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: