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:

I'm Free

Dad finally worked up the nerve to bust me out of the NICU!

I'm FREE!!!

Dramatic tensions

I have gone more than 36 hours without a brady. Sort of. I had two Baby Bradys, but they lasted milliseconds and I woke myself out of them. (Reminder: a Brady episode is when I forget to breathe and my pulse drops.) I need to make it 48 hours without a Brady in order to be discharged, but I don't know if my Baby Brady's will be a strike against me. I'm either 12 hours from freedom or 48 hours. Will I make it under the wire? Or will they continue to hold me incarceration?

The Chief Warden (aka neo-natologist) will decide whether I'm released on good behaviour by 1100 tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll just chill out here until a decision is made:

The Art of Manipulation

This whole process is taking far too long. I'm ready to go home (wherever that is) and my parents aren't working hard enough to get me there. I hear they are doing things like "taking tea" and "going on dates" and "working". Unacceptable.  Tonight, I began my auxiliary plan to manipulate my parents into bringing me home, muy pronto:


1. Gain Weight:  I continue to put on weight. I've cleared 5 pounds, 9 ounces. Almost all of it is going into my cheeks, so all of you have something to pinch. I want you invested in my homecoming as well. Start pressuring my folks. Stat! 

2. Eat Fast: I drank all 60 ml of my milk in 6 minutes flat. The subliminal message being: "Look, I eat fast. I'm easy! You want to bring me home."

3. Sleep Easy: I slept for 1.5 hours on Dad during Roo time and never even moved. My pulse was 155.0, my blood oxygen was 100%, and I didn't pee on him or spit up on him once. How can he not want to bring home such a peaceful baby?  Ask him for me. In fact, bug him every hour or two. You have my permission.

4. Cry Like the Dickens: When mom and dad got up to leave and returned me to the bassinet,  I cried. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. I cried even more than when the doctor ...  well, let's not talk about that lest I start crying again. Anyway, Mom and Dad tried to leave early tonight and I gave them what-for. I forced them to pick me up. You might even say I manipulated them. Shamelessly.

5. Be SuperCute: Its not easy to be SuperCute, but I managed. The key to a successful manipulation is the positive reward after the negative feedback. So when Dad picked me up after crying and held me again, I unleashed the full power of my "Blue Steel" look on him.  Since I can't decide which of these photos does me the most justice, I include all of them:

6. Community Organizing: Remember, the sooner I come home, the sooner you, my loyal readers, get to see this in person. Start signing petitions, leaving comments, and leaning on all the doctors you know...

Failure to launch

All great endeavors invariably encounter a hiccup along the way. That's why we do dress rehearsals to ensure those hiccups don't become genuine obstacles. Last night, I got a little too excited about the prospect of my escape. So excited, in fact, that I held my breath longer than I should have. It's not a big deal, but it's not ideal and, worst of all, it scares the crap out of Mom.

My escape plan will only work if I can make it 48 hours without getting overly excited and holding my breath (a.k.a. the evil Brady). At last count, I have 42 more hours to go ....

On the upside, I gained 81 grams today (a personal record) and I'm racing my way to chubby cheeks. I now weigh in at 5 lbs and 8 oz. If I keep growing, I will shift my escape to plan B -- the "Spherical Baby" plan -- in which I roll out the door on my belly. I started fretting about my figure, but apparently my parents have had a lot of fat-baby envy and they're excited about my newly developing fat rolls.

Sorry to disappoint, but I don't have any new photos for today. My photographers were distracted with the departure, the postponement, the <snip>, the Brady's,  etc...  Tomorrow, I promise. 

Dress Rehearsal

After five weeks of planning and extensive training, my escape plan is almost finalized. Earlier today, I set in motion Phase 1: Operation No Zits.  If you'll examine the following photo,  you will see that I am once again zit free -- I need to blend in once I hit the mean streets of Beverly Hills. 

I also started Phase 2: I ripped out my gavage tube.  No more feeding tubes to slow me down. From now on, it's bottle or breast or bust. By the way, don't I look great in my foxes? Dare I say -- even foxy?

And because time waits for no man, I also began Phase 3 today: Dress Rehearsal.  To make sure my accomplices -- Mom and Dad -- do everything they're supposed to without a hitch, they are rooming in with me at the supermax tonight. We are practicing our life on the lam without the guards, who are standing by in case something goes awry. But I am literally and figuratively halfway out the door; we are in the room next to the entrance, all by ourselves. One baby lo-jack is all that stands between me and freedom. 

Tomorrow I have to implement Phases 4 thru 6: a snip, a hearing test, and one last blood test. Then,  (shhhhh, don't jinx it) I hope to make my break on Thursday.  

BTW, I  gained 15 grams yesterday, bringing me up 2410 grams = 5 lbs 5 ounces.

I'm not leaving

Just when I was starting to make plans to bust out, the wardens pulled the ace from their sleeves, the trump to top all trumps (The Donald included).  I don't how they did it, but they did.  I have to give them credit.  They are geniuses. Evil geniuses.   

I first noticed it this evening when I was showing off my new skills to Dad. I mentioned yesterday the business about sleeping through exams and feedings. The reason they bumped me to Milestone 3 is because they saw that I can eat and sleep... at the same time! I know you are jealous, and you should be. It's awesome. So awesome, I wanted to show dad how I do it: 

And that's when I noticed it in the reflection from his glasses.  How could I miss it?  How could you miss it?  You missed it? How about this image:

I HAVE A ZIT!  This is Beverly Hills!  I can't go outside with this!!! Totally unacceptable. This is a hospital, there must be dermatologists nearby. I refuse to leave with this bullseye on my head. I love my parents and all, but did they have to give me their bad skin!?! I'll show them - I'm going to wait this one out...

D'oh! I overslept!

I totally overslept my meeting with the Parole Board this morning. Mom and Dad were bummed out when they came to see me and found out I didn't pass my exam because I slept through most of my bottle feedings. Unfortunately, a big part of the "has two complete bottles of milk per shift" requirement is the "stays awake long enough to drink a bottle of milk" prerequisite.  I like to think of this course as NICU 201.  (Drinking one bottle was NICU 101.)

So imagine Mom and Dad's surprise when they came in for the night feeding and found this:

Click on the photo if you have trouble reading it, but that squiggly bit in the middle -- the part that looks like "3" -- means upon further consideration by the Board I actually passed! The wardens have moved me up to 3 feedings per shift. Mom got all smiley and happy when she saw the sign. Strangely, Dad started yapping about "grade inflation" and "academic integrity" and "schools not being what they used to be." Then he sat down like a good dad and fed me a whole 40 ml bottle in 11 minutes flat. At which point I passed out.  Passed out cold:

    

For those of you keeping score at home, I gained 35 grams today, topping in at 2370 grams = 5 pounds 3.6 ounces. If I don't clear out of here soon, I'm going to grow too big for all my clothes.

Ladies Love IFW

So I've decided my parents aren't nearly as committed to my escape as they should be. I mean, really, I've been here a frickin' month and still no file?! But I've found some new allies that are crazy over the moon for me and would do anything to help me escape -- they are called grandmothers. The only problem with using them for my escape plan, neither of them has sufficient athletic talent to simultaneously hold me, run for the door, and fight off the guards. Maybe both of them together???  <Sigh>  Seriously, can't I get a break already?

 

As always,  you can click on the photo for big pictures.  

And as always - my weight update.  I gained another 65 grams yesterday, bringing me up to 5 lbs. 2 ounces. I'm going to be huge when I finally break out of here...

Parole board

I had my first meeting before the Parole Board today. I am cautiously optimistic. The Board reviews all sorts of information about my stay -- how often I talk back to the wardens, how often I fight with the other inmates, prior escape attempts, and how much I eat -- to determine whether I can be paroled early or have to serve out my full term. In preparation for the hearing, I've been treating the wardens very well and I've stopped boxing in the yard. I've even cut back on the escape attempts. But, it turns out all the board cared about was how much I eat!  

They initial terms of my release are as follows: I have to eat 4 bottles of milk a day (2 bottles per shift) to go along with 4 gavage feedings. If that goes well, they'll hold another hearing on Sunday and possibly bump me up to the next challenge round -- 6 bottles of milk and only 2 gavage feedings.

Since the Board only seems to care about my eating habits, I've gone back to boxing and sassing. I've got a new one: I only eat out of the bottle from Dad. It drives the guards nuts! With Dad, I drank 45 ml in about 15 minutes - personal best times. With the guards, I throttle myself to 27 ml in 27 minutes. Three times slower. I think it keeps them on their toes. Just to give you a visual as to how uncooperative I can be with them:

Talk to the hand, lady, 'cause the face ain't listening

My other big news -- I'm officially a five-pounder. 

Public Enemy #1

I have heard of people's aversion to a vegetable called brussels sprouts. I didn't understand the dislike and, to be honest, I didn't understand the fuss over something as silly as a vegetable. I now consider myself educated. My mom, bless her silly heart, is trying to eat well since she is my only source of nutrition. Foolishly, this included a helping of brussels sprouts the other day from a lovely shop called "Lemonade" near my super max.

In all my four weeks of life, I have never experienced -- and hope to never experience again -- the gas that brussels sprouts can produce. Between 8 am and noon, my belly inflated from 30 cm to 35 cm. It got so bad the wardens took an x-ray of my belly to make sure there wasn't an obstruction. Everything was "normal", except for a whole lotta gas and poop that were just biding their time, waiting to let loose. The doctor tells me this is quite common; her personal kryptonite is broccoli. But what's their solution to this common problem, you ask? Rectal stimulation. You heard me right. I tried to get out the shiv and defend myself, but I wasn't fast enough. (Just for the record, no self respecting science should include rectal stimulation as a go-to procedure...)

I'd rather not talk about the procedure and photos would be unseemly, but suffice to say I am much better now and have left behind three epically dirty diapers. I've asked mom to abstain from brussels sprouts in the future. And no broccoli, just to be safe. Even with all this intestinal excitement, I've gained 60 grams and now weigh in at 4 pounds, 15 ounces.

Today's grandmother-satisfying photo:  

I keep asking Dad to wax his chest, but he never does. By The Way,  for all you Blogspot neophytes out there:  you can click on the photos to get the high-def full size versions. They make great posters...

Please forgive me

Several days ago, I disparaged the medical sciences. Please forgive me, Uncle J.  Since then,  I've learned a few things.  First,  maybe the medical "scientists" really do know something. 

Exhibit A:

I believe my original complaint was lodged on Day 20.  Coincidence?  They know we're watching.  Keep watching and we'll keep them honest. 

Exhibit B:  the Lactation Consultant. These people "scientifically" determine whether or not I "like" bottle and breast feeding.  Today's verdict: "he doesn't look interested, and sometimes he gets tired." 

Hey, genius!  I am too interested. But you'd get tired, too, if you were chiseling through the bottom of your bassinet every night with a dull spoon. Compared to the voodoo divination of the Lactation Consultants, the doctors are positively mathematical.

Exhibit C: my Dad the physicist:

Now we all know that physicists are the smartest, funniest, and best looking of all professionals. But did you know that they are also the best bottle feeders? Tonight, I downed all 40 ml in 15 minutes. And what about that face doesn't say interested? Suck it, Lactation Consultant!

Don't shower alone

If there's one thing I've always heard about the big house, it's that you never shower alone. And you never pick up the soap. Never ever. One of my biggest fears about incarceration was the showers, if only because I'm a bit scrawny and not yet ready to defend myself. I've been working on making a shiv, but my parents still haven't gotten me that file I've been asking for. 

So imagine my surprise tonight when they called us out for rounds and instead of going to the showers, I got a sponge bath from two beautiful ladies. Heaven!  

In the interest of decency, I'm only allowed to show the part where they towel me dry. Doesn't it look wonderful? The eagle-eyed viewer might notice that the scale reads 4 pounds 13.4 ounces = 2195 grams; I've gained 40 grams.

Things got better after the sponge bath. Mom has finally responded to my cute "sucky-face" and learned to feed me from a bottle. I drank all 40 milliliters of milk from this bottle and wanted more.  

Hence the surprised "WTF?" hand gesture. She hasn't learned that gesture yet. 

Rocks for Jocks

Sometimes I think my parents aren't so smart. Last night we had an earthquake -- my first ever. It was wee, like me. Only magnitude 3.3.  It was also about a kilometer from our prison. To be honest, me and my inmate buddies (all 8 of us) slept right through it. The guards were all running around like headless chickens, but we inmates eventually calmed them down. The USGS tells the whole story (let's make sure we keep funding them, shall we?) in the following awesome plot:

Notice that the potential damage ranged from none to none.  Also notice that my not-too-smart parents have a house on one of those big red lines. That can't be good. 

Long story short, when my parents came by today, I tried to tell them about the earthquake so they could search for loose bricks, broken locks, and cracks in the prison walls. They were just a way too slow to catch on. You will do better,  I know. To prove my point, I include a video showing our conversation:

They didn't get it at all. Jocks indeed. By The Way,  I gained another 50 grams today, bringing me up to 2155g = 4lbs, 12oz.  Hot.

Double Trouble

Rumor has it that a couple of guys busted out of Alcatraz by using body doubles to dupe the guards. Sounds like a great idea. I've been looking around for a body double and think I've found the guy. If you know his whereabouts, let me know and I'll make him a deal he can't refuse:

Notice he's about the right size, has my monkey-long arms, a tinge of ginger in the hair, and awesome good looks. I don't think the guards stand a chance.  For comparison purposes, here's a mug shot of me from yesterday.  

I'm sleeping because I'll admit my training schedule has got me pooped. In the last two days, I've had four bottles with 35 ml, 27 ml, 30 ml, and 27 ml of milk, respectively. That's four straight bottles where I've drunk more than 75% of my allotted dose. Hopefully tomorrow the NICU Doc's will up my bottles to four per day. If I do well at that, I'm theoretically halfway to freedom's finish line... Speaking of food, I put on another 40 grams, bringing my weight up to 2105 gms = 4 pounds, 10 ounces. I expect I'll start boxing bantam weight class in the prison yard soon.  

Bottles and Breasts

For a long time (in baby years -- a day or two in adult years),  the sight of a bottle or a breast would make me fall asleep.  One of my email friends tells me that many men have this problem. Well I'm happy to say, it's a problem of my past.  After lots and lots of hard work, I have had my first bottle-only meal. I finished the entire 35 ml bottle in personal-record time, and I was ready and raring for more. I drank it so fast, I didn't even have time to pose for my usual photo. You'll have to make due with this photo instead:

On the stats front, I added 30 grams today, bringing my total up to 2065 grams = 4 pounds 9 ounces. And I forgot to point out that yesterday was my 3 week birthday! I think that's worth a chocolate chip with a candle on top. And a chisel inside please...