Reed had his one-year doctor's appointment yesterday. He is in the 95th percentile for his weight, and his head circumference and height are OFF THE CHARTS. I have created some kind of mutant-giant-baby, and pretty soon it'll be me takin' orders from him instead of the other way around. Well, let's face it- he doesn't exactly take orders from me, but why would he when he's THE SIZE OF A PRO FOOTBALL PLAYER? He is 32 inches tall and that's almost three feet and I can't even believe it and Reed's all "Believe it, woman because I'm comin' up and you better recognize!" He even makes some kind of crazy yo-boy hand gestures at me and I TOLD YOU THAT YOU CAN'T BE A YO-BOY ALREADY but what can I say to a kid who could bench press me? NOTHING, THAT'S WHAT. I mind my p's and q's around him because the screech and the smack and the bite and the incessant "MA!"s are fierce punishment, let me tell you.
He dances and talks and eats Mexican food and sings and tells complicated stories and I guess we'll take him to get his driver's license next week, because what else is there?