That was short-lived.

Cael is no longer my workout buddy. Why?

His Upward Dog is way better than mine is and he doesn't even break a sweat. Bastage!

Also? He doesn't cheer me on anymore. Doesn't even bother to look at me. Now he spends the whole cardio section watching the dvd. Sure, they're all muscly and pretty, but they're two-dimensional! Your giggling won't encourage them (nor will cursing discourage them - I've tried that before).

Plus, I totally copped-out during the high impact portion of the program and he didn't call me on it.

So fired.

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Cael wanted to say "hello" to everyone. How could I deny him such a simple request?



(He's a little bashful.)

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Today I let Cael do his tummy time during my workout. I figure if I'm working on mine, he may as well work on his.

I think this should be a regular occurrence.

It turns out the two are not that different. During Power Yoga he and I were actually doing the same exact thing: flopping around on our stomachs like beached whales while grunting and trying desperately not to cry. It's nice to have someone to sympathize with.

He's also good motivation during the cardio section. He likes to watch me do the exercises. It makes him giggle. When I stop, he starts to cry. Usually, I'd take offense to someone finding my bouncing and flailing humorous, but he also laughs at flashing lights. I think he's just got an easily tickled funny bone. At least it keeps me from sitting out the bonus round (which is so not cheating! It's a BONUS round).

Working out with Cael is *almost* as motivating as working out with BCB. Almost.

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Today at the grocery store -

Checkout Guy: [Holds up nursing pads.] So, you've got a new baby, huh?
Me: [Points to baby in cart.] Yup.
CG: [Looks.] How old is he?
Me: Three months.
CG: Really?
Me: No.
CG: [Blinks.]
Me: Yes.
CG: Whoa. He's huge!
Me: Yeah, he's growing up fast.
CG: No, I mean he's big. Like he's going to have to play football.
Me: I hope not. That's how his father died.
CG: Really?
Me: Yes.
CG: [Blinks.]
Me: No.
CG: Cool.

I am now on a quest to find other three month old babies and see if Cael is really bigger than them.

In other news, Cael loves the laundry song from Dr. Horrible. I'm hoping this means he's got an innate fondness for laundry and continue to sing it to him. Hopefully, once he realizes those things at the end of his arms are his hands, I can start having him do the folding. He does the most of the dirtying anyway - he may as well do the clean up, right?

This is going to be awesome.

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This is when I get to be validated and say to Ryan, "SEE! Now you can't give me shit for not going to the doctor. EVAR."

I have this thing about actually seeking medical attention. It's hereditary. Mom and Lauren have it as well, which has actually lead to (what the medical professional she was eventually forced to visit called) being three days away from death. Whatever. She lived.

Every time I go to the doctor, no matter how long I waited or how much the symptoms have multiplied? They tell me there's nothing wrong. Or to take Advil. Or sleep. Or, I kid you not, "blink more." DUDE.

Obviously, I now refuse to go - ever. It just makes me feel like a hypochondriac ass and costs me a $10 co-pay.

Though I will not haul my own ailing behind to the doctor, I feel that might be cruel and unusual punishment for someone who is yet to reach the tender young age of three months. Especially when he's got what looks like a clear gummy bear (sans limbs and ears) under his tiny little tongue.

Cael was born with a fluidy mass cysty thing in his mouth. It didn't appear to hurt him and every doctor/nurse he ran across while at the hospital said, "it'll go away."

Well, it hasn't - it's just grown with him. Pediatrician finally advises us to go to an ENT specialist. So we did.

I'll skip over the hour and a half waiting period and the fact that ENT doc was a royal jerk of unparalleled proportions and get to the part where he jams a tongue depressor in Cael's mouth and says, "What am I supposed to be looking for? I don't see anything." Or, at least, I think that's what he said. It was hard to hear over Cael's uncontrollable screaming.

I stick my finger in Cael's mouth and damned if Dr. Jerko was right. The paraplegic gummy bear was gone.

Doc looks at me like I'm one of those freaky mothers who flips out about the tiniest things and I just know he's convinced I saw a spit bubble and went ape-shit. He snaps off his gloves, says, "There's nothing there. If you think you see it again, Google it," and leaves.

Google it? I know I should be most affected by the fact that the huge clear thing has disappeared and most likely was violently and painfully ruptured with a wooden poker, but Google it?

You know that at some point in the future I'm going to be sitting at home with a severed finger going, "Cael, get the sewing kit and log on to WebMD. We've got some stitching to do."

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Let me preface this with a fun fact: Cael has reached the stage in his development when he only poos once a week. The quantity of poo per week has not decreased with the frequency, if you get my drift.

Picture this:

Ryan and I parked in the Costco lot. Miles of blacktop make the already 90+ degree day even hotter. The car is literally filled to capacity. We cannot see out the back window and could not have held another passanger, another suitcase or Tinkerbell's left slipper if our lives depended on it.

Cael has not eaten for four hours and is understandably ravenous. Once he finishes, I'm sitting in the passanger side with one very full baby. He poos for the first time in four days. There's no flat surface (besides aforementioned blacktop) so I have to change him on my lap.

This is precarious. I don't have a tiny car, but he's become a kicker/stretcher, and the way he was wiggling, his feet spent most of the time jammed in my ribs while his head kept bopping the glove compartment.

It started with spitting. A lot of spitting. He got the gearshift, Ryan over in the driver's seat and filled the cupholder. It was a mess. This was before we opened the diaper.

I'll spare you the gorey details (too late for that?) but let me just say, and I kid you not, this little ball of juices actually pees, poos and urps at the same time in such massive quanitites that I'm still trying to figure out where it all came from - and it's all over me, myself and my heretofore unspoiled auto.

Obviously, Cael was confused. He thought that because we bought Costo bulk packs of wipes and diapers he actually had to use them ALL AT ONCE.

Silly rabbit. I figured that one out after my run in with the Costo bulk box of 100 Grand candy bars.

Talk about urping...

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Cael can now spin around on his back.

I haven't caught him in the act, but I assume he looks much like Donald O'Connor did in Singing in the Rain. I put him down in his playpen and come back to find him all cockeyed, a trail of drool marking his path like breadcrumbs, should he choose to return to his original spot. (I can't imagine why he'd need to go back, but I suppose when you have such large volumes of urp, you may as well use them for a grander purpose.)



In this photo, Cael realizes he's turned himself in such a way that he can no longer see his animal cards and instead is forced to read the Tolstoy-long playpen warning in three different languages - all of which tell him that playing in this pen could "result in serious injury or death."

Partly because of this and partly because of this, we've moved him from his cradle by our bed into his crib in the nursery at night. He did pretty well the first night - actually made it through one whole three hour period in there by himself. (I didn't do nearly as well. It's hard to sleep when you're clutching the monitor receiver in a death grip and holding it to your ear.)

Of course, Ryan checked on him once due to "separation anxiety" and I checked on him twice because I couldn't hear him breathing - but other than that he was all alone.

He's all growed up. =(

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