Today you are 8-months-old, and 20 pounds. I know that you are 20 pounds today because I just took you to the doctor. Again. For the, I don't know, 140th time in eight weeks. You have been very sick, my little man. It started in your bowels with the flu, and then moved into your ears and nose and throat and lungs and beautiful blue eyeballs. You've been filled full of naturopathic and homeopathic remedies and, on their failure, antibiotics. You've been nebulized and humidified. You've cried loudly in protest, and then silently when your sore throat stole your voice. You've suffered through countless nose wipes and eye wipes and diaper rashed butt wipes. You've been so sick, I actually quit my job to stay home with you, since I was taking so much time off to do so anyway. It's not been pretty around here. And yet, through it all, you've remained a happy, easy-going baby, quick to smile and flirt with anyone who pauses to gaze at your precious snot-glazed face.
You've mostly mastered sitting up, but prefer the army crawl over the baby crawl. It doesn't slow you down any. Your daycare teachers all commented on how extremely mobile you are for a kid who isn't actually mobile. I can't leave you unattended for more than a moment anymore, lest you drag yourself across the floor towards that extension cord you so love to gnaw on. Luckily for the cord, you've yet to sprout any teeth. Luckily for me, your grunts get increasingly more excited the closer you get to something potentially lethal. You give yourself away every time.
Your introduction to solids was substantially delayed thanks to the bug that's been raging its way through your system, but you're happily gobbling up rice cereal, bananas, and apples. Next up is carrots. I know, right? CARROTS! It is an exciting life you lead, my child. The thrill of spoons and chewing has made you ever-so-slightly bored with the boob. I suspect you may wean yourself a little earlier than the one-year goal I've set for you. But whatevs. You're not much fun to nurse anyway. You buck and bounce and kick and grunt, prompting your dad to compare the spectacle to a rodeo. A rodeo on my boob.
Your favorite song is Itsy, Bitsy Spider, your favorite activity is splashing in the tub, your favorite "trick" is shaking your head as if to condescendingly say "no, no, no, you're doing it all wrong," and your favorite person is most definitely your big brother.
Also? You are adorable.
Happy 8-months, baby boy.
Bonjour: Paris Surrounds
1 day ago