Watching Iggles With Dad

Owen doesn't have a football jersey yet, but he did don this kicky outfit a few Sundays ago in which he could sit and watch football with his father.  A gift from his Great Aunt Elsie, it has a little football on the side of the pants, but as Sean points out, since it says "champs" by the football, it can't really be a pair of Eagles trousers, since they never win, sigh.

But here Owen is, all ready and practicing yelling invective at Michael Vick:

Go Iggles!

Bulldogge ByLaws: The Crying Clause

The other day I came across Dorothy trying to thumb through the hefty tome that is the Bulldogge ByLaws, while simultaneously trying to cover her ears to block out the sound of Owen crying.  Dorothy has disliked the crying since Day One, and has tried various tactics to block out the sound, from leaving the room, to going under the covers, to giving us pointed "aren't you going to shut that thing up" looks and whining.  All that infant crying can wear a bulldogge out.

Here Dorothy is and she'd like you to know that Owen's infernal racket has made her look like the pitbull she is not:

She says a bulldogge needs her beauty sleep and this is what happens when she does not get enough of it:

So anyway, that is why I found Dorothy flipping through the ByLaws looking for the Crying Clause, which says something to the extent of:  Any crying in Bulldogge Manor shall be done by the bulldogge, herself, and not by any of the human inhabitants of said manor.  Nor by the cats.

And after the bulldogge doth whine, she shall rest in silence and peace on the couch:

So sayeth the Bulldogge ByLaws, as quoted by Dorothy of Bulldogge Manor.

Cats Where They Want To Be, Doing What They Want To Do

In a previous post, I was so bold as to proclaim that we had a no pets in the baby equipment rule.  I should have kept my big mouth shut.  Since publishing that post, every time I turn around I spy a cat doing what s/he ought not.  I first came across Posy nestled in the very bugaboo that necessitated the rule in the first place.  Then, when she was removed unceremoniously from said bugaboo, Posy marched over to Owen's catapult seat and made herself at home:

And while she was doing this, Plum was over on the coffee table sucking on one of Owen's pacifiers:

The next day I went to change Owen and found guess who basking in a sunbeam on Owen's changing table:

And when I couldn't find the Baby Bjorn and went looking for it?  Yes, you guessed it, I found it under Posy's warm body on the table.

Between the cats on the baby equipment, and Dorothy trying to claim and destroy all of Owen's toys, it is a madhouse here.  Perhaps I should just throw in the towel and add more chaos:  a pair of ferrets perhaps?  A wee pig or miniature goat?  Gerbils?

Hands du Jour: Owen's Second Favorite Foodstuff

Owen loves to eat--I suppose the apple does not fall far from the tree.  He is all about the breastmilk, but I'd say his own hands are a close second.  And this has been the case since week 16 or so.  Whenever we would see him on the ultrasound screen, he would have his fingers or hands in his mouth.  Here he is at I think week 20, and what might look like bubbles rising up from his face are his fingertips as he gnaws on his index finger:

And he still finds his hands an appetizing foodstuff. as the following sequence reveals:

He's trying as hard as he can to get that fat fist into his piehole!  Keep working on it Owen!

Posy Says: What Baby?

The first month Owen was here, Posy ignored him completely.  He simply was not in her orbit, or she didn't see any reason to acknowledge his presence.  After a few weeks, she began to show interest--or a kind of negative interest, at any rate.  If Owen was lying on a blanket on the floor having tummy time or kicking time, Posy would come in the room but would walk in a large arc around him.

A few times recently she has wanted to sniff his head, but I've been wary of letting her, since on occasion she would sniff my pug Tulip's head, and end up taking a big mouthful of Tulip's face-folds.  I don't want her to do the same with Owen's considerably chubby cheeks.  So Posy has had to find other ways to greet her new housemate.  Here she is taking a rest on her scratching pad while Owen rests in his nearby catapult seat:

And she is always willing to join me in the guest room while I pump, and then she gets as bored as I do:

While I am pushing Owen in his carriage indoors in order to try to get him to stop fussing, I often come across this obstacle in the road:

If you think she will get out of her sunspot to let us pass by, you have another think coming!

And the other day I was about to leave Owen's room having changed him, when I caught a glimpse of a furry little something nestled in Owen's dirty clothes hamper:

Happy napping, Posy!

DARRRR-FFY!

One of our new next door neighbors often has her three year-old granddaughter visiting or staying with her, and she has become quite enamored with Miss Dorothy.  Being three, when she calls Dorothy's name loudly, she says Darfy instead of Dorothy.  So if we step out on the porch and Savannah is out in the yard next door, we will hear, "DARRRRR-FY!" and then Darfy and Savannah will greet each other like they didn't just see each other the day before.

I daresay Savannah is one of the things Dorothy puts in the "pro" column when she considers her city life and her suburban life.  Perhaps tied for the top of the "pro" list along with Living With Beloved Dad, is undoubtedly our backyard.  Dorothy LOVES the yard.  So much so that we find ourselves spelling y-a-r-d, because if we say "yard", Dorothy will run and stand by the back door and cry to be let out in it.  Once in the yard, Dorothy will run like a demon, all fast-moving muscle, and try to engage her dad in a game of frisbee.  She zooms and jumps (and eats grass, sigh) and has the best time ever.  She doesn't even seem to mind the clouds of mosquitoes which keep me in the sun porch watching the action from behind a screened window.  (It's October, will the mosquitoes ever die?!)

And then when she comes back in, Dorothy usually has to collapse and pant and gain her equilibrium.  Here she is after such a venture:

Do they think I don't know what y-a-r-d- spells?!

Devious Plan

Hmmm, I have a feeling I'm not going to like what plan Owen comes up with here...chocolate breast milk?  Riding Dorothy like a trusty steed?  Controlling the remote?

Fodder for Past Posts

With the arrival of Owen in the house, my ability to get things done has fallen by the wayside.  If I have a chance to take a shower, I consider it an accomplishment.  In the past month or so I've had pictures that I planned to use for blog posts, but those posts were never written.

For example, my parents were here twice helping out, and each time they brought their Tibetan Terrier, Nellie.  For some reason, the only picture I managed to take of Nellie while she was here is this one:

It's not the most ladylike of positions, and if I were a good sister, I probably wouldn't post it.  Sorry, Nellie!  I'm sure you were doing other things while you were here besides lying with limbs akimbo on my living room floor!

And at one point towards the end of our unpacking after the move, I had piled a few boxes on top of Dorothy's dog kennel.  Plum decided to make a home in one, like a little furry purple hobo:

There is nothing a cat likes more than a new place to sleep!

Two Outfits and a Likeness

There is one thing cuter than Owen in his Wash Pod, and that is Owen in his shark bathrobe.  He likes to wear this robe to and fro the bath.  When I showed the picture to his southern auntie, she asked if Owen was the shark, or being eaten by the shark.  And at this point it is hard to tell.  The robe is still a little big.

And speaking of southern auntie, here is an outfit Owen wore the other day with soccer booties from his southern auntie and southern cousins:

The ACDC/ABCD t-shirt is from his Aunt Martha, and the gray pants from his Granny and Grandfather.  I'm told he looks a little like my baby pictures in this series--it must be the fat cheeks and multiple chins.  Here he is in the same outfit sitting up:

And here he is in a close-up, and Sean thinks that in his black shirt he looks not unlike a chubby Steve Jobs:

The observant among you might note that he is growing a fine pair of reddish eyebrows, and a set of so far stumpy black lashes.  What's next?  A soul patch and mutton chops?!

Grumpy, Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy