Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.
22 pounds 6 ounces (20 something percentile for his actual age)
47.5 cm head circumference
Not too shabby for a baby who once weighed less than 3 pounds and was 15 inches long.
For comparison’s sake, Lorelei’s 18-month stats were: 22 pounds 5.5 ounces (25%), 32.5 inches (75%), and 48.25cm head circumference (90%)
He’s finally got enough words to be developmentally on track. He’s very hit or miss with them, but he says:
Mama, dada, milk, bellybutton, all done, more, hi, and meow. Plus some others I can’t think of right now. He can find his nose and his bellybutton. He still loves peek-a-boo, and can pattycake with the best of them.
I love our pediatrician. I’ve probably said that before. But I just enjoy chatting with her. She asked me about my blogging today, and I mentioned I had been writing about the election this week. She laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know how you voted but…” and I interrupted her with, “I think you can probably guess!” She laughed again and said that she could and that I could probably guess how she voted as well. Then we had a conversation about our shared feelings about the election results.
Rowan’s lungs sounded fine and his ears looked fine. He has a runny nose, because of course he does, but the ped said hopefully the Pulmicort would stop it from progressing into something worse.
Tomorrow is my last appointment with my therapist before she goes on maternity leave. It’s only three months, but I’m still very bummed about it. I’ve spent more than three years seeing her every week (well, every other week for the first eight months). I guess it’s time to rip that security blanket out of my hands and make me deal with shit on my own. At least for the next three months. She’s going to be in Raleigh full time in the future, but I’ll drive an hour round trip to see her, I don’t care. I wrote her a long heartfelt email today just expressing how much she has helped me in the last three years. Of course, now I’m embarrassed by it. But this is a dance we both know very well. I word-vomit all over her email, then want to take it back, and then she says things like “brave” and “vulnerable” and I roll my eyes a little bit and stare at my hands.
Zach noticed yesterday that the cap on my Lifefactory water bottle was messed up. Because it’s my therapy bottle. The one I sit there and slowly destroy while avoiding uncomfortable eye contact. Someone tell me I’m not the only one who has destroyed a water bottle in this way?