Joseph Taylor Beeson was born at 1:36 pm. He was 8 lbs., 2 oz., and 21.7 inches long. Labor was quick and entirely painless (too much epidural). Easiest one yet.
We named him Joseph after my great grandfather, Joseph Newberry Allred, and Taylor is a surname in both of our Mothers' families. (No, Jake and I aren't cousins. As far as we know.)
Sorry I've been absent, but my free time has been spent napping, changing diapers, staying up at night nursing and watching sappy Christian pioneer romance movies (Love Comes Softly, based on books Shanda Harry lent me in the 5th grade) starring Katherine Heigl, and sniffing my baby's tiny, soft head. Oh. And eating cookies. Why can't I stop eating cookies? You know what would make me quit with the cookies? Cinnamon rolls. Or maybe more See's milk chocolate assortment (Oh, wait. Jen just brought me another pound. I hid it in my bed).
But even with all the treats, I was feeling real svelte and cocky and got on my bathroom scale. Guess how much I'd lost? 3 pounds. You can scroll back up if you want, but yes, I gave birth to an 8 pound baby and lost 3 pounds. I have resolved not to get back on a scale until my ankles are back to normal. They pumped me so full of fluid my face looks weird (see above). Has anyone else ever had a baby and forgotten to lose any weight? Is depressing enough to make a girl eat 2 pounds of chocolate. Take that, bathroom scale.
Anyhow, I wanted to post earlier, but the baby wouldn't let me. I think he hates my blog. He doesn't like to be put down, and I am happy to oblige him. I mostly just sit around holding my tightly swaddled little burrito of a baby. I call this 'recovery'. But really, it is therapy. What is it about cuddling newborns that just cures all ills? Just tucking his little bald head into my neck, the skinny little chicken wing arms and curly legs tucked up tight against his belly...or staring into his almost certainly going to be blue-like-his-dad and not brown-like-mine eyes, where it is obvious to the keen observer (me, Jake, Grandmas) that the tiny, soft, therapeutic head is chock full with brilliant brains.
I could keep going, but I hear Joey. I think he wants to know if Miss Heigl's husband is going to croak from that gangrenous leg he hacked up in an unfortunate ax incident. More later...