But, or should I say butt, when Tyler goes, he makes the cutest concentration face, elevates his shoulders, arches his back (I told you... front-row seats baby), and makes the cutest squeaks anyone has ever heard, all while letting it rip. I think that we need to video tape it; Joe thinks it would ruin any and all chances with the ladies in the future. We'll see.

And, I'd also like to challenge makers of diapers. Could you make them better? You know, so they'd work. That would be great. We are once again in the no-diaper-can-hold-in-my-poop phase. I know that we don't need to get bigger diapers, my kid is only 10 weeks old and he's in size 3 (16-28 pounds, for those of you not in the know). Still, we have a blow-out on what seems like a daily basis. It doesn't matter who installs the diaper, whether it's on super tight, super loose, or just right (sorry, we've recently read goldilocks)... blow-outs still happen. It's like his butt crack forms the perfect tunnel to send poop shooting straight out the back of the diaper, up his back, and all over his outfit. I'm tired of it. And, I'm tired of soaking and scrubbing poo out of Tyler's clothes. Short of putting him in rubber pants or a paper sack, I don't know what to do.

So it's now official; I'm that mom. Talking to strangers about her child's poop. Is there a membership for this club?

I'm a FemBot

I woke up this morning in a panic at EXACTLY 5:19 a.m. I was panicing not because Tyler was crying, but because he wasn't. In fact, he hadn't cried all night long. Normally a parent would dance a little jig at having a full nights sleep, but I doubt that the blue suede shoes came out the first night or two that it actually happents. I, of course, rush into Tyler's room and put my hand on his chest to make sure that everything is ok. Sure enough, he's sound asleep. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The next feeling I had was that of pain. "Pain?" you ask. Yes, pain. You see my boobs were rock hard because I was so engorged (gotta love nursing). I hadn't nursed Tyler since he went to bed around 10:30 p.m. the night before. Anyone remember Madonna's cone boobs? Had someone dropped me off of a bridge, I'm sure I would have sank, as I had boobs of concrete. It hurt. In a nano-second, and probably because I was still looking at Tyler, they decided it was time to start leaking. I was wearing my night-time bra sans pads... and thus milk was going everywhere. I (silently) cursed, and rushed around to grab burp clothes to soak up the mess, and then frantically started setting up the breast pump.

After I started pumping, I realized to myselft that I could have been cast in an Austin Powers' movie as a FemBot. Although I don't think anyone has ever been killed via breast milk, it gave me a good chuckle this morning as I was visulizing it. Thank god for a sense of humor, even at 5 in the morning.

Smuggling Melons

To be honest, I've never really been overly fond of my body. Blame the media, marketing, Barbie, or whomever, but it's true; I've got some insecurites. When I was in high school, I made a list of the 5 things I'd change about myself if I could. They are (in no particular order): 1) my height (I'm close to 5'3'' in the right shoes), 2) my weight, 3) my teeth, 4) my fingers (very chubby and too short), and 5) my cheeks (hello, have you seen them... it's like I'm storing stuff for the winter!). Let's skip over the fact that I both made the list and still remember the list. The one thing that I never complained about was my chest. Yes, I truely believe that both the Lord and genetics blessed me in that category.

Now let's skip forward to present day. The insecurites are still there and on full alert because I just had Tyler. I need to start working out, but I don't have the energy. And I hate that I can't really wear anything in my closet. I have 6 shirts that fit me, and I'm tired of looking at myself in the same old boring outfits day after day after day after day. Part of my wardrobe problems is the body weight, the other is my boobs. They're ginormous! When I was pregnant Joe and I used to joke around that my boobs were trying to keep up with my growing belly. It was funny at the time...

Seriously, breast-feeding has giving me boobs that people pay to have (minus the milk, of course). The problem I'm having is that even if I wanted to wear anything that I wore prior to being pregnant, it looks like I'm smuggling melons under my shirt. It's ridiculous. It'd be comical, if it wasn't me I was looking at in the mirror. Too much of a good thing is still just too much. At this point I'm wishing I had the old me back... insecurites and all.