Tuesday, July 8, 2014


Mitch is all boy. He will wade through the sea of toys, upon toys, upon toys until he stumbles across a car. Even a tiny Matchbox car. He will then fumble awkwardly with his horrid, fine motor skills until he finally gets a "good" grip on the vehicle to move it back and forth and back and forth, take a taste, make some cute baby noises, then back and forth again while blowing raspberries - or, I mean, make very realistic car sounds. If he sees a brother down on the ground, he sprints toward them with his exceptional gross motor skills and tackles them. Poor George, being the smallest brother, doesn't even stand a chance, at least physically, against his monster baby brother. George weighed 26lbs at two years, Mitch weighs 23lbs 8ozs at nine months!! He growls. He screams. I mean, really, really loudly screams. I am tempted to add girlish to the scream description because of the extremely high pitch, but he has somehow made it manly based purely off the shear force behind that voice. Apparently, he got the Smith/Giblin side in volume as well as looks. He has a perpetual bump on his forehead. When on the move, nothing will stop him from his destination, neither wall, nor door, nor stair, nor brother, no chair, nor table, nor wall corner, nor door-jam. The constant bouncing, you know, strengthening his thigh muscles, while standing does not help the head bruise situation either. My future, all-star athlete is in constant training.

When pregnant with this one, I joked I was breeding an Olympian. Something in his movements, the way we saw him kicking on ultrasound, all added together to give me the impression that he is athletic. His behavior and physique on the outside has only confirmed this suspicion. They say the Secretariat ate more than any other race horse ever had, walked early, appeared a champion from day one. This is Mitch. Now that I have finally stopped breastfeeding (nine months, my longest stretch!) I can see how much he is drinking. On top of 3 baby food meals a day, he drinks four 8oz bottles. That is 32ozs!!!!!  He is sad at the end of each one, as if he could eat more. None. Not a single one of my boys, ever, got above 24ozs of milk a day. Until now, of course. Like Secretariat, I think I am going to syndicate The Mitch and start selling shares for a couple hundred thousand a pop, prior to proof of performance. I'm {sort of} kidding.
Despite his many manly mannerisms (say that 6 times fast), my biggest baby is just that, a baby. He loves to be rocked to sleep. If you stopped rocking or patting him, he will try to do his himself; kicking his legs. If you sway and hum, he hums along. He has no "lovey" yet...but I'm thinking he is going to be a Blanky guy...again, following the Smith side trend. He attempts to repeat "what's that?" and says "dada" with purpose. "Mama" for him is following me around crying, squealing and screaming, like a whiny little puppy. Until he gets distracted by a toy car. Especially this green transformer one that says roars, "I drive angry!" When he's not load, he's silent. He speaks with his eyes. His huge, brown, beautiful, engaging eyes. He has no toofs. He loves food, eats anything, has never gagged, yet has no teeth. Truthfully? I love it. Toothless babies are totes adorbs. Never mind that he already weighs more than any of my children did by 1 year, it makes him look so much more infant-like. I don't want him to grow up, turn into a toddler, become like those older three, awful things. (Ok, I like them too, but I LOVE me a baby.) I know it's inevitable, but, at least now, I can come back and remember my little Mitchers.

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