2 Month Update

On November 6, Leo turned two months old.  We celebrated by getting up at o‘ dark-thirty in the a.m. for a family trip down to our local polling place.

You got me up for what now?

And so did everyone else in town.  Apparently, it’s been imprinted in our collective consciousness that all truly fine, upright citizens vote early in the day, because there were lines out the door . . .

Down the block . . .

And around the corner.

To make matters worse, it was cold.  The first legitimate, no-foolin’ cold day of the season.  You may not be able to tell from the picture above, but the guy ahead of us was wearing a fleece vest over a t-shirt, and I could pretty much count the goosebumps.  But he must have been a marine or something because he was definitely not doing the little back-and-forth, pissy-pants, keeping-warm dance that I was.

I don’t know why, but the first cold day of the year always comes as a horrible surprise to me.  There’s really no excuse for this.  Seasons are not exactly new inventions.  And, after (dear god, has it really been?) 20 years, I can’t claim the ignorance of a southern transplant.  Still, once a year, I step out the front door in my lightweight trench coat and my more-style-than-substance scarf, only to get kicked in the teeth by a burst of cold air.  I then scramble back into the house and hide under the thickest blanket I can find, feeling terribly betrayed by the whole thing.   

People around here like to claim that you get used to the cold (which is only slightly less obnoxious than claiming to love “the seasons.”  Please.)  No, I have never gotten used to it.  Over time, I may have come to realize the futility of complaining about it.  I may have bought myself some boots I don’t hate.   I may have even resigned myself to a life of chapped lips and long underwear.  

Not to mention hat hair.

Which is all to say that I may tolerate winter, but I will never get used to it.  NEVER!!!

But I digress.

Anyway, after about an hour, we voted.  Yay democracy.  And, more importantly, yay stickers.

What else did Leo get for his birthday?  A visit to the doctor’s office. 

Here are the all important vital stats:  our “big galoot” (a direct quote from the pediatrician) now clocks in at a whopping 16 pounds 2 ounces and measures 25 inches.  As a point of comparison, the 50th percentile 2 month old boy weighs 11 pounds and measures 23 inches.  The 50th percentile 4 month old boy weighs just over 15 pounds. 

Other than his jaw-dropping size, he’s a pretty healthy boy.  One thing you may have noticed in the photos is what I like to call his “super outie.”  It’s actually an umbilical hernia, which occurs when part of the intestine protrudes through an opening in the abdominal muscles, making the bellybutton blow up like a balloon.  Don’t worry, it’s a) pretty common, b) totally harmless, and c) usually resolved on its own by age 1.  That doesn’t stop it from sounding totally horrific and seeming like it should hurt a lot.  Thus the cutesie euphemism.  On the plus side, it works a handy dandy baby fullness meter.  Like that little plastic thing that comes in a turkey, it pops out when he’s done.  So that’s something.

He doesn't seem to mind.

He also got his first big set of shots, two in one thigh and one in the other.  This resulted in a lot of screaming.  First was the standard red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, “ouch!” screaming.  But then came a more expressive screaming, a wide-eyed, accusatory “how could you do this to me?” sort of screaming, which was both heartbreaking and more than a little funny.  Conveniently, all it took to restore his faith in humanity was a quick walk in the stroller.  We should all be so lucky.

Battle scars