I call the little one Bitey.
October 13, 2011
Hey there, Baby Ike! What are you looking so self-satisfied about this morning?
BACK THE HELL UP.
At Ike's four-month visit last week (13 pounds, 13 ounces; 25th percentile for weight, 90th for height, just like I always grow 'em), the doctor took a peek into his mouth and I mentioned we were starting to see some drool and chomping. She said yeah, the teeth are juuuust starting to move up into the gums at this age but wouldn't cut through for awhile, and I bit my tongue for the 75th time to refrain from reminding her that YES I HAVE THREE CHILDREN. This ain't mah first rodeo, lady. I know that four-month-olds don't get teeth.
At the bus stop yesterday, one of my neighbors looked at Ike and gasped, "A tooth! I see a tooth!" And I was like, uh, no. Not yet. She insisted she saw something white in his mouth and I told her it was probably a speck of cheesed-up milk. Because four-month-olds don't get teeth.
Noah and Ezra both cut their first teeth on the early-ish side -- around five months, probably closer to six. I figured Ike would teethe around the same time, because YES I HAVE THREE CHILDREN, but yet still haven't learned that they are not simply three interchangeable versions of the same basic child.
Basically, point is, Ike woke up this morning with two (2!) (MOTHERFUCKING TWO!) nubby little teeth. 19 weeks old. And TEETH, plural.
The kid hasn't even had as much as one measly tablespoon of rice cereal yet. Perhaps we'll just skip it and go straight to filet mignon.