Rule #1: Absolutely do not, under any circumstances, compare me to, or ask if I'm trying to be like... Angelina Jolie. The only similarity there is the large, trans-racial family. I don't like or respect anything about her, so you diss me greatly when you put her name in with mine. I don't even think she's all that good-lookin', so don't try to butter me up with all your, "Oh, Michelle, you even look like her." It. Just. Won't. Fly.
Rule #2: This is not a classroom, so we do not pick my grammar apart here. When we feel almost ready to pick apart my grammar, we remember that I live in Redneck Central, and I write like I talk (and like I hear ever-one else 'round here talk). College was years (and years) ago. So we cut me some slack. My participles are danglin' just as bad as the rest of me, and my sentences almost always end with a
Rule #3: I love comments! I welcome comments! I treasure comments! As long as they do not violate Rules #1 or 2, and are always positive, uplifting, and supportive in nature. In other words, as long as you agree with me, we're fine. The mean, crappy comments, must be referred to: email@example.com
Rule #4: You have to at least attempt to have a sense of humor to hang out here and to participate. I don't like people with sticks protruding from their gluteal clefts.
Thank you. On with the show...
I guess the best place to begin again is with Mr. Sam. He was the reason this blog started, so it makes sense that the first "official" post upon my return would be about him (and it really is "official." I have a very official-looking document propped up next to me, welcoming me back to blogging. I feel so honored and special as I gaze upon the fancy writing and the big words I barely understand. It has a raised seal on it and everything, so... That pretty much says it all, right there. I can show you how to make one for yourself, if you want).
Sam is doing great! He turned two in November and is a shrimpy (but healthy) little dude. He weighs in at a hefty 21 pounds and is 32 inches tall. That puts him in the -3rd (yes, that is a negative) percentile for weight and the 10th percentile for height. Again, I must say SHRIMPY. His doctor laughed when he finally made it onto the chart at all. Of course, she also laughed when Darrell used a politically incorrect and widely frowned-upon (everything about my hub is politically incorrect and widely frowned-upon) term to ask her if Sam might possibly be a, um, Little Person. He's not. You have to remember that he was only 4.9 pounds when he was born, and the Marshallese aren't known for height. But... what he lacks in size, he makes up for in personality.
Right now, he sits next to me, taking tissues out of the box one by one, pretending to blow his nose into each one, then wadding them up and putting them back into the box. He "blows his nose" by spitting and huffing air through his mouth. So next time I need to blow my nose "for real" I will grab a crumpled tissue of dried-up Sammy Spit. I love this kid.
Sam loves, loves, loves anything musical. He sings, he dances, and does it all with gusto. His favorite song right now is "Whip My Hair." But he prefers the Jimmy Fallon as Neil Young, with Bruce Springsteen version to Willow Smith's (sorry, Willow. He likes yours, too). We (Sammy and I- not the entire family), honest-to-goodness, I kid you not, must watch this video at least three times a day. He is riveted. Huge Springsteen fan. He also likes to sing "You Are My Sunshine," the "ABC Song," and "Say Hey (I Love You)," which is a song that gets on my nerves so intensely, that the fact I will listen to it and at least try not to vomit, proves how much I love my son. I blame Sam's love for that annoying song completely on his dad. He does things on purpose to irritate me, and everyone knows it, but that is a post for another day.
He detests his crib. It is an abomination as far as he's concerned. He has never once spent an entire night in the dumb thing. He sleeps either in his portable crib, or in bed with me. Since he didn't seem to give a flip when I would say, "That crib cost almost 300 bucks! By gosh, one of us is going to use it," and I wasn't actually prepared to make good on my threat to sleep in it myself, I decided to give up on the crib for now, just wait til he's ready for a toddler bed, and try again. Honestly, I don't mind having him in my bed. He's a snuggly little guy, and those moments are so precious to me. If I've learned anything from having 7 children, it's that it all goes by much, much too quickly. I hope I've learned to treasure those sweet moments as the gifts they really are. But, someday I'd like to learn how to sleep without someone snoring into my armpit, too.
As any other mother, I'm convinced of Sam's incredible brilliance. But I'm right. He is smart. Sorry. That's obnoxious. But he is. He recognizes/identifies all the letters of the alphabet and can count to around Uhlebben or 12 before he gets bored and wants to do something else. He knows most of his colors. He's so-so on shapes. He knows circles, for sure. And "sunshine" shapes -which, loosely translated, means anything sort of star-shaped. He can recite the entire Constitution and will gladly call you a Poop, if you say his mama is a liar (okay, so one of those might be an exaggeration. It's your problem to figure out which one).
He still has the entire family wrapped around his little finger, which shows he's no dummy (Well, almost the entire family. Bri? Not so much. There have been a few jealousy issues, but again- that is a post for another day). It still melts my heart to see my big, manly boys scoop my sweet baby into their arms and love on him.
I have a whole household of people to update you on, but it can wait. Don't want to overwhelm anyone my first time back. I'm hard to take in large amounts. Oh, and speaking of large amounts, I'm still fat! More on that some other time.
Feels good to be back. Thanks for your comments and emails yesterday. What a mood lifter! I've really missed you guys!