So I have been alive for about seven and a half weeks now, and you are apparently very interested in what I do. I say this because - according to my Dad - people actually read this blog pretty regularly; and now that I'm almost two months old, my parents think it's cool if I write on here myself. Please pardon any typos (I still have pretty small hands, you know). So here are this week's updates:
- I have started smiling occasionally. This isn't as easy as it sounds. First off, I'm just figuring out how to control the way my lips move. Secondly, it's not like anyone in this house is particularly amusing. It's like, "There goes Dad, acting like a total bozo again." So what?
- The parents also seem pretty adamant about me learning to grab things. Dad in particular keeps shoving stuff into my hands and showing me how to hold my grip. Let's be honest here: what's the point of me holding on to objects when I have absolutely no motor control? I mean, seriously. Every time I try to get my hand in my mouth, it ends up hitting my ear or cheek....so why do my parents want me to have extra ammunition in hand? Is the goal for me to have some new hard object to shove into my eye? These people are crazy.
- I have to be honest here. I still spend most of the day pooping, sleeping, eating or preparing for one of those activities. Especially now that football season's over. There's just not much else to occupy my time. (Can you believe the Bears didn't run the ball more against the Colts? Hello! Against that questionable Colts run defense, I could have called a better game than that...and I'm seven and a half weeks old.)
- Speaking of sleep, I am trying to figure out how to rest for longer stretches. Apparently, you grown-ups can sleep for like 8-10 hours straight?! You gotta be kidding me. At this point, my longest stretch is 6 hours and I woke up STARVING. Sure, I don't have to get up to go to the bathroom, but I really prefer to stay full while I'm sleeping. That's just me, though.
- I guess I'm pretty big. I'm basing this on the fact that I can't wear the same clothes anymore and total strangers keep harping on how big I am. The other day, Dad got on the scale without me and then with me. Apparently, I weigh about 14 pounds. But - as I pointed out repeatedly - what kind of a scientific method is this, anyway? I think that bathroom scale adds like 2 pounds at least, and Mom couldn't even read the numbers very accurately. The folks take care of me fine and all, but they cannot be trusted with math.
(Not Sammy, please. I really prefer people call me Sam...just for the record)