It's after 2 pm and I'm sitting in my office chair, vacillating between intense hunger pangs and a deep & abiding laziness that prevents me from actually walking down the street in search of some lunch. I'm complicated. Or just that lazy. I'll let you decide. But probably keep the verdict to yourself.
So, in lieu of actually eating anything, I opened up this blog. And, for the first time noticed a little tab in my Blogger window that says "Stats." The existence of such a blogger feature is surely not news to anyone with observational powers keener than those of an elderly, cataract-ridden pet. But, to me? News. So, i clicked on the tab, only to find that Google, blessed Google, tracks all kinds of information about my blog-- who's reading, how they got here, what their ATM PIN numbers are {just kidding. i think. at least i haven't noticed a tab for that one yet}.
So, I would like to give a big shout out to my readers in Canada, India, China, Colombia, Denmark and Hong Kong. I have no idea how you got here. How did you get here?
Also, whoever found my blog by Googling "forth house on the left" and "fourth house of the left" should either (a) take a long, hard look at the all-caps blog title at the top of this page, or (b) lay off the sauce when using the computer. You know who you are. I don't know who you are, but you do. If you are one of the blog readers from China, Colombia, Denmark or Hong Kong, I'll cut you some slack. If you are {as I suspect} my dad, I am not surprised.
Interestingly, 2 separate people found this blog by googling "the holy roller's poop looking" Way to focus in on the key words there.
Also, my dear friend Google tells me that I am the only person thus far who has looked at this blog today, so I don't expect this message to get around like wildfire.
But if it does, Google will know. And I will be watching. Goodnight, Denmark!
Showing posts with label numbers are not our friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label numbers are not our friends. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
letter to connor: by the numbers {8 months}
8: number of months old you are.
4: sharp little teeth in your mouth.
7: ounces of formula in each bottle you drink.
6: number of bottles you hold all by yourself every day.
42: approximate number of ounces of formula you drink every day.
32: recommended daily maximum number of ounces of formula.
26 1/2: what you weigh, in pounds, as a result.
19: average weight, in pounds, of an 8 month old.
3: number of pounds by which you exceed the weight of my co-worker's 3 year old.
9: approximate number of diaper changes you go through per day.
9: approximate number of times you cry on the changing table until you get to hold the lotion bottle.
1: number of times you've gotten poop in your own hair.
7: weeks of swimming lessons completed by our little shrimp kipper.
5: weeks your stuffed & runny nose has dragged on, poor baby.
175: number of people it would require to hold down a 26 pound baby in order to administer eyedrops.
2: number of people actually administering said eyedrops.
90: approximate failure rate percentage, unsurprisingly. you are wily. and strong.
18: size, in months, of ralph lauren jumper your grandfather had to cut off of you with scissors because it was too tight.
6: minimum number of people who stop me on a daily basis to exclaim over your cuteness.
0: number of nights you've slept by yourself.
Nugget, the numbers don't tell even half of the story. {I've always had a robust suspicion of numbers anyhow}. The real story is in the uncounted daily wealth of smiles, cuddles, giggles, bounces, and prayers of thanks. I can't keep track of it all in my mind, on paper, on this blog, or on film. But I know that somewhere, in my heart, there is a vast and ever-expanding storage facility for all of this joy. Because just when I think my heart might burst, you smile your beaming, goofy, toothy grin, and it just expands instead. Happy 8 months, CP.
4: sharp little teeth in your mouth.
7: ounces of formula in each bottle you drink.
6: number of bottles you hold all by yourself every day.
42: approximate number of ounces of formula you drink every day.
32: recommended daily maximum number of ounces of formula.
26 1/2: what you weigh, in pounds, as a result.
19: average weight, in pounds, of an 8 month old.
3: number of pounds by which you exceed the weight of my co-worker's 3 year old.
9: approximate number of diaper changes you go through per day.
9: approximate number of times you cry on the changing table until you get to hold the lotion bottle.
1: number of times you've gotten poop in your own hair.
7: weeks of swimming lessons completed by our little shrimp kipper.
5: weeks your stuffed & runny nose has dragged on, poor baby.
175: number of people it would require to hold down a 26 pound baby in order to administer eyedrops.
2: number of people actually administering said eyedrops.
90: approximate failure rate percentage, unsurprisingly. you are wily. and strong.
18: size, in months, of ralph lauren jumper your grandfather had to cut off of you with scissors because it was too tight.
6: minimum number of people who stop me on a daily basis to exclaim over your cuteness.
0: number of nights you've slept by yourself.
Nugget, the numbers don't tell even half of the story. {I've always had a robust suspicion of numbers anyhow}. The real story is in the uncounted daily wealth of smiles, cuddles, giggles, bounces, and prayers of thanks. I can't keep track of it all in my mind, on paper, on this blog, or on film. But I know that somewhere, in my heart, there is a vast and ever-expanding storage facility for all of this joy. Because just when I think my heart might burst, you smile your beaming, goofy, toothy grin, and it just expands instead. Happy 8 months, CP.
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