Today is my youngest son’s six month birthday.
That’s right, folks. My babiest baby is half a year old today.
Within the past few days, he has learned to sit in a high chair and started almost-crawling – doing that cute little scoot they do: up on the knees and hands, plop on the face, repeat – well enough to get from one end of our king size bed to the other.This morning we put him in his new jumperoo, and he actually played happily for a whole hour!
My baby is growing up. Soon he’ll be independent enough to move into his sister’s room, take regularly scheduled naps, feed himself… I should be happy, right?
Well, I am a little excited to be able to put him down long enough to do something useful without his cries as a backdrop. But I’m also a little sad. There is something so precious about a newborn baby.
I love the way they snuggle up with their tiny heads in the space between my chin and chest.
I love the way they’re happy just to look at mommy and don’t have any problems that a few minutes of love can’t fix.
(I don’t love their smell and have never understood why anyone would want to sniff a puke-covered kid with a perpetually poopy diaper. But to each his own.)
Anywho, we celebrated the day with some yummy brownies. Yes, I let him eat a whole one. Who could refuse that cute face?
All day long I’ve been torn between the excitement of knowing that one day I’ll actually have time to pee in peace and the nagging feeling of wanting to make another baby – quick, before I blink and this little guy is all grown up. Good thing I’m too exhausted, not to mention way too busy, to actually make one. For now.