I came. I sucked. I burped.

This, my loyal readers, is what we here in the big house call "a big f'ing deal." I have drunk my very first glass of milk on my own from a bottle. Not exactly a glass really, more like 9 milliliters.  But that's 9 ml of kicking butt and taking names,  thank you very much. This was my first try at drinking, so I don't have quite the drinking endurance of my parents,  but it will come. Right now I get to try drinking from a bottle about once a day. Eventually, I will reach something like 8 feedings a day of 35 milliliters each.  But as Bill Murray said in "What About Bob,  "baby steps."

On a related note, I gained 90 grams yesterday and another 40 grams today. I'm all the way up to 2035 grams = 4 pounds, 8 ounces! Around here, we call it the "Two Thousand Club."  

T-shirts for the hairy

Dad finally heard my pleas and wore a t-shirt during Roo Time. So many things about this are better than the skin-to-skin. I don't get hair in my nose, he doesn't smell as bad, and he's much less slippery. I'll still do skin-to-skin, but I like the t-shirt. A lot. So much so that I've graced Dad with my very first smile on film. I'm pretty sure I've smiled before, but I've never been photographed smiling. Big difference. Mad props to the photographer...

I don't like being in jail. Not one bit. But if I do say so myself, I'm rocking this green and grey prison jumper.

If medicine were a science

Dad's been filling my ears lately with how medicine needs more science.  Even Mom has been saying that government analysis is more rigorous and scientific than medical practice. So I've decided to take matters into my own hands and science-up my cribside.  This chart is my first data product. It shows my weight from day 0 (my birthday!) to now.  Because my caloric intake has been more or less constant (and so have my poops) I'm assuming that my growth rate is linear.  This is shown in the solid line.  The dashed lines are the +/- 1 sigma error bars. 

My conclusion?  These people need more accurate scales. 

PS. I'm growing at 16.6 grams per day.  

"If you're going through hell, keep going"

Don't worry, I'm not going through hell as the title suggests. In fact, I'm getting pampered every hour of every day by the best nurses in the world. Compared to going home with those amateurs I call parents, this place is heaven.  

Today's title is in fact a quiz.  Who said this quote first? 

Don't know?  Does this picture give you a hint?

If that was too subtle,  how about this one:

Leader of a decaying world empire,  here I come!

BTW,  the reason I got to take my picture is because the guards caught me while I was making my escape.  They removed the old-man tubes last night,  and then I pulled out the gavage tube all by myself this morning.  I was half way to the door when they caught me and snapped this pic.  Next time,  FREEDOM!

Do the Shuffle

As it turns out, two steps forward might be asking too much.  So we're going to set the Texas Two Step aside in favor of the Beverly Hills Shuffle.  In this dance, we shuffle slowly forward and hope the guards aren't watching.  

For instance, today we shuffled forward so quietly and with such good behaviour that the warden removed my old-man tubes. But in the interest of "shuffling," not "stepping," I asked him to leave the tube stickers on. That way no one gets nervous -- "Nothing to see here, Officer."  I'm not quite as cute as with no tubes and no stickers, but I'll take it. Add in the 20 grams I gained yesterday (I'm up to 1870!) and today counts as a sneakily serious shuffle forward. Tomorrow we'll try to shuffle in some more food and maybe some bottle feeding.

Point. Counterpoint.

Yesterday, the guards put the old-man tubes back in to uglify me and prevent my escape. (Yes, uglify is a word, look it up.) I have to say, I took it pretty hard. After all, in LA, you're nothing if you've been uglified. (No, uglified is not a word -- tough.)  But after sleeping on it for 23 of the last 24 hours, I've decided to put the best face on it and deal.

So imagine my joy when Mom countered the wardens with a cutification campaign. (Cutification should be a word. Let's start a petition together...) A little hat, a little pacifier, and voila! I'm back to being pretty darn cute. 

A few things you probably can't tell from the photo:  

1. I didn't gain any weight yesterday. Still at 1850 grams. Boo.
2. I had fewer drops in my heart rate yesterday, so maybe the old man tubes are working. Yay.
3. I am sucking on this pacifier like a champ. Maybe I'll learn to bottle feed soon. Super Yay.

All in all,  I'm going to have score this round:

     Guards 0,  Mom and Isaac 1

California Two Step

I was getting too cute.  The guards felt it would too be easy for me to talk my way out, so they took matters into their own hands:  they put the old man tubes back on.  Lame.

Dad's told me about the Texas Two Step - a dance so simple even he can do it. Putting these tubes back, I call it the California Two Step:  two steps towards the door,  and one step back. I'm not happy about stepping back, but Mom says it builds character and gives me more room to gather speed when I finally make my break.  Speaking of speed,  I'm up to 4 pounds, 1 ounces - my birth weight.  Keep your fingers crossed, from now on I'm in the black.

I'm boycotting cute photos until they take out the old man tubes again.  Maybe that will help break down the guards. Until then, check out yesterday's post.  Instead we can discuss my cool "Isaac" signs, since I have three. I believe if you're gonna be an escape artist, it's important to work on name recognition early.  I'm working on trademarking the "Insuppressible Isaac" in anticipation. 

Here's a photo of my new crib showing the sign my cousins made for me because they aren't old enough for jailhouse visitation rights (the others are on the side you can't see). Let's hope the cute photo boycott doesn't last long ...

Basinet or Bassinet?

Some of you helpful readers may remember my request for a basinet, made in a previous post. I'm sure you are all well aware that a basinet, also known as a bascinet, is a "medieval European open-faced military helmet."  

Why a basinet? Because I'm trying to make my escape!  I need protection. Medieval protection. What better than a great helm? Especially with a little flame on the front, like this one. I'd look awesome in a basinet.

Unfortunately, mom (bless her heart) thought I wanted a bassinet -- a bed for babies. What do I need that for?! I need out of here. Well last night, the warden moved me to a bassinet from the incubator. I made the move because I now control my own body temperature, don't have any IVs, and eat a ton of food in 30 minutes. I even gained some weight yesterday so I'm back over 4 lbs! 

My bassinet (though not nearly as cool or useful as a basinet) isn't too shabby. First of all, its super minimum security -- the walls are wood and it doesn't even have a ceiling. And now they swaddle me into papoose blankets for warmth and I get to wear my own clothes. I'm going to rock this giraffe for a while, then get back to planning my escape.

BTW,  I've been in this gulag for two weeks. Happy anniversary!

No PICC!

Look carefully at the following photo:

Notice anything strange?  (Besides Dad.) Notice anything missing? Do you happen to notice a particularly shapely forearm, free from encumbrances? You can't see it because I'm busy sleeping on it, but my other arm is similarly bare.  

I don't have any more IVs!  

Today they removed the last of my IVs, the so called PICC line. When they put it in, they called it "Setting a PICC" and I thought they were talking about basketball. Imagine my surprise. They used the PICC line to feed me intravenously,  but now that I'm taking all my food orally (actually through the gavage tube,  but still....) I don't need the IV. 

This has the added side effect of allowing me to wear clothing and be swaddled. So now I can take super cute pictures like this one:

As soon as I demonstrate that swaddling and t-shirts are enough to help me maintain my temperature, the guards will move me to the minimum secure basinet.  From there, escape is imminent...

Hurricane Isaac

As you may have noticed, my alter-ego, Tropical Storm Isaac, is doing a better job at escaping than I am. TS Isaac is doing a cool 20 mph across the Southern Atlantic. For a while, it looked like it was going to become Hurricane Isaac and wallop the Republican Convention in Tampa.  As a California son, I'm still hopeful. I'm going to sleep on it.

Although TS Isaac is wussing out, I am gathering strength. As you know from yesterday, my nose tubes are out and I'm breathing 100% on my own. I've gained weight again, up to 1795 grams: almost my birth weight. And my food is all the way up to 33 ml every 3 hours, so I'm off the IV nutrients. Tomorrow, if I show that I can eat fast enough, they'll even take the IV out!  Little do they realize how fast I'll escape once they disconnect me from everything.

Training in the exercise yard has not been progressing so fast. Every time Mom takes me out of the "Little Big House" for a little Roo time, I fall asleep and forget to do my push ups.  Tomorrow I'll do better. 

Look Ma...

... no tubes!

Feisty

The guards are starting to complain. They've started calling me "feisty". They do not appreciate how intent I am on leaving this joint. Obviously, the first thing that has to go before I can escape are my old-man air tubes:  those cylinders will really weigh me down when I'm on the lam. I've been waiting patiently for the guards to remove them, but I'm tired of waiting.  I'm going to  remove them myself. Granted my adorable button nose isn't really shaped to accommodate them in the first place, but I've discovered that my fingers can really help remove them fast.  I've been so successful they keep adding deterrents, like sticky whiskers (which give me an excellent manly-man mustache vibe),  and side burn patches (to accentuate my excellent cheek bones). But it won't work, I'm too clever for that!  Especially now that I have mastered the use of two fingers and my opposable thumb.

I tell you, between my thumb and my fingers, this hand is really a gift that keeps on giving.

PS.  I keep gaining weight,  increasing my eating,  and losing my billirubins. So far,  so good. 

Kangaroo time

You might have heard me or my Mom and Dad talk about "Kangaroo Time."  Well,  I love 'Roo time.  Kangaroo Care was invented in Bogota, Columbia in the late 1970's.  The NICU there was overflowing with babies, and the chief doctor, Dr. Edgar Rey Sanabria, hit on the idea of mimicking kangaroos.  Kangaroos are born premature (like I was) and their babies immediately crawl up into their mothers pouch to stay warm and safe. Dr. Sanabria realized the same could work for people and encouraged the mothers in his NICU to act as incubators by holding their babies skin-to-skin.  It turns out, moms are better at regulating temperature and being more soft and cuddly than the best modern technology, and the outcomes are fantastic. 

Dad, on the other hand, feels like a carpet, tastes like a leather shoe, and has rock hard pecs.  I like it anyway. 

Mutton Bustin'

I heard about a new escape route today, something called "Mutton Bustin'."  I'm told it's the fastest way out of Dodge,  if you can find a mutton.  It looks like this:

Dad told me about it at breakfast today.  Apparently,  all you have to do is put on your helmet, put on you vest,  climb on,  and the mutton goes like a rocket. I've been watching training videos on  YouTube, here.  The wardens will never be able to catch me.  

Until I find a mutton,  I'm going to practice with this pillow:

PS.  My training continues to go well. Mother's milk is awe-some. I keep asking her to include a screwdriver or a chisel or a hammer with her next shipment, but she never does. 

An Anniversary, of sorts

Today marks a week since being incarcerated. Mom and Dad brought me a little something to brighten up my cell/crib and mark the occasion. I would have preferred a file baked in a cake, but it seems the parents aren't up to that level of culinary skill.  They also moved me from my old cell to this new, airy glass cell. It's like Magneto's cell in X-Men. I call it the "Little Big House."  It's a downgrade from the Supermax they had me in.  Let's call it a Medium Security Cell.  I hear there is a minimum security basinet - that's my next target. 

I continue to search for my thumb as a way to kill time whilst getting bigger. Hopefully, just a few more days and I will once again tip the scales at 4 pounds, since I am now at 3 lbs. and 13 oz. 

I know it's around here somewhere...

No Uvas! Er... Leche!

Today I tried my hand at a hunger strike. They've upped my meals to 18 ml of milk every 3 hours. I started by lulling my captors into a false sense of security by accepting the food just fine.  Then I barfed. Unfortunately, the guards seemed totally unfazed by my technique.   Mom, on the other hand, was not happy with me. I got a whole (bo-oring) lecture about escaping any way I wanted, but that hunger strikes of any kind were prohibited. Then she started yammering about something called "liquid gold" and "the time she spent" and starving children in the world. Blah, blah, blah. 

To be honest, I stopped listening. 

Dad was cool. He told me that I have a velvet tummy, just like his. He said I should eat what the guards give me and take it easy. Apparently, there's no need to rush my escape plan because the getaway car isn't ready -- no car seat. I told him I'd think about it. In the meantime, the guards have called my bluff and are keeping me at 18 ml. 

News flash: I just discovered my thumb. It's awesome. When it's positioned just right, it knocks me out like a light. I hope I can find it again.

A man of intrigue

Today I met Nicole -- a warden here in Bay 3 of the supermax. I deem her a friend of the cause, since she is inadvertently helping me with a disguise to slip past the guards. Nicole has a fondness for hats. When she saw me this morning, she exclaimed that a hatless prisoner was unacceptable, and she scrounged up this institutional uniform for me. When she put it on me, all present thought I looked just like a gnome. I figure once I can find a faux white beard and overalls, my disguise will be complete.  Then I'll be able to escape with no one noticing. My genius is unstoppable...

Before my disguise...

Unrecognizable!

Lies and the lying liars who tell them

They continue to accuse me (Me!) of lying about my past crimes.  I'm still not talking.  They've resorted to hooking me up to a lie detector and they continuously monitor my pulse,  respiratory rate,  and blood oxygen levels.  They even take my blood pressure!

Little do they realize what a cool customer I am.  I spend all day lying....

...in my crib.  For those interested in counting wires,  I've got monitors for an EKG (green trace above),  two for respiratory rate (white trace - a sensor I can fool all the time just by stretching), blood oxygen saturation (pink trace) and a temperature sensor.  The only wires doing anything are one small feeding tube in my mouth, one old-man oxygen tube in my nose, and one awesome IV for extra nutrients.    My favorite accessory is the glowing red oxygen sensor strapped to my foot. 

My training regimen is proceeding well - my daily Kangaroo sessions with mom and dad are working.  My feeding has increased to 13 ml and I'm starting to put some weight on - I gained 45 grams yesterday and I'm tipping the scales at 1660 grams!

I ain't yeller

Last night they accused me of being yeller.  Something about high billirubin and jaundice.  They think putting me under these lights is going to make me talk.

Clearly they don't know who they're dealing with.  I'm a Waldman.  I'm an O'Connell.  And I'm from California.  Where I come from,  we call these things tanning beds.  In fact, I like it so much,  they've taken away my nasal comfort-flow air and upped my feed to 8 milliliters every 3 hours.  Soon,  I'll be strong enough to start training for the escape.

Every once in a while,  I get to turn over and look around.  Can't be getting tan lines, you know?

J'Accuse!

J'accuse! J'accuse! J'accuse!

The leading suspect for the cause of my incarceration in this supermax prison was an in utero infection. As a result, I’ve been on prophylactic antibiotics since birth. The labs have finally exonerated me: I have no such infection.   I’ve been relieved of having to take those meds! 

So far my cries of false imprisonment have been completely ignored. I must begin planning my escape.