Fat baby

When I think of large babies I think of the huge, curly-haired, one-toothed baby I once babysat. She was screaming and arching her back the entire time. Her red face was a mystery of shiny mucous, with a wide mouth, eyelashes glued in lumps and body ridged. The only way I could console her was by holding her a very particular way and bouncing her in a clockwise circle. (Reversing the circle, or even slowing the rhythm would start the screaming again.) My poor arms endured that  for almost an hour until she fell asleep, leaving me feeling permanently lopsided and sore. I vowed then and there that I would never have big babies. (Like I had a choice.)

Fast forward about ten years and I give birth to my eight pounds, one ounce baby boy. I think to myself,  wonderful! that's a healthy size without being considered "large". Fast forward another two months and that little baby has ballooned to sixteen pounds! He's in the ninety-ninth percentile for his weight! People don't believe me when I tell them he's only two months old. The pediatrician had told us you cannot over feed your baby with breast milk. Really? Okay! I guess we're going with it!


Now you may be wondering how I've been taking all this, knowing my original feelings about fat babies. I'll tell you. I love it! He only gets cuter with each added roll and dimple! Obviously, he's my baby and he's a happy baby, so I think that helps. However, he's also way cuter, for sure. :)









The other great part? The extra weight doesn't stop him from flying around our apartment on a regular basis. See for yourself.

The Wardrobe Limbo

Why do clothes have to tell so much about a person? Right now I'm wearing a bright orange Running for Risa T-shirt and some floral, maternity, pajama bottoms.

You heard me correctly. Maternity bottoms. No no, I'm not pregnant again -thank goodness . I'm just not fully recovered from the actual pregnancy. I'm stuck between my pre-pregnancy wardrobe and my maternity wardrobe. The fact is I'm too hopeful (or too full of denial) to go shopping for some clothes that fit. Not to mention, I really don't enjoy clothes shopping.

Maybe I'm still in love with the comfort of maternity pants. No zippers. No buttons. No restricting waistband cutting into your love handles creating that oh so lovely muffin-top. Just a simple, soft stretchy fabric gently hugging your waist. Hugging you as if to say, "I love you with all your flabby faults!"

It's only when I actually think about it out loud, "I'm still wearing maternity pants" that it sounds tacky. Why can't we all wear maternity pants all the time? The world would be a much happier place!

It's funny how right after you have a baby, you feel so small and light. I remember thinking, "Hey, I think I can probably wear my normal clothes now!" Then I went home and reality sunk in. The first 25 lbs practically fell off in the first two weeks! But, those last 15 lbs are like the Grape Nuts cereal that stay in your pantry and never go away!

So here I am two months later, sporting baggy T-shirts and maternity pants day after day, wishing, hoping, dreaming that the clothes of my smaller self will magically fit one morning.

Well, I'm off to go for my morning run with the jogging stroller!

Quite the catch!

Have you ever known someone who has zero hand-eye coordination, can't aim to save there life and ducks when someone tosses them a ball? That would be me. On the other hand, have you ever known someone who was raised playing catch, is somehow good at anything and everything involving a ball and can juggle in their sleep? That would be my husband.

 I grew up with almost no exposure to sports of any kind. Not even PE dodge ball. During mutual nights the young men thought it was funny to throw a basket ball at one of the Whitaker girls and watch her cover her head and scream. Yes, I'm afraid it was that bad.

It's been said opposites attract, but I highly doubt my pathetic attempt at baseball that one night for a single adult activity is what attracted Blair to me. In fact, I'm sure if there were ever any doubts in his mind about our compatibility, my sporting retardation would have been the cause. I knew enough to know that I should be embarrassed by my inabilities, but the more I learned of his family and the intensely athletic and competitive people he was raised with, the more humiliating my condition became. I remember his six-year-old brother begging to play ping pong with me, only to realize I wasn't even good enough for him to have fun. He'd say, "No, you're supposed to hit the ball with the paddle!" As far as sports are concerned, Blair's and my upbringings could not have been more contrasting.

Well, last summer I decided to face my fears and have Blair cure me of my illness. We bought me a baseball mitt, headed to the park and got to work. The lesson began with the first analysis. In other words, have me throw something so he could laugh and know just how bad the situation really is. The conclusion of his first analysis: I throw like a girl. No surprise there.

I knew I married a patient man, but it wasn't until the evening of throwing the baseball over and over as I fumbled and gesticulated uselessly that I realized the extent of his endurance. He would gently toss the ball in perfect range for me to catch, and I would miss it... incredibly. I would pick it up and awkwardly chuck it towards Blair... at least I always intended for it to go towards Blair. I felt better about my girly tosses since Blair was usually able to somehow catch them... incredibly. He acted as if I was totally capable and never laughed at me, just gave me subtle suggestions and tips. Slowly my confidence started to build.

You couldn't quite call it a game of catch in the beginning, but by the end of our first lesson, we were able to throw and catch the ball back and forth rather successfully, I thought. I was actually having fun! So much so, that all throughout  the winter I thought of the night we played catch and I suggested we do it again this summer.

That's just what we did last Saturday while Paul slept at grandma and grandpa's house. I was extremely rusty, but again, by the end of our time at the park, I was able to play catch again. If I keep this up, I'll soon be ready to raise a little boy. And it's about time too! ;)

Tummy Time

Paul actually enjoys being on his tummy!

These were taken when he was about seven weeks old.

Since he prefers his tummy to his back, I'm afraid he doesn't try very hard to roll over.

I love his little grunts of effort!

One month old (two weeks ago...)

I forgot the all-important blog post commemorating Paul's one month birthday! So here it is two weeks late. It has been a wonderful month (and a half)! 

Blair and I are the type of people who like to plan ahead, especially if it's for a life-changing event -  i.e. marriage, baby, etc. For some reason people like to tell you all the horror stories about whatever event you're anticipating. So of course, Blair and I were preparing our minds for a fussy, screaming, spit-up-y, funny-looking baby, who wouldn't eat well, wouldn't take a bottle and would never sleep. Meanwhile I  would be bed-ridden, infected from delivery, cranky and suffering from postpartum depression. 

However, we've lucked out yet again in life and our baby is mellow, smiley, hardly ever cries or spits up, sleeps well, and eats very  well (he's been gaining rolls and curdles by the day). As for the postpartum depression issue, I've never been happier in my life! I've been healing quite nicely too. 

When I tell people what a good baby we have, I think they feel the need to let us know that's not the way it usually is, and that our next baby will probably be a nightmare. That may be true, but I'm not going to fret about possible future hardships. I'm going to enjoy this angel baby while we have him!

These pictures were taken on August first, one month after his birth.

Paul riding his elephant.

He likes to just hang here while I do things around the house. Having a baby has taught me there's a lot more I can do with one hand than I ever thought possible.

The next few are to show off his head-holding skills.

Considering how much time he spends smiling, it's amazing how I can never capture one in a picture! Here are some kind of  smiles below.

And last of all is a video showing off his Oompa Loompa dance. (Actually it's a video showing his ability to put up with an eccentric mother. Let's hope he keeps up this level of tolerance as a teenager.)

If you remember the movie Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (the old one), you'll remember the Oompa Loompa who tries to do a cartwheel in the white room. That's who Paul's impersonating at the end of this video.

Paul's Blessing

 On August 7, Paul was blessed in sacrament meeting. Both sets of his grandparents came as well as his uncle Jacob, aunt Alyssa, aunt Laura, uncle Rob, aunt Abigail, uncle Michael, and cousin James.
He was blessed in the same outfit that my dad, my uncles and my brother were blessed in. Which means it's probably close to sixty years old! The bottom half of the outfit was lined with plastic for the olden-day babies who only had cloth diapers. Thanks to my mom, the yellowing white suit was shipped in from Orland California before she washed and bleached it several times. She also polished the adorable shoes and made a matching bow tie for the occasion. (Thanks mom!)

I've been told that I was a very mellow and quiet baby like Paul until the day of my blessing, during which, I screamed at the top of my lungs. My mom said that was the beginning of the screaming years of my childhood.

 
We stuffed Paul with as much food as he would hold just before church and had a pacifier ready just in case the blessing screams were hereditary.


I'm happy to say Paul was very well behaved during the entire meeting. I'm sure the fact that there were extra hands to hold him had something to do with his good mood.

During his blessing he was wide awake and silently staring off into space. The men in the circle (my dad, Blair's dad, Jacob, Rob, Charles, our home teacher and Blair) started to bounce Paul slowly up and down. He seemed to like it, so we'll be remembering that trick for our future baby blessings. ;)

It was a beautiful blessing that was perfectly suited for Paul. Well done to both of my boys!

Cord Stump Scare

Exactly a week after he was born, Paul lost his umbilical raisin. I found it stuck to the inside of his onesie while changing his diaper. And I, being the new, naive mother that I am, was not expecting the inside of his new belly button to be so red and goopy like an open wound. I called Blair into the room and we decided to use our brand new parental judgment by applying rubbing alcohol and covering it with a band aid in the hopes that it would dry up and heal without getting infected.

We didn't have any "normal" band aids at the time. Just the super adhesive, waterproof, stretchy kind. I tried dulling the stickiness by patting the band aid on the burp cloth a few times.

Then... on went the band aid.

Immediately Blair and I regretted our parental decision! I tried picking at the corner of the band aid to see how difficult it might be to peel off later, and to my frightened disappointment, his delicate skin had become one with the band aid.

For the next couple of days I worried and fretted over that stupid band aid, imagining a bloody mess when we eventually did try to tare it off. I was also imagining our embarrassment as we took him to his next week's doctor's appointment, trying to explain why our newborn had an extra sticky band aid plastered to his stomach. What kind of parents were we? Poor Paul!

To my great relief, two days later I was able to carefully peel one corner away, and tediously peel up to half of the band aid off! The remaining half was still too sticky.

These types of procedures are usually done best during his sleepy times. :)

As you can see there was no blood or rash, just a slight red mark.

Blair and I decided it was time for his first bath. That should get the rest of the band aid off!

He hated his first bath. That was the most we'd ever heard him scream!

The pacifier (plug) made his screams sound even more sad and pathetic. Needless to say, his bath time was kept very short.

It was a success! Paul was band aid free and got to recover from his traumatic bath in daddy's arms. Maybe we aren't such bad parents after all.

And here's a cute video to prove he turned out healthy and happy. He is just nine days old in this video.