an Rx for frustration

the pediatrician's visit was a resounding success. no shots. baby's healthy. rah rah, sis boom bah.

she asked what the baby was up to, so we told her: cruising like a maniac. we routinely prop her up against something, then turn around to do some chore or other, and, presto!, when we turn around again 30 seconds later she is in a different part of the room. it's terrifying, this mobility. her new goal is apparently to pull the television down off its stand and crush her skull. i'll let you know how that works out for her.

the pediatrician said "great, so she's pulling herself up and cruising around." we said, "no. she's cruising around. not pulling herself up." the baby understands the concept of pulling herself up, but she doesn't do it -- there's nothing in the apartment that isn't either (a) likely to fall over on her if she pulls herself up on it, or (b) impossible for her tiny hands to get a grip on. this was greatly disconcerting to our doc, who said she had never heard of a baby cruising before she was able to pull herself up. i said, "hey, she's thinking outside the box. a creative genius!" the doctor said "let her get more frustrated, she'll start pulling herself up."

more frustrated? if this child gets any more frustrated over the course of a day, her head will implode and leak from her navel. she sees all kinds of wonderful things that she would love to be able to do, but can't quite figure out how: she can't walk on her own; she can't crawl; she can't get out of bed when she wants to; she is forced to have her teeth brushed; she can't decide for herself when to eat; she can't talk although she is beginning to understand words; she can't sit still although she can't really move too far on her own. and so on.

i am no mathematician, but i have calculated the ratio of my child's frustration level per square inch of her tiny body. let us assume that a healthy ratio is something like .05 ampules of frustration to 1 sq.inch. well, my daughter is somewhere in the neighborhood of 230^5:.03 -- any more frustration would be suicide, man! captain, she's giving it all she's got!

anyway. more stats for you. for a nine month old she is in:

• the 28th percentile for height (she has two tall-ass parents, so i don't know where she went wrong here)
• the 49th percentile for head circumference (nice to see she is no longer a tiny-skulled freak. let's just hope the head-growth plateaus here and she doesn't turn into some balloon headed elephant girl)
• the 57th percentile for weight (with thunder thighs like those?! i'd hate to see 98th percentile)
• the 108th percentile for toxic emissions (poppy's so proud)
• the 257th percentile for cuteness (what? i am totally not making this up)
• the 334th percentile for having the biggest possible douchebag of a dad

you get the picture. she's normal. beautifully normal ... unlike one particular child i had the misfortune of crossing paths with yesterday, who was neither beautiful nor normal. i wrote a wee impromptu rant over at the blogfathers, which seems to have struck a nerve.