His father’s son

Jack is his father’s son.

On reflection, what a stupid, stupid phrase: of course he’s his father’s son! By definition of the word… never mind. Jack is obviously Steve’s son. My case in point: shopping. Instead of our usual ‘pajama Monday’, I decided today to spend the day out. We drove Steve to work (ok, I drove), pooped (Jack, I swear), ate (Jack again) and went to Ikea (Jack and I). Jack was fine at the co-op, fine in the car, and began to complain as soon as I sat down in the cafe with my $1 breakfast. He complained the entire shopping trip, at least until I sat down with him on the as-is white leather couch (boy I bet those as-is staff were nervous until we got up and left their couch unstained!) after which it was close enough to home, only with a better, cleaner unstained couch.

We enjoyed as-is couch snacks (Jack, again) and some flailing time (mostly Jack) and, in the middle of breastfeeding, were asked by a woman if “we would be long” — I gathered my righteous indignation for an anti-breastfeeding conflict — only to be asked if she could leave her shopping cart under my watchful (and immobile) eye while she ran to the bathroom. I was almost disappointed — more on my unsuspected lactivism later. The boobysnacks and couch time mollified Jack for a minute or two, and he was fine in the return car trip… right up until we entered Costco. Suffice it to say, I ended up carrying an unhappy Jack through to the checkouts while simultaneously steering a Costco-sized shopping cart through a wave of oncoming people who were apparently incapable of veering from their immediate trajectory. Hmmm. Note to self: do not attempt Costco alone again.

Speaking of couches, Jack destroyed ours last week. Well not DESTROYED, but definitely de-couch-I-want-to-sit-on-ified. The sad reality is that sometimes ‘diaper’ would be better replaced by ‘bucket’, except that ‘bucket’ would not fit in the car seat. Jack hadn’t pooped in almost 20 hours. I should have known. Honestly, watching the creeping stain up Jack’s back seemed alarming enough, only surpassed by the alarmingness of the wetness on my leg I noticed when I stood to take him upstairs to change him. With everyone changed and a load of laundry on, I was just about to sit back down on the couch when I saw the acid-yellow smear on the side of the couch and the puddle on the floor. Yuck. I washed the crap out of that couch, literally and figuratively, and at least the smell was gone after it dried.

We’re shopping for another couch on craigslist.

Preferably free.

Why pay perfectly good money for another couch that will be *ahem* in the line of fire?

That said, we’re going to keep the old, poopified couch as well. Does that make us unhygenic or just new parents? Both, perhaps? The reality is that with a family of three, our lone two-seater just isn’t cutting it any more, which reflects another reality: a 15lb baby takes up more room than a 200lb adult. SERIOUSLY. Especially on a couch. Therefore, we get a new couch so there is somewhere cushy for someone else to surf the internet on her laptop (we’re not mentioning names here) and keep the old couch so that someone else (Jack and Steve) always has a place to nap. I’m not telling which is which, just in case you visit and refuse to sit on the old one. Hint: one of them will definitely smell faintly of vinegar.

Jack is just over three months old — his 1/4 birthday was November 6, 2009 — and as of two days pre-1/4 day, he weighed in at a solid 15lb 7oz and measured 26″ long. In other words, he’s huge. Enormous. Only not in a huge way — he’s a long, tall drink of water (ok, milk, obviously of the boob variety) — just like his father. Which is why I was at Costco: buying size NINE MONTH sleepers for the little man. And just like his father, he hated every minute of the shopping trip.

At least we got some spare Stoatys at Ikea.

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