December 28, 2010: Pump up the jams

Gavin's doctor's appointment yesterday went well. He's healthy and happy. He was in a really good mood for the most part and was very smiley with his doctor. At one point she went after his "piggies," which are, of course, his toes, but that isn't something we ever call them. However, when she said, "Where are your piggies?" he responded by holding up his bare foot (having taken his socks off moments before since socks are something he seems to have ideological problems with). Perhaps "piggies" is part of the vernacular babies are born with. In any case, he's now about 26 and a half pounds (last time I took him to the doctor he weighed in at 28. I don't think he's dieting or anything, though he does get pickier and pickier every day. He was sick and thus clingy when I took him in last and he didn't stand on the scale for very long and the time he was on there he wasn't especially still) and about 33 inches tall. He's in the upper percentile for height and the 70-90 percentile for weight and head circumference. So he's a big guy, but not freaky-big.

Everything was great at the doctor's until the shots. He got four, which he did not like for some reason. Stacy held his legs, I was up by his head. All up in his face, actually, in a loving way. I wanted to distract him from what was going on with his adorably chubby and impossibly soft baby thighs. This means I got to see the exact moment the pain of being stabbed registered on his face. The grimace followed by screaming and tears. It was hard. For both of us. More so for him, I'm sure. But after the shots Stacy scooped him up and he quieted down right away.

On our way out the receptionist gave him stickers, one of a kitty and one of some puppies, which she stuck on his jacket and he liked very much. But then he turned and tripped and face planted on the industrial unpadded carpet. So he'll probably have a complex surrounding stickers on his clothing for the rest of his life. I can relate since I hate wearing name tags at events. I often don't put it on at all and because I am a grown up and name tag-wearing events are typically grown up affairs, rarely does someone ever call me out about it. When I was little I loved stickers. I remember skunk-scented Berenstain Bears stickers that were affixed to the ladder of the bunk bed I shared with my twin sister. First question: Why did anyone ever make skunk-scented Berenstain Bears scratch and sniff stickers? Second question: Why did anyone ever buy such a thing for a child (as I was much too young to buy them for myself)? Third question: Why did I think it was a good idea to stick skunk-scented stickers on my bunk bed, where I slept? Later in life I didn't like to stick stickers so much as collect them obsessively, although I never amassed a collection like our babysitter who would sometimes let my sister and I each have a sticker. (I hasten to add that some one with a sticker collection is probably too young to be trusted with your children.) In high school I would go on to put a small fingernail-sized sticker on the brown leather collar of my beloved jean jacket and later I would remove that sticker only to also remove the soft brown layer or leather beneath it. This would make me very disappointed, but I would grow up to become an adult who could look back at pictures of myself in that jean jacket and think, "Seriously? No one knew I was gay?"

In the late afternoon we went to a birthday party at what Gavin would probably deem the most funnest place in the world, Pump It Up: The Inflatable Party Zone. We had to sign a form saying we were cool if our son suffered "contusions, fractures, scrapes, cuts, bumps, paralysis, or death" there. I am, of course, totally not cool with that and to even sign such a thing seems unconscionable, but we did (or Stacy did, at least) and Gavin had so much fun there I'm sure he thought he'd already died and gone to heaven, as if heaven would be a building located in an industrial park filled with inflatable bounce houses and slides decorated in a hideously garish color scheme (and seeing as Gavin has no concept of death or heaven, this is a stretch). For a kid who got four shots yesterday, Gavin was tearing all over the place. He loved all of it. Bouncing in the bounce house, going through the obstacle course, climbing on the benches (these weren't part of the Pump It Up experience as they are metal and not filled with air. He just has a thing for benches). He was delirious with joy. In fact, he loved it so much that I even suggested to Stacy that we might want to think about having his 2nd birthday party there. Who knows? Crazier shit has happened. And anyway his birthday is toward the end of July and although it's summer it's really hot outside. For his first birthday it was super hot and rainy. Our house is just too small for big parties. Anyway, it's something I'm considering even though part of me fears that Pump It Up is just a giant inflatable staph infection waiting to happen. With that many people bouncing on and jumping in and touching everything I have to doubt how they can possibly keep the place disinfected. I hope Gavin doesn't wake up with pink eye.