DadaMama

Mondays Are Lame

So says Superbaby. See?

Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.

Dear Superbaby,

Today you are exactly six months old. I've been holding off on writing you a letter, because I wasn't sure who you'd be, or how your new little self would fit into our family. Also, the probationary period isn't over yet, so I just wanted to make some observations before I decided to either a) keep you or b) hire you out to the very next traveling circus that knocks on my door looking for a likely boy. The circus likes to start 'em young, you know.

Good news, though, I think we'll keep you. But you should know that as your mother, I reserve the right to rescind that decision should the need arise. I also reserve the right to kiss you in front of your friends, pinch your adorable Underoo-clad butt, and call you Pooterhead whenever I feel like it. Just ask your brothers.

But I digress.

Superbaby, the last six months with you have been generally blissful. Being #3, you don't get the benefit of uninterrrupted parental time and devotion very often--but you do get the benefit of veteran parents who have seen it all before. I feel so relaxed around you it's almost scary. Crying? Let me feed you. Bored? Here's a toy. Dirty diaper? Changed. Whatever problem you have, I know that it's easily solved and probably not a crisis.  

This sense of relaxation has allowed me to enjoy you more than I was able to enjoy the first heady days of your brothers' lives.  I know now that even though you get up two or three times in the middle of the night, you won't be doing it forever. The lives of small boys are made up of phases, none of which seem to last very long. Before I know it, you'll be more human than monkey and I'll be dropping you off at kindergarten. And then college.

You've learned all sorts of new tricks in the last couple of months: you can roll over, you eat solid food, you can sit up, and you know your name. Aside from your mama, your best friends are your feet and your pacifier. You spend hours and hours talking to them, cooing and blowing raspberries. You are quick to smile and absolutely love it when people notice you in the grocery store or at the library.

You continue to adore your brothers, and happily suffer all the attention they give you. You let them take toys, kiss you endlessly, and stick their fingers in your mouth. Your mama hates that last one, but you just smile, content to accept your life for what it is. This contentment, I think, is the magic of #3.

Your new favorite thing to do is to watch Gus and Will while they ride bikes and scooters up and down the street in front of our house. You flap your arms and squeal while they whizz by again and again, and then crane your head to see them when they move out of your field of view. Actually, I think you'd be very happy if your head could spin ALL the way around, because then you could see them no matter where they went. As far as you're concerned, those two boys hung the moon. They are the coolest guys you know.

You've been rolling around the living room a lot this week. A few days ago I put you down on your quilt and returned to find you six feet across the room, shopping for a toy in the bucket we keep under the bookshelves. That was the day I made Gus put his Legos in his room. You've officially arrived at the mobile baby stage, and I fear crawling is just around the corner.  The Chokable Toy Buffet is open! You've got your eye on the Legos; they look delicious.

People tell me you look like your brothers, and I agree. You remind me of each of them in turn, but there is something about you that's all your own. Maybe it's the curls you're starting to get, or the particular curve of your smile. Maybe it's the way you light up when any member of the family enters the room, or the way you concentrate when you're trying to get your hands on one of your brothers' toys. Whatever it is, it's you--and you were just what we needed.

Love,

Mama

The English Major's Son

Practices for Hamlet in the bathtub.

"That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once..."

Professional Eater of Bananas

It Had to Be You

Three-and-a-half months old and luminous. (Yes, this is all I have today. There's a lot going on around here.)

Superbaby works out. He can hold his head up like that for quite a while, which is a good thing because he's incredibly nosy.

Gratuitous baby butt.

The cheeks on which I nom-nom-nom.

His main hobby is still trying to get his entire fist into his mouth. He's almost succeeded several times.

His new trick this week is drooling. A lot. It's not as cute as the giggling, but we'll take it.

Here he is showcasing his many chins and his emerging baby man-boobs. Breastmilk makes chunky monkeys!

My friend Linsey took this picture. Superbaby seems worried. Or maybe just tired.

The Lone Baby Picture This Week

I had forgotten the overwhelming need of the newborn. More on that later.

Here's Superbaby, asleep in his swing. Getting him in there involves a complex series of slow, secretive maneuvers. Superbaby must not know he's being put down. He's slightly demanding, but we'll keep him for now because he's cute.

Who Needs Sleep?!

Remember in my last post, how I said that Superbaby is 21 inches long? He's not. The lad is a wee 19 inches. My OB said he's the "sport model."

I am very tired.

Superbaby was up ALLLLLL last night. It appears we have a baby on our hands who likes to party all night and sleep all day. Thank goodness I married a saint who took the older children shopping today while I slept.