Glamour shot Out Takes

As some of you know, we've been working on glamour shots for the O'Waldman family holiday card. At this rate, the holiday referenced is likely to be Valentine's Day, or maybe Memorial Day. The main problem is I'm fat and I know how to move.  We're generally pleased with both of these developments -- it is much better than the alternative -- but it makes for bad photos. 

These photos were all rejected as "unbecoming of a Waldman or an O'Connell holiday card" but they should be good enough for the internet.  

Here I am rocking my holiday party outfit.

Here I am starting to get bored and pout that we keep taking these photos.

This is me peeved.

This is me doing puppy dog eyes. This is also a hat I outgrew in 3 days. Seriously. 3 days. 

This is me sticking my tongue out. Just because I can.

This last photo isn't the best, but it does show off my most awesome feature: heart shaped nostrils. You didn't know they were cute until now, but they just melt your heart, don't they? 

In other news, I had another wonderful visit to the doctors before the holidays. I now weigh somewhere between 14.2 lbs and 1 ton, I'm almost two feet tall, and I'm better than 50th percentile in the awesomely large head category (see aforementioned hat problem).

Next post:  sleep training or, as we like to call it, the seventh circle of hell.

The impossibility of photos

My folks have been trying to get a good looking picture of me for a holiday card.  Glamor shots, really. I'm happy to say that there efforts have failed -- I don't smile for just anybody. Note their foolish efforts to force one in photo #3. So these photos are all the rejects. But they are interesting all the same, mostly because I am adorable. 

In other good news, I have exceeded the capacity of the food scale. In fact, to first order, I am spherical. According to my parents' questionable attempts at measurements, I am approximately 13.2 lbs. 

You can use the comments to vote for cutest picture.

I'm not fat, I'm big boned

Dad's been making fun of me for being too fat. I keep trying to tell him I'm just big boned, but he's having none of it. In fact, he's forced me  to post his so-called "argument" here in pictocumentary form. 

<Dad's voice>
Exhibit A:  Isaac's knuckles each have their own dimple.

Exhibit B: His chin is only distinguishable as the intersection between three pudges.

Exhibit C: Isaac's ankle's have two fat rolls each, and the arch of his foot arches the wrong way. 

Exhibit D: Isaac most resembles a (cute) bowling ball with fat little chub hands.

So tell me what you think.  Fat?  Or just big boned?

Election 2012

This election stuff is awesome. Mitt Obama is definitely the best candidate, and I hope he wins soonest. I've been riveted all day:

But as the conclusion draws near, I find it just can't keep my eyes open. I hope that Barack Romney guy does well...

Rocktober

You may have noticed that I didn't post very much in October. That's because I was too busy rocking out. I rocked out so much that I gained almost 2lbs. in 4 weeks. I rocked out so much, that I met a Great-Aunt, a Great-Uncle and all of my grandparents for the first time. I rocked out so much, in fact, that I no longer have to sleep between feedings. It's been a big month. 

In honor of Rocktober and to welcome in Movember (when I try to grow my first mustache), I'm going to present a chronological photo gallery, with dates and captions. Then you can decide whether or not I rocked Rocktober.  (As always, click on a photo to make it larger.)

October 7, 2012:  Mom says my posture "leaves something to be desired"

October 14, 2012: I'm rocking the robes, just chillin' in SoCal.

October 14, 2012:  I'll even smiled for the camera. Once. 

October 19, 2012: What the heck is this vibrating monkey trying to do to me?

October 20, 2012: I'm just cute. Compare with this post- Dress Rehearsal from Sept. 11 

October 23, 2012: I'm a pea. In a pod! It's my Halloween costume.

October 23, 2012: Dad loves this picture. It looks like I'm falling. (I'm not, I promise.)

October 31, 2012:  Happy Halloween! I'm saving the cutest for last.

 

Modern day publishing

This blogging business is hard work. It puts me to sleep every time:

I don't know how people ever published on paper. Exhausting!

There is no other news fit to print, but I'll blog a little anyway.
In my milestones this week, I've managed to:

• Pee on Dad during a diaper change, after first distracting him with a stealth poop
• Poop on Dad during a diaper change, after first distracting him with a stealth pee
• Pee on Mom during a diaper change, while Dad was doing the changing. She was just an innocent bystander...
• Visit the ophthalmologist and get my eyes dilated

The eye doctor was good. After I got over the whole "extremely-bright-light-in-my-dilated-eye trick", it was easy.  He said my eyes were a "little immature." 

I said, "Can it, Doc. I'm not supposed to be born until next Wednesday." 

Today's not-terribly-flattering fat baby picture:

Minimum security

Compared to my last lockup, this is definitely a minimum security joint. No radio alarm tag, no guards at the door, and no 24/7 phalanx of wardens. Unfortunately, the guards here still do a pretty good job of swaddling me, putting me behind bars, and locking me into a car seat. Very few chances to escape.

The only place I'm truly, completely free is during my bath:

Ironically, its so awesome and warm that I fall asleep before I remember to escape. I hate irony.

Dictation and Conversion Efficiency

Some of my loyal readers may have noticed an absence of new posts. A hiatus, if you will. Dada Culpa. That's right, I've been busy composing a new post every day, but Dad's been dropping the ball. I only recently discovered his perfidy and have taken steps to correct the situation. While Dad has been training me to sleep at night (instead of during the day), I've been training him to take dictation. Dad has now learned to type while I lay on him during our morning Kangaroo Time. Finally, we can get some real work done. The rate of mistakes will doubtless increase -- he's no Isaac F -- but hopefully the rate of posting will increase as well.

So for our inaugural dictated post, I'd like to thank Grampa Waldman for his insightful comments on conversion efficiency. Indeed, our previous post, Not an Angel, was completely and totally incorrect. It turns out I've been gaining weight at just over 2 ounces per day instead of 1 ounce. The chart I presented then is complete BS. Here's what it should look like instead:

What's that you say?  It looks almost exactly like the last plot? You're right! I still generate a truly enormous amount of piss and poop and only a little bit of new Isaac. 

Hidden in that little green wedge is the information that I now weight about 7 pounds, 11 ounces.  In case you don't believe me, here's a few photos of my awesome new double chin to convince you:

Isaacfornia Roll

We met the Pediatrician for the first time yesterday.  This process was not that much fun.  First, they paraded me around naked onto a scale, a tape measure, a slip and slide, etc...  Then the doctor completely manhandled me (babyhandled me?) in search of I don't know what. Pokes, prods, lights, listens -- I got the works. At the end of it, all she said was "What a cute baby!"

Wasn't that obvious at first glance?! What was all that poking really necessary?

Three things came out of this visit.  

1. The Doc is prompt. We like prompt.
2. I can add "Tummy Time" to my training. When I'm awake, I get to start practicing the "Roll" and the "Crawl under the Barbed Wire" for my escape.
3. I am putting on weight like a champ in training. Since last week, I have gained 15 ounces! I now weight 6 lb. 12 ounces.  Sweet.  

These things together lead to some great new exercises. For instance, may I present the "Isaacfornia Roll":

Front to back!  Not to brag, but I'm totally ahead of the curve on this maneuver. Next step, side-to-side. Then, Escape Part Deux!

Not an Angel

Some people see pictures like these:

and call me the "cutest little Angel." Admittedly, most of these people are grandparents so their comments should be take with a grain of salt. Problems with theology aside, this post will thoroughly debunk any claims to Angel-hood. In fact, I'm going to show you graphically and in great detail why I am definitely no angel.

Part of growing up in this Crazy House is the 'rents obsessive taking of data. For instance, they record every feeding I have and every diaper I make. They "learned it by watching the NICU." So they can make a graph of the time I eat and the amount I eat, like this: 

You can click on the chart to make it larger. What you see in the top panel is that I've been eating between 30 and 100 ml of milk each feeding period. Hints of my earthly nature are evident already -- someone has to feed me every 3 hours.  The bottom panel is the integral of the top panel; it's the total amount I've eaten since coming home exactly one week ago. 

Here's where the truly devilish side of my nature comes out: milk weighs 1.03 grams per milliliter. So I've drunk 4.7 kilograms = 10 pounds of milk since coming home. Do I look like a 15 pound baby to you? The Mayo clinic website says I gain about 1 ounce = 28 grams per day, max. That means I've found another home for 4.5 kilograms of milk. Guess where I've put it....

Let's just say I've chosen my colors carefully. And this graph proves -- definitively -- that I'm no Angel. 

If you need further proof, please note that this post is made at the end of the day, not the beginning...

The many burritos of Isaac F.

For some reason, every time anyone walks into my bedroom, they say "What a cute burrito!" I may or may not give them reason to say this:

 

Lighting conditions precluded photos of my other 12 wraps. But I think it's clear, Los Angeles notwithstanding, I'm definitely not a burrito. I'm more of a Challah:

.

The resemblance is obvious. 

Crazy House

I trust you weren't worried by my extended absence. After all, its been two days since I last posted -- my longest gap yet.  

Maybe you should have worried! These people are crazy! Let me list the ways: 

1. Dad won't leave me alone in the room and he just stares at me from the rocking chair. How he can look at this view all morning, I'll never know...
2. Mom can't stop moving furniture into "a nursery," even though my gilded cage has books, windows, a TV, 2 stereos and its own changing table.
3. Whenever I start fussing because a "movement" is coming, someone swoops me up and starts comforting me.Think about that for a minute. Imagine peacefully enjoying your time in the rest room, when suddenly someone 27 feet tall swoops down, picks you up, puts you on his/her chest, and starts patting you until you fall asleep. Not funny. All I want to do is poop.
4. They take me on rides in "a car" to visit a person called "a pediatrician" who takes all the measurements my nurses in the NICU did at my bedside.  Why can't they do it themselves? For those interested, in the 3 days since my discharge, I went from 5 lbs 9 ounces to 5 lbs 13.  Next stop, 6 lbs... 
5. They let me eat as much as I want, whenever I want it. At the NICU they gave me 45 ml on the dot - no more no less. Here, I'm already eating twice that! 

This one takes the cake: they clean me in an actual bathtub, wearing robes. I feel (and look) like a Roman God. Here's my first ever shampoo:

The robes get warmed by the water so it keeps me super warm. I got so warm I had a nice big yawn mid-process:

Believe it or not, that's a sign of extreme comfort. I love the bath. Last and best of all, Mom dries me off:

Club Fed

Dad Lies. 

Mom Lies. 

They all lie.

After weeks of trying to break out of the SuperMax holding cell -- a.k.a. the Cedars-Sinai NICU -- I finally made it. I mastered my breathing, pulled out all my tubes, and passed all my tests. Mom distracted the wardens while Dad tucked me under his arm and ran like the wind. (A somewhat slow, goofy looking, very pale wind). We made it free and clear and even managed to score some serious swag on the way out. 

And after all that time,  I find myself back in jail again!

How could Mom and Dad do this to me? Just because the jail is bigger, doesn't make it any less of a jail. And the pretty mobile, flowers, and books can't hide the cruel, cruel bars.  I think I can get by for a little while. But they tell me I'm going to be in here for 18 years!  Get out of town! No way, Jose. No way I'm staying in here for 18 long. 

I'm clearly not going to write a journal entry each and every day for the next 18 years. But I do have a lot of growing, training and learning to share, so I will definitely keep recording my progress in this (very public) journal. I hope you will forgive me if I don't post everyday, I'm trying to avoid repetitive stress injuries until after I turn 3. But I will try to post regularly and I will treat this journal / blog as a real-time history. Check back as often as you like. 

In the meantime, I've got to start planning my Great Escape, Part II: