Attention all babies!

Attention all babies! Hello! William here. You can call me Will if you'd like. Take a few moments to get your parents out of the room, pull up a Boppy, and pay attention to what I'm about to tell you.

Look at me. This is serious.


A very disturbing trend was recently brought to my attention. It occurred on June 24, 2010. Or, as I like to call it, the day that shall live in infamy. I remember it like it was 4 days ago...

But first, a bit of background info as I dramatically lead up to the point of my post.

On June 23, 2010, I turned two months old. Hard to believe I've been living in this house for so long, but time flies when you're having fun. Everyone's really friendly here. My brothers are loud, but they're cool. My parents are nice to me and hold me a lot. I can tell everybody loves me, and I get compliments about my handsome looks and sweet disposition showered upon me daily. Plus, my mom serves the best drinks ever!

At two months old, I really like being outside. I sit on someone's lap, or in my bouncy seat, and at times, I even enjoy an outdoor snooze. I think Mommy has finally learned to walk around with me out there if I'm in one of my occasional grumpy moods.

And now that I'm old enough to engage in conversation (well, in my head, I use real words, but all that comes out is an adorable "Ah-gooo"), I love when people talk to me. My face breaks out into an enormous grin and I chat back (seriously, that "Ah-gooo" is a real winner with the adults- they eat that up). I've been told my smile can light up a room. Not trying to brag- that's just what I've heard.

Long story short- things have been good.

Until...June 24, 2010.

The day started off fairly typically. Well, Mommy took a shower, and that certainly doesn't always happen. Nan came by, and I overheard talk of an "appointment". I intended to continue eavesdropping, but got distracted by some bright colors on my mobile. They're so colorful and beautiful and rattly, and wait- I'm getting distracted again.
Before I knew it, Mommy was buckling me in my car seat, and loading me into the car. How neat, I thought. A road trip with just the two of us. I'll skip the parts of the story that include Mommy laughing at inappropriate jokes on a morning radio show, and then singing along to Coldplay.

Once we arrived at our destination, it didn't take me long to realize we were at the pediatrician. I found myself being laid on the familiar table as Mommy undressed me. I was weighed, measured, examined, poked, and prodded. Some of it was mildly annoying, but I didn't put up much of a fight since the Dr. is kind. And mainly because he described me as "perfect".

I heard him tell Mommy that I weigh 13 lbs, 11 oz. For you statisticians out there, my weight is in the 75th percentile. Told you I've been enjoying my mommy's drinks. I'm festively and adorably plump!


And my height of 24 inches (for you babies who are no good at math, that's 2 feet tall) is in the 95th percentile.

Apparently my head circumference is in the 75th percentile. It looks like an average size head to me, but hey- I'm no doctor. Even so, I am pretty sure that means I'm a future genius. Big head equals big brain, right?

But I digress.

Now for the moment you've been waiting for.

It has been my experience at these appointments to leave after the Dr. finishes looking me over and declaring me wonderful and perfect. But this time was different.
Who was that lady walking in the door? And what were those vials she started messing around with?

Mommy laid me back on the table. Just as I was about to ask what was going on ("Ah-goo?"), there was pain in my left leg. I wailed. And I wailed loud just to let that lady know I did not appreciate whatever she was doing down there. I wanted to scream at her, "Just you wait, lady. My mommy will put a stop to this immediately!"

But wait...why wasn't Mommy stopping her? All Mommy was doing was trying to console me. What was happening? I screamed louder, and screamed so much, I felt my face turn an interesting shade of burgundy.

And finally, 3 pokes later, it was over. And I was in Mommy's arms again. Mommy whispered her apologies and sounded sincere. And even though her face wasn't maroon like mine had been, she still looked upset.

A two month old with band-aids is a pitiful sight.


Even if they're Snoopy band-aids.


I've forgiven Mommy, but haven't forgotten. After the appointment, I was still a bit perturbed.


"Mommy, you won't ever spring those shots on me again, will you? You'll warn me next time, right? Look at me, Mommy. OK, I believe you. So I'm holding you to it."


I spent the afternoon napping




and occasionally reliving the horror of the pain in my mind.


But after some much needed rest and recovery, I was OK.


I even mustered up a few post-shot smiles for Mommy. She looked like she could use them.


I felt compelled to warn you babies out there that sometimes the Dr. gives you shots. And it seems to begin when you're 2 months old. I was fine by the next day because, after all, I'm a strong, tall, handsome, big brained baby.



Did I mention handsome? It's good to be me.