Is that a gang sign in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Some days, Amos is the perfect child. Some days, not so much.

His latest mischief is to refuse his food. Amos is enjoying the benefits of partially digested proteins in his formula, which makes him poop more often and seemingly without the discomfort of days gone by. Does he appreciate the fact that we've made his intestinal adventures easier for him? Of course not. He thanks us by refusing his bottle whenever he is awake. He looks at me, looks at the bottle, then grunts the most annoying baby grunt there ever was. There are things to do and see and hear, woman! I don't have time for sucking on this thing called "nutrition." Don't you get that?!

I have the feeling that we are raising Stewie from "Family Guy." Soon, Amos will recruit Wilbur the Cat for his merry misdeeds.

We Porters are not to be outdone or outsmarted by someone who weighs less than the squirrel-infested pumpkin on our porch. The first tactic we employed involved sneaking a bottle into his unsuspecting pie hole as he would fall asleep. Success! However, a four-month-old doesn't always nap enough or willingly to allow for adequate sneaking of the milk.

At least a few of his bottle fights must occur while he is awake, which leads us to tactic number two.

He flails his hands around as he grunts the grunt that would drive even the most perfect mother insane. As I coax (shove) the bottle into his mouth, I grab his hands and wiggle them around to distract him from his insanity. This seems to calm the savage beast. Sometimes I sing to him, but I can't do that right away because he will start smiling and cooing and stop sucking his milk altogether. Apparently, my voice erases appetites.

The latest strategy we have incorporated into Mission Fatten Up the Baby is to use baby sign language. Phil and I first used it as a competition to see which sign Amos would make first: mama or dada. It seems mama has won, except the sign for 'mama' looks suspiciously similar to an uncoordinated child sticking his thumb into his mouth but hitting his chin instead. So, I am loathe to admit that perhaps Amos is not signaling for me constantly. However, the sign for 'milk' is starting to work wonders.

The sign for 'milk' looks very much like squeezing a cow's udder. You hold your fist with thumb-side up, and then open and squeeze your fist together. Try it. Don't you feel like you are manipulating cow teets? For the full effect, try both fists and pump them up and down. That's not how the official sign language people want you to do it, but to hell with formality, I say. Why not call it what it is? "I am pinching your nipples, Mama, and I am squeezing every last drop of milk out of you."

Amos seems to enjoy our attempts to sign. He giggles and giggles whenever we do the 'monkey' sign, which is to put your hands into your armpits and scratch them. Yes. A monkey is a fool who scratches his armpits and probably smells his fingers afterwards.

So, yes. I perform the 'milk' sign maneuver, and Amos smiles and reaches for my hand. Then I show him the bottle and lightly shake the contents. And what do you know? He opens his baby bird mouth and welcomes the intrusion. VICTORY! I still must combine this with the limb shaking and sometimes waiting until he is falling asleep, but it is working. Soon, my child will be in the 145% percentile for baby weight, and I will be so proud of his fat, uncooperative body.

In the meantime, I am wary of using the sign language outside of our home. You may recall an incident many, many years ago when two deaf people were killed in a drive-by shooting because the culprits thought that they were using gang signs. I think this speaks volumes about the education of inner city kids. I mean, if you are going to base your life and creed upon gang signs, shouldn't you at least know what other gang signs there are outside of your jurisdiction? The last thing I want is to die because I was furiously milking the cow for Amos in the backseat of our family vehicle.

If it does happen, though, I hope all of you will blog the Dickens out of it. The least I can do is allow the Internet to use my death as a funny commentary. I also request that "she died while milking the cow" be applied to my eulogy, epitaph, and obituary.