best weston

^^ When I was pregnant with Weston, this is what my sister called my uterus. You know, as in, "Best Western" hotel (motel?) She's the witty type. Now that he's ex-utero we just call him, the boy himself, Best Weston. (We don't know any other Westons anyway.)

About 3 weeks ago I started pre-writing this post in my head. Do you [bloggers] do that? I wanted to commemorate Weston and all of the things I've learned of him thus far. I needn't have bothered with my brain rough drafting, since so much/everything has changed since then. That's how it goes with the infants. Every two hours you're updating your view of them.

Three weeks ago, perhaps even less, Weston was just the unhappiest little man. Nearly inconsolable really, unless he was in mother's arms. Then things started changing, as they are wont to do with fresh babies such as himself. He didn't scream when I put set him in the papasan whilst I made his sister breakfast. He stopped whimpering from his bouncy seat perch while I dressed myself and Jordan. He just started being content to be, even when Jordan was up in his grill squealing "aAAaaAAww! Buddy! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson!"

his gummy grill being all kinds of invaded

I knew this day would come! It always does, but it never seems like it will when you're in the throes of newborn turmoil. My mom claims there wasn't a colicky one among us, her eight children, and we were sleeping angels from the get-go (she says as I wrangle the terrible two-ing toddler and the caterwauling newb and I can do nothing but grimace at her great fortune) but that is just not my lot in motherhood. I birth tiny difficult humans...who eventually morph into perfectly lovely loving lovebugs...and apparently continue to morph into beings that are thuh sweetest and most affectionate quickly followed by crazy and should-we-exorcise-her? and back again in fifteen minute intervals. (Ok so far this is just Jordan. The nature of the Jordan, or the nature of the toddler? That is the question.)

Anywho, a couple stats on the jolly not-lean giant: at 15 lbs, 1 oz, my good-natured monster is in the 90th percentile for weight;

believe it

at 24 1/4 inches he is in the 80th percentile for height;

pose like you're strong, they said

and at I can't remember how many inches, his head size is in the 40th percentile;

fat guy with a little head

he hates, hates, from the bottom of his very soul, HATES the car. Suggestions here? I've tried music, mobiles and brightly colored blankets. He won't take a binky so we're out of luck there;

fml.

and finally, we have reason to believe that his happy-go-luckiness is inextricably linked to my presence. The other day I put him down for his nap - which he very nearly NEVER wakes up from for at least 2 1/2 hours - and ran out to grab lunch for the family while Sean watched the kids. Not five minutes after I left Weston woke up and screamed until I got home. As if his spirit sensed my spirit leaving the building. I mean, it's flattering and all, but it makes dates, or even solo errands, real hard. And I'm a sucker for solo errands. It's like when you've been on a treadmill for a long time (you know, like 12 minutes) and you step off and your walking feels as if you're gliding very quickly (outofthegym). Or when your backpack was incredibly overloaded in high school - as mine always was - and you take it off and you feel like you're flying. Such are errands sans children.

These last weeks have been a pleasure. I do love waking up to uncoordinated, over-compensating smiles. It's fun too, to watch Wes scare himself with his own gas since he hasn't pieced together that he's the one making the startlingly loud blurts. And the cooing. I'm 115% positive if we could but bottle infant cooing we'd have captured world peace concentrate. It's too precious to ignore.

One more for extra-indulgent measure:

Sean: "he looks like he's three."

**Sidebar: this post took me 2 days and 3 sessions to complete. Frequent mom bloggers - ??? I don't understand you. Or maybe I just have the neediest of children. How do you do it?**