And S-T-R-E-T-C-H!
Today was another Physical Therapy day for Cletus. I think he's got a crush on Miss Heather. She walks in and he's all smiley and giggly and showing off, "Look at me and my strong monstrous arms! Check it out - my head is raised a full 70˚ - Oh, yeah, baby!" Except moments before he was all, "Why do I have to get dressed. Can't I just sleep? Give me back that pacifier. Gawd, mom, you're so annoying." Miss Heather, completely buying into his flirting, was all "What a strong boy you are!" and I swear he made an I-Told-You-She-Thinks-I'm-Special face at me (but maybe I'm just hyper sensitive to contorted faces since I'm so used to the Bean making a multitude of faces to communicate various degrees of displeasure and resentment towards me).
We learned some new "passive stretching," which to the average outsider looks like we're barely able to hold back some sort of animalistic desire to snap his little neck. I think we'll save those stretches for inside the privacy of our own home. When the blinds are drawn. And the lights are off. And we're in the basement. And we have a really good attorney on retainer.
Cletus had his 4-month check-up this morning as well. (Of course he has a full social calendar; he's my son!) The nurse weighed him: 14 pounds. And measured him: 27 inches. The Big V looked at the little graph on the computer screen, taking all the data in: 50th percentile for weight, 95th percentile for height... arms crossed he nodded his head once, "Basketball" and with that announcement the course of Cletus's future training was set.
The doc came in, checked out his limbs, his head, looked at his ears. Twice. Eyes, mouth, hips. Anything that could be looked in was. Anything that could be moved was. She liked his progress and I relaxed. But as she stepped out of the room V panicked, "Is she pregnant? Did you see her stomach? I think she's pregnant!" Uh, yeah, she was also pregnant when we were here a couple weeks ago, and a couple weeks before that... in fact, she's been pregnant since the first day we brought Cletus in here. "I thought she was just big boned. But she's pregnant!" Our doctor is a blessing we don't take lightly. V relaxed only after assuring him Cletus would not require any sort of medical attention throughout the duration of the doc's maternity leave. (I'll worry later about how to keep that promise.)
And so began the my-baby-is-naked-where-is-the-nurse-with-the-immunizations waiting period. To pass the time V played with the plastic safari animals, marveling at how God made giraffes with long necks because He knew they would be vegetarians and would therefore need to eat the leaves at the tops of trees and wondering who would win in a fight between a lion and a tiger (he thinks tigers because they're smarter) and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse V says, "Did you know lions never cheat on their wives but Tigers do." Oy!
Cletus, with nothing else to do but continue staring at the blood pressure cuff on the wall, decided to poop. A lot. And it stunk. Bad. Which gave me the opportunity to quit listening to Comedy Bob over there and focus on the diaper.
The nurse came in. Gave the shots. Cletus screamed. V teared up. And we left.
We get in the car and we're driving home and I say, "Ugh! This diaper stinks!" And V was like, "Did he poop again?!" "No," I explained. "It's the one from the office." And V was all "GROSS! You're carrying around a poopy diaper? What is WRONG with you? Why didn't you THROW THAT AWAY?!"
So obviously he knows nothing about the Mom Code, which clearly states in Article 3, Section 12, "Disposal of poopy diapers shall only be at your own private residence, dumpsters located a minimum 50' from any building or structure, or in garbage cans located at truck stops along major highways. Only." I cannot believe he expected me to throw a stinky diaper in the trash can in the exam room at the doctor's office! Can you imagine being the next patient? He has so much to learn.
We learned some new "passive stretching," which to the average outsider looks like we're barely able to hold back some sort of animalistic desire to snap his little neck. I think we'll save those stretches for inside the privacy of our own home. When the blinds are drawn. And the lights are off. And we're in the basement. And we have a really good attorney on retainer.
The doc came in, checked out his limbs, his head, looked at his ears. Twice. Eyes, mouth, hips. Anything that could be looked in was. Anything that could be moved was. She liked his progress and I relaxed. But as she stepped out of the room V panicked, "Is she pregnant? Did you see her stomach? I think she's pregnant!" Uh, yeah, she was also pregnant when we were here a couple weeks ago, and a couple weeks before that... in fact, she's been pregnant since the first day we brought Cletus in here. "I thought she was just big boned. But she's pregnant!" Our doctor is a blessing we don't take lightly. V relaxed only after assuring him Cletus would not require any sort of medical attention throughout the duration of the doc's maternity leave. (I'll worry later about how to keep that promise.)
And so began the my-baby-is-naked-where-is-the-nurse-with-the-immunizations waiting period. To pass the time V played with the plastic safari animals, marveling at how God made giraffes with long necks because He knew they would be vegetarians and would therefore need to eat the leaves at the tops of trees and wondering who would win in a fight between a lion and a tiger (he thinks tigers because they're smarter) and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse V says, "Did you know lions never cheat on their wives but Tigers do." Oy!
Cletus, with nothing else to do but continue staring at the blood pressure cuff on the wall, decided to poop. A lot. And it stunk. Bad. Which gave me the opportunity to quit listening to Comedy Bob over there and focus on the diaper.
The nurse came in. Gave the shots. Cletus screamed. V teared up. And we left.
We get in the car and we're driving home and I say, "Ugh! This diaper stinks!" And V was like, "Did he poop again?!" "No," I explained. "It's the one from the office." And V was all "GROSS! You're carrying around a poopy diaper? What is WRONG with you? Why didn't you THROW THAT AWAY?!"
So obviously he knows nothing about the Mom Code, which clearly states in Article 3, Section 12, "Disposal of poopy diapers shall only be at your own private residence, dumpsters located a minimum 50' from any building or structure, or in garbage cans located at truck stops along major highways. Only." I cannot believe he expected me to throw a stinky diaper in the trash can in the exam room at the doctor's office! Can you imagine being the next patient? He has so much to learn.
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