Shots

Typically, I have no problem with shots.  Give me a shot over a pill any day.  A second of discomfort is well worth not having to remember to take a prescription over the course of several days.  However, I seem to have a hard time when it comes to shots and babies.  Particularly my babies.

As the oldest child, I considered each of my siblings my baby at one time or another and I tried to protect them from harm.  One of my parents' favorite stories is about when my brother Justin was just two months old.  It was time for his shots and my mom took me with her to have them administered.

Being the older and wiser sister, I knew Justin was in immediate danger.  Since my mom was allowing him to be at the mercy of the nurse, I took it upon myself to rescue him.  I tried to pull him off the examination table as the nurse went after him with the needle.

I was 19 months old.

Justin and me, 1986

Being a good "big" sister, 1986. 

So I should have known shots would be tough when I took Porter in for his two-month and four-month immunizations.  Originally I decided I wasn't going to be one of those moms who has a hard time when their babies receive their shots.

I did great for the vaccine that he got to drink.  He guzzled it down both times.

Then my poor unsuspecting baby received his shots.  One in each leg.

His whole face crumpled and turned red as he built up for a piercing scream.  I felt SO GUILTY.  My poor baby had no idea what was going on, other than that he'd just been pricked and him mom stood by and watched.  Both times it was pitiful and I felt like I was a traitor.  Sure, I knew it is for the best but to watch my poor baby be in pain that I allowed....that was hard to take.

So from now on, perhaps I'll be careful about the vows I make where my feelings and my baby are concerned.  The maternal protection instinct is stronger than I realized.

Multi-tasking

Here is what happens when you decide to switch the laundry over while toasting hamburger buns under the broiler:

Here is what happens when you decide to give it another go and toast new buns...and then decide to empty and refill the ice cube trays in the freezer:

And here is what happens when the fire alarm goes off directly over where your baby is napping:

Porky Porter

Last week I went back to work part-time until the end of busy season.  Porter stays with my mom while I'm at work (thanks Mom!) and they seem to be enjoying each other's company.

Since Porter usually nurses, we had little idea of how much my mom should feed him in a bottle while I'm at work.  According to one website, "the rule of thumb is to offer him 2.5 ounces of formula per pound of body weight each day."

Porter weighs about 16 pounds.  16 x 2.5 = 40 ounces.  He's still on a 3 hour feeding schedule, or 8 times a day.  This equates to roughly 5 ounces a feeding.

Well, apparently I gave birth to the next Augustus Gloop.  Porter is averaging 8 ounces per feeding.  Today he even drank 10 ounces just 2 1/2 hours after I nursed him.

At first I blamed his Rohbock genes.  Then I realized I myself was eating everything in sight.  I ate breakfast at home before I dropped Porter off at my mom's.  When I got to work I was starving.  I ate two of my three snacks before 9 AM.

By the time lunch rolled around I was starving and I downed my meal in minutes.

Two hours later I was famished again.  I tried to ration my last snack but it only lasted about 30 minutes.

Lucky for me, my parents had dinner ready when I got to their house and they let me eat with them.

So apparently Porter inherited his insatiable appetite from me.  At least I can blame his hunger on a possible growth spurt.  Can we blame mine on his growth spurt, too?



Disclaimer: Nate is worried Porter will be deeply offended by this post in future years.  So Porter, if you are reading this, he had nothing to do with it.

And I love you, my little Augustus!