Owen In May

I was going to unoriginally call this post flotsam and jetsam, but then I was distracted by wondering about the etymology of flotsam and jetsam, and then by the fact that unbeknownst to me, flotsam are goods floating on the sea, and jetsam are things thrown into the sea.  And then I had to think about that for awhile, since that is what my sleep-deprived brain does these days:  it hooks onto a little factoid and then floats away with it, not unlike flotsam, but not quite like jetsam.  Who knew.

So anyway, this shall be odds and ends, or as Virginia Woolf would say, orts and fragments.

Owen had his 9-month appointment this week and he basically cried from the minute we walked into the exam room until we left.  He is officially On To Us now, and knows that a doctor’s office equals a long needle stuck into a fat thigh, namely his own fat thigh, the worst kind to be stuck with long needles.  He also now cried all throughout what I, personally, would find the worst part of the visit—which is lying nude on a scale in the hallway and having his weight proclaimed loudly to all the world who might be listening.  24 ½ pounds.  Which I don’t think is much more than he weighed last visit, but still puts him in the 95^th percentile for weight.  He is now only in the 81^st for height!  And his head gets a solid D- at 64%.

Here is Owen in happier times with cool shades on 

and then with—hello ladies!—cool shades off:

His “communication” skills and his gross motor skills are a little borderline worrisome.  I’m not bothered by his gross motor laggings, as I think he really could be doing what he “should” be doing if he indeed was less inclined temperamentally to be okay with lying on his back and having one of his three adults bring desired objects straight to his outstretched hands.  But the communication issues—namely that although he talks non-stop, he doesn’t really say consonants yet—trouble me a tiny bit, so I think I am going to go ahead and call the Early Intervention folk for a visit.  Since the doctor’s visit, however, I was told by Martha that Henry’s first word wasn’t until age 14 months (“da” for dog), and told by my mother that Martha herself said “da” for everything for a very long time—so it seems Owen’s “issues” (such that they are) run in the family.

And now this entry is getting longer than I had intended, so perhaps I’ll make it all Owen and not odds and ends after all.  Bear with me.

Owen came into work on Friday with his father to pick me up.  It was his first time here, not including all the days he spent here in the womb, and many folks were eager to see him (or pretended to be in front of his proud parents).  My boss was out for the day, so we took the opportunity of taking a picture of Owen at her desk (and then promptly texting the picture to her).  Here is Owen, the big cheese:

Apparently at 11:30, Owen likes to watch a show on PBS called Daniel Tiger.  I have yet to see it myself, but said Daniel gets very close to the camera and talks directly to the kids watching, and this cracks Owen up.  Here he is laughing at Daniel Tiger:

 And finally, Owen is still not crawling forward yet, although he does get up on his hands and knees and pretends.

And here he is having propelled himself backwards under the couch in the sunporch, whereupon he was distracted by the wonder that is our ceiling fan.

 

Amazing!