My son is fat. He's in the 53% for weight and the 17% for length. I thought about calling him a more politically correct term like husky or rotund or even plump but the bottom line is, he's fat. That's almost the exact opposite of my firstborn who, as a baby, was always average length and pretty low on the weight chart. Garrett, by all accounts, was skinny. Matthew, well, he has folds in places I didn't know could grow excess chub--places like the back of his neck. I'm finding things in the creases on this kid that you wouldn't believe. Things like soured formula, grime, and a decent sized piece of thread. Heck, the other day I couldn't find my car keys but, there they were, tucked away between a couple of rolls in Matthew's thigh.
I've always loved chubby babies. They are so squishy and delicious. That, on top of the fact that Matthew keeps getting darker and my favorite kind of chocolate is that which has a high cacao content, makes it difficult for me not to eat him. Seriously. You have no idea how much will power I have to exert on a daily basis.
I don't have much to report on the contested adoption front. Our possible new lawyer in California is in court today but we're waiting to hear back from him to get the ball rolling. Stand by. I assure you I will update whenever I know anything. For now we've been able to enjoy some almost normal days around here. Moments go by where I almost forget altogether that we could still lose him.
I love my boys. Garrett, who insists on referring to himself as Echo and introduces himself as such (that's a story for another day), is melting my heart every day by being the sweetest brother ever. He hasn't even been close to the nightmare I envisioned he'd be when a baby moved in. When I remind him that Matthew might be leaving--try explaining that to a toddler and not completely shattering his sense of security--he looks at me with big eyes and emphatically tells me that, "Baby Matt-ooh lives here. In his bed."
And Troy, well, he takes one of Matthew's two night time feedings (the upside to formula bills) and he continues, the second time around, to be such a hands on dad. I know there are men out there who won't change diapers and won't give baths and generally don't view parenting as a 50/50 job. Not my husband. He changes diapers. Even poopy ones. I've been wearing the engagement ring he gave me for six years as of yesterday and I'd say yes again in an instant. Even with the knowledge that I'd be moved to a state that refers to its residents as Utahns which, I'm pretty sure, doesn't even follow the rules of word morphology.