Because Lionel Richie is Da Bomb

*******Warning.  This is the premier post for one of Elizabethtown's newest blog contributors:  Gracie Phillips.  She found out Henry has posted before and also that her one true love Grayson was a blogger and she wanted in.  The following comments do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions held in Elizabethtown, but are the sole property of the aforementioned Gracie Phillips.*****************

Hello!  Is it me you're looking for?

I would like to take a pause to tell you that I am three months old now, people, and so I have some wisdom to share.  The first is that I have discovered a way to get what I want in terms of wardrobe--and it is easy like Sunday morning, yo.  I am writing this down so my teenage self will remember--when Mom dresses you in something you don't want to wear, poop in it.  And I mean really grunt and groan if you have to.  Get that poo all the way up your back.  Don't be afraid of the poop.  Who cares if it collecting in the bottom of your tights or gets in your hair?!  Whining is for amateurs.  If you really want to drive the point home, poo as soon as your diaper has been changed.  If you poo enough, if it is really stuck on you, you will get a bath.  And bathtime is what I like to call Awesome time!  Am I right?

My mom wanted to take my three month picture in this "G is for Girl" shirt and giraffe jeans my Aunt Pam gave me.  Don't get me wrong.  I look super chill in this outfit.  The jeans have a giant pink bow at the waist.  It is just that, well, I really wanted something a bit more girly for the photo shoot, seeing as I am three times a lady.    So I pooped on my shirt.  Not my pants, mind you, but my shirt.  Because I like to see Mom be confused.  So then Mom changed me into this little bunny outfit with purple leggings.  Also cute, but not the look I was going for.  So I pooped on them before we even got on the matching cardigan.  And then I looked at Mom and said, "Ha Ha Ha!"  Mom said because I am young I can get away with such blatant acts of disrespect, but sooner or later she would drop the hammer and that laughing at her would not be tolerated.  Whatevs, peeps. 

All that being said, I would, however, not suggest pooping this often for a week.  I got so good at pooping that I kind of have forgotten how not to.  I kind of like to poop during every bottle.  And everytime I sneeze.  Mommy calls it "poop soup". She had stuck me on some type of probiotic junk.  This apparently did not stop my pooping so she called the doctor and now it is Pedialyte for me.  Now she is going to starve me.  Maybe this is what her dropping the hammer looks like?  She and brother get to have pizza and meet Auntie Robin at Palani Drive and I'm stuck with unflavored Pedialyte. 

Which brings me to my second bone to pick with the 'rents--my weight.  You see, I like to eat.  I like to eat A LOT.  As in every four to five hours, and sometimes every three in the daytime, I like to have 7 or 8 ounces of formula.  I have been getting better about sleeping all night long.  I sleep through the night now about half of the time.  I never sleep through the night when it is Daddy's turn to get up with me.  Mommy thinks it is because I love her the best.  It is because I think Daddy is very handsome and he lets me watch shows like Modern Marvels.  Mommy justs sits with me in the dark and says things like "Night time is for sleeping".  I swear I've even seen her nod off mid bottle.  I really question her parenting skills. 

Also, I would like to take this opportunity to set the record straight.  I'm not fat; I'm thick.  It's a cultural thing.  So please, could you stop calling me "chubby bunny", "chunk-style", "chunkaliscous", "Mommy's little Sumo wrestler", or "Buddha".  My preferred nickname is "Brickhouse".  Because I am mighty mighty and I like to let it all hang out.

Shake it down, shake it down now.