For those of you keeping score at home

Last week I went to the doctor and had the opportunity to contribute to the global eradication of polio, diptheria and other nasty, disgusting diseases. That stank.

I was more than happy to do my part to better the world, but why does doing my part always have to hurt so much.


The more significant news from my doctor's visit was my updated metrics: 15 pounds, 3 ounces and 26 inches. That's a solid pace of 1.25 ounces/day and 1.67 inches/month. Not only does this mean I'm in the 97th percentile sizewise, it also means I should be 6 foot 8 inches by my fourth birthday.

Notice the giraffe in my left hand. I've been using my left hand a lot lately, or as my father calls it, my "pitching hand." Usually the giraffe hangs around in my jungle gym, but I enjoy playing with it so much the parents took him out of his natural habitat to spend more time with me. I'll hold on to it as I flail my arms about. I'll also put it up to my mouth where everyone expects me to start chewing on it. That's disgusting. It's a giraffe. There's no milk in there. Why would I put it in my mouth?