Feeding my unending desire to ensure that my sons grow up strong, confident and mature, I constantly test them in ways no professional educator ever will. For example, last night Jack and I were watching the 1964 stop motion animation classic "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with Burl Ives lending his penetrating vocal talent as the overstuffed ice man narrator. The storyline is typical: outcast for his ghastly appearance, Rudolph becomes the hero on the basis of his nasal deformity. There is also a twisting subplot of a discontent elf who dislikes toy making and sets out to become a dentist. Substitute "hairdresser" for "dentist" in my last sentence, and you've got a 2008 plot line ready to go into production. Call me, Hollywood.
During a break, a commercial for Barbie dolls played. "Mommy, she's beautiful!" a young girl exclaims, holding her newly unwrapped, anorexic mannequin. The mother turns to the camera, "I received my first barbie in 1964..." The message was clear: Barbie's are timeless and somehow necessary in these tough economic times. Seizing the opportunity to test my growing man-child, I asked Jack, "Jack, do you want a Barbie for Christmas?"
"No, daddy!" he quickly exclaimed, his voice scoffing at the mere suggestion. "Barbies are for grwils." (grwils = girls, as I'm sure you've already figured out. You're all so smart!) I brimmed with pride, knowing that at least for today, Jack wasn't going to start wearing dresses and playing with Barbie dolls.
Sam, too, brings us unending joy. He's almost ready to join the NFL. At four months (really two months, if you "adjust" him for his 8 week early arrival), he's sleeping through the night. (Twice as of this date, with a funky night in between that included both kids up at all hours of the night screaming while their Daddy was incapacitated on a full dose of NyQuil, leaving Mommy to singlehandedly feed the crying newborn and negotiate the return of Jack to his bed at three different points in the night.) Sleeping through at four months beats Jack's record by a solid five months, which improves life substantially. (If you knew either of us during Jack's first nine months, you saw what were effectively useless shells of people, moving between events on a daily basis. Those were dark days, indeed.)
Sam is incredibly strong. When resting on my lap, the likes to grab my fingers and try to pull himself up to a seated position. He does little mini-crunches which are pretty funny to watch. His head and neck strength are rapidly improving and I'm hopeful to put him in the Bumbo seat soon. He's tracking people in the room, enjoying his swing, and HATES tummy time. In fact, twice now, he's (whether intentionally or not we don't know) rolled himself over from tummy to back when put in "tummy time." He's a very happy and generally content kid, which bodes well considering that his older brother gives new meaning to "high maintenance."
Sam continues to struggle with his constipation, but it's getting better as time progresses, especially now that we can (with medical approval) supply him with a steady stream of apple juice. Not satisfied with the results of apple juice, Ashley had to traumatize him by administering a glycerin suppository. Translation: She jammed a little gooey plug in his butt in hopes it would make him vacate his bowels. (*GASP*) On the upside, it promptly produced results. Later, Sam and I had a rousing discussion of the mental and developmental ramifications of his mother jamming things in his rear at such a young and tender age. He smiled and cooed back at me. I'll make sure to ask him the same question about Barbies when the time comes.
