You all, this baby is fat. He is deliciously, unctiously, creamily fat. G clocks in at 3.5 months old now and I don't know what he weighs but he has a poofiness to him that the girls never, ever had. To paraphrase that comedian, little G is fluffy.
His skin ripples in currents under the lightest touch. His softness pillows in piles so when he is sitting he looks to have created his own underwire bra. He's toro to my fingertips. He's milk-fed and juicy for it. His thigh, which at birth I could circumnavigate with my thumb and middle finger, can now only be trespassed with two hands.
He is scrumptious. He is squeezeable. He is like warm bread dough my fingers ache to knead. He is...
Summer weather was late in coming to Maryland but it has showed itself with enthusiasm and my baby boy has been introduced to humidity and sweating. And now he has these goo ponds that fester deep in the folds of his fluffy fat skin, down between the softness where oxygen never ventures, and they're gross.
The girls, those skinny babies, they never had this. We never had to pry their layers apart, wipe them out, blow them dry, hold them open. His armpits and his neck folds and his thigh tucks and the secret hiding place of fat poof that likes to suck his penis in like a turtle's head -- if you're not attentive to his daily aerating, they get a little gluey.
What can we do about this? I wondered, and I wondered again as I marveled that such delicious pale floof could harbor such nasty secrets. Thinking it through, I knew I needed something drying. Something absorbent.
And then the heavens sang and lightning lashed and I, I finally figured out why baby powder exists.
We had an old canister of it from a baby toiletry basket I received as a gift at a baby shower my coworkers threw me in my first pregnancy. The sticker that blocked the dispensing holes was yellowed and the hermetically-sealing plastic rim crackled with age as I ripped it away. It's basically corn starch, right? I thought, and sprinkled experimentally.
Four-and-a-half years of parenting later, now I know what that stuff is for. And thus my fatso baby is cleared to keep on chunking up, although that smile he flashes while he greedily swallows, dribbling wildly and squealing with laughter, it tells me he never cared for my permission in the first place.
I do so love sinking my fingers into the folds of his flesh, and now I don't have to worry about what will be on them when I pull them back out into daylight.