C'mon, Mom...

Remember all those wonderful things I’ve written about my mom over the past nine months? There’s this gem. And this one. And don’t forget this one. Well, I take them all back.

OK, not really, but she’s starting to test my patience. Last October, on my first Halloween, she dressed me up in a ridiculous peapod outfit when I was just nine days old. I wasn’t happy about it, but I forgave her pretty quickly because I was barely a week old and didn’t know any better. Besides, it was Halloween, and if you can’t dress up like an idiot on Halloween, when can you dress up like an idiot?

But this is going too far: Last week, Mom got a little nutty and decided to put me back into that outfit, because apparently she’s insane.

A wise man once said, “Fool me once, shame on… shame on you. Fool me – you can’t get fooled again.” Strong words. Strong, bewildering words. But there’s a grain of truth in there somewhere. I can’t let this happen again.

If I’m going to break this vicious cycle of veggie-themed-outfit abuse, I’ve got to put my foot down. I wish there was some way to tell Mom that if she tries to dress me like a tomato for Halloween this year, I’ll get a tattoo of Richard Nixon on my forehead the day I turn 16. Oh, wait. I guess I just did tell her. For the sake of both of us, I hope she heeds my warning.

By the way, I’m a very good eater for the most part. I drink my bottles of formula quickly, without any unnecessary dawdling or shenanigans. I eat a wide variety of baby food without complaint, from squash and carrots to peaches and apples. My ability to pick up one Cheerio at a time and (eventually) get it in my mouth is unmatched.

Yes, I'm wearing a "My First X-mas" bib in July.

But to this day, there’s one food that I simply refuse to eat. Do you know what it is? You guessed it:

Nice going, Mom.

Tale of the tape: 9 months

Today is only Tuesday, but I’ve already had two big days this week.

On Sunday, I officially turned nine months old. Yep, I’m now a mere three months away from completing my first year on this planet. Excuse me for a moment; I need to pass my dad a tissue. He’s sitting across the room, holding my ultrasound photo, sniffling and staring wistfully off into the distance. What a sap.

OK, I’m back. I followed up my momentous Sunday with another important day on Monday, going to the Polyclinic for my nine-month checkup. After the usual pokes and prods, Dr. Lindsay used her extensive knowledge and experience to conclude that I was, once again, perfect (she used “awesome” this time – can’t say I disagree).

The good news was that I didn’t have to get any vaccinations during this visit. The bad news is that I did need to have a quick blood test done, so I got my thumb poked. Turns out, one prick into your thumb is much tougher on you than three syringes going into your thigh. I’m not going to lie – I cried a little. OK, I cried a lot. OK, I cried so much that I tired myself out and slept for the next hour and a half. In my defense, considering how tiny my thumb is, there was a lot of blood that came out.

I’m feeling all better today, so I’ll take this opportunity to share my nine-month stats:

Birth weight: 7 pounds, 7.6 ounces.

6-month weight: 17 pounds, 6 ounces.

9-month weight: 20 pounds, 3 ounces.

Birth length: 20.25 inches.

6-month height: 26.5 inches.

9-month height: 28.5 inches.

Birth head circumference: Not available.

6-month head circumference: 43.5 centimeters.

9-month head circumference: 45.1 centimeters.

You might have noticed that there’s a gap in there – my three-month stats aren’t included. That’s because my brilliant dad left all of my paperwork at the hospital after that checkup, so we’ll never have any idea how big I was in January 2012. Was I 13 pounds? 14 pounds? The world will never know. That said, if you do have a compulsive need to know, just split the difference between birth and six months. That should do the trick.

In case you care how I stack up to other kids, I’m in the 79^th percentile for weight, 81^st percentile for height, and 82^nd percentile for head circumference. I guess that means my head looks slightly oversized. And if you’ve ever seen my mom or dad struggle to pull a shirt or onesie over my head, it probably makes a little more sense now.

Jump on it!

If you’ve ever seen an adorably chubby baby, poked at its pudgy fingers and numerous jelly rolls around the thigh and neck area, kissed its dimply elbows and knees, pinched its festively plump cheeks, and thought to yourself, “Gee, this baby could stand to lose a little weight,” I’ve got two pieces of news for you.

1. You’re an awful human being.

2. There’s a remedy for it. Simply throw the kid into a Johnny Jump-Up, and it’ll be on the fast track to weight loss in no time!

Mom and Dad bought me a Johnny Jump-Up a few months ago, and it has quickly become my favorite way to pass the time. I honestly have no idea how a kid my age could climb into one of these and not go absolutely bonkers jumping around in it. Before you know it, you’re working up a sweat, and you can feel the pounds just melting off of you. [Editor’s note: Please ignore the fact that Eliza has gotten heavier and chunkier over the past few months. Besides, we like her that way.]

Here’s just a little bit of footage of me getting my daily aerobic workout in.

You’ll notice how close I come (several times) to hitting my head on the doorframe. Apparently, Mom and Dad were too busy laughing at me to make sure I didn’t go careening off course, leaving it up to me to corral myself. That’s some top-notch parenting.

Anyway, take a look at that video and tell me you wouldn’t want to play in an adult-sized Johnny Jump-Up.

Update: Turns out, YouTube was initially blocking my video because the music playing in the background (on Mom's iPhone sitting on the floor) is copyright-protected. So we had to replace the audio with random YouTube-approved music (it's Beethoven – I'm classy that way), which is why you can't hear Mom and Dad laughing at me, or any of my babbling. Haunting, isn't it? Feel free to add your own internal sound effects.