Post-Natal

My uterine parasite is alive and well. The c-section was less delightful than last time (I couldn’t fucking breathe, yo) but it was still successful. The Daughter’s brother weighed in at a whopping nine pounds, five ounces and a lengthy twenty one and a half inches. For non-parents out there, that’s a massive gut nugget. Giant baby. His feet are so big when they foot-printed him they had to angle his feet on the certificate to get them to fit.

(Future big wiener joke should be inserted here.)

(Joke about using the words “wiener” and “inserted” in the same sentence goes here.)

So far, this kid is nothing like his sister…although he does look EXACTLY like her. But from a personality perspective, the two don’t seem related. He is mellow. Sleeps well…like, already on a sleeping schedule well (only waking twice a night! YAY!). He doesn’t really cry, except for when you change his diaper…the kid really hates a cold scrote. Can you blame him?

As a newborn, his sister was completely different. Her pediatrician called her a “high maintenance baby”. A compare/contrast might be necessary, but it’s late…and I have a newborn…and I have to go pump my teets (not a euphemism).

Instead, I’ll leave you with this random-but-awesome conversation:

That Guy I Married: “Are you trying to push a fart out? Stop; you’ll shit your pants.”

The Daughter: “It’s a vagina fart. A bubble pop.”

I shall call her Georgia O’Queef.