Sitting Still

Gage at 5 months

My son is five months old.  Five and a half, to be exact. Cue the whining mama: where does the time go?

He just had his four month check-up last week (at five months, as I neglectfully missed the visit I'd scheduled -- oops) and weighs in at almost 19 pounds, 27.5 inches long.  He's in the 97th percentile all the way around, which makes me say good job buddy -- a solid A in the eating department!

We still haven't managed to establish any kind of schedule, but he generally falls into the pattern of eat, play, sleep (which, come to think of it, would be the infant's answer to Eat, Pray, Love, dontcha think?).  I seem to think Claire was in this nice two-naps-a-day pattern by this age, but then again, Claire did not get carted all over town because her mama and big sister were bored at home.  So there's that. A week ago I would have told you he is consistently sleeping through the night, and that is still mostly true, except for the days when I've stayed up far too late -- then he's up at the least convenient time! (The children, they prey on your weaknesses...)

But, ah, the giggles.  They are plentiful, especially if you tickle him in the sweet spot between his chins or lift him up into an airplane in the air.  And he likes nothing better than to be naked, squirming, kicking, and grabbing his penis.  Yes, he's found it, although it's not unusual for him to stick his hand down there and grab hold of the fat roll right next door on his thigh instead, which cracks me up like nothing else.  Claire is the BEST TOY EVER, and even when she is right up in his face and practically laying on top of him and I'm yelling "Don't break his ribs!" -- even then, he's laughing at her.  It's easy to see already that these two are going to get into all kinds of mischief and that I'll be lucky to stay one step ahead.

When I found out I was having a boy, I was a little uncertain about what that would bring.  Now, I can't imagine having it any other way.  He's my buddy, and my constant companion, and his gummy smile and grabby, curious hands are a source of much delight.  I have a little boy, and he's awesomeness.

fall rush, 2026

My son is a baby frat boy.

The term was coined by my friend Liz, who saw him wearing a cute plaid collared shirt with khaki cargo shorts and a wide, who-wouldn't-love-this? grin. At first I was offended, but the more I observe, the more accurate I think the description is.

Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of Claire's friends. I'd put Gage in a cute but kind of girly-looking seersucker outfit. He grumbled about it, but I insisted to him that he looked adorable. Then he found the one guaranteed way out of a sissy boy outfit: he crapped all over it. With the costume change, we were back to the wrinkled button-down shirt and grey shorts.

When we arrived at the party, Gage quickly located his new girlfriend. She was thin. She was blonde. She was adorable. He kept flirting with her, throwing gummy smiles and boyish glances her way, while trying not to try too hard. The next thing I know, he's sitting on her lap, gnawing on her elbow and she's gently rubbing his back telling him what a good boy he is.

Eventually he got handed back to me, but not without first making a pass at his new girlfriend's chest. I fed him a nice leisurely meal of milk and then put him on my shoulder.

He burped. No, babies burp. He belched, in the way that beer-guzzling, football-watching, pizza-eating men belch. It was loud and gross.

And then he smiled and looked around to see if anyone had appreciated it. He got a "That was a good one, buddy!" from someone, and you could see the sutures in his baby skull widen just a bit to accommodate his enormous head.

simple pleasures, three-month-old-style

It's been there the whole time, of course. He was born with all ten digits -- we counted -- but up until the last few days, it's just been sitting there, unused.  Perhaps tucked under his fingers when he comes out with flying fisticuffs from a nap, but otherwise lying dormant, waiting.

Then, serendipity. Ah, the luck of having it slip into his mouth while he was chewing on his fists, waiting for his next meal. A perfect fit. Suck, suck, suck. Comfort in a time of need.

Thank God for thumbs.

Now he knows it's there. If he's tired or hungry or bored, I see him bring his hand to his mouth. He wants it, but can't always coordinate the insertion procedure easily.  This leads to lots of slobbering and gnawing and licking.

I woke up to slurping noises on the monitor this morning. It was kind of disgusting, kind of cute -- which pretty much sums up my mothering experience in general, now that I think about it.

But considering just how much he loves his newly-found toy, there is one thought I can't shake:
Just wait until he finds his penis.

on being mammalian

I will say that one of the nice things about having breastfed Claire successfully is that this time I got to skip the classes and shoo away the lactation consultant.  Mind you, Gage and I were doing just fine, and should I have needed her, I would not have hesitated to call upon her expertise.  But as things were, I didn't need her to show me nursing positions or discuss proper latch when I had other things to do.   Like sleep.

Of course, she still felt the need to share some of her wisdom with me, so I got what I imagine is a lecture called Breastfeeding 201.  I don't remember much about this bit, except for the fact that she kept orienting a stuffed bear at her own breasts, and that it ended with a spiel about how babies really do know how to breastfeed, because we humans?  We're MAMMALS.

Yes, the woman felt the need to remind me that my baby boy is really just a little mammal.  What she failed to mention, however, is that sometimes the little mammal I would be allowing to suck my nipple would act like a hungry, pissed off baby RACCOON.

He howls. I offer.  He taste-tests.  He latches.  My letdown comes too fast and milk gushes into his mouth.  He chokes and sputters and pushes off of me with both paws.  If I've forgotten to trim his claws, I pay.  He shoots me a pissy look.  Perhaps he grunts and moans a bit because he's got air in his belly.  I try to burp him.  He won't burp.  He's still SO HUNGRY, FEED ME WOMAN.  He literally throws himself off of my chest trusting that I will catch him so that my nipple is lined up precisely with his mouth.  He latches.  He still needs to burp.  He pulls off.   This continues until either the flow slows to his liking, or he decides to...well...suck it up and just nurse.

All I can say is that, in addition to surviving on breastmilk like other mammals, he's also cute and cuddly and furry.

It makes up for a lot, doesn't it?