He turned eight months last week, my sweet baby boy.
He’s as cool and as calm as they come, just as he was the day he slid into this world, his eyes wide open, blinking assuredly as if he’d been here before. I’m pretty sure he had.
He was my easiest labor and delivery and he’s without a doubt my easiest baby. He wakes up every morning smiling with his entire body. For the most part, he sleeps soundly and for long stretches at a time.
He loves food: turkey sausage, watermelon, strawberries, cheese, broccoli, rice, pasta, beans — he wants it all — and we’ve broken all the rules with this guy. I’m sure it’s a sign of relaxed, third-time-around parenting. He’s had citrus. He’s had dairy. Yesterday — a scorcher of a day at 90 degrees — we let him taste ice cream for the first time. Why not? The second that deliciousness met his tongue, his eyes lit up, euphorically. I would have never allowed ice cream at eight months with my firstborn or even with the toddler. Poor guys.
He is playful and silly with a hearty laugh that comes from a place deep within his belly. He entertains himself for minutes on end, meandering his way through the house, finding play and inspiration in everyday items. He can maneuver a lid from a saucepan for half an hour, banging it loudly against the kitchen floor.
He has four teeth now, while more are quickly pushing through, just as his six-year-old brother’s are slowly falling out. They are a study in contrasts.
He is playful and easily entertained, my little bundle of wonder and whimsy. He loves to clap along when I sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to him, his jack-o-lantern grin illuminating the room, nose scrunched up in wild laughter. He dances too, squatting up and down, bobbing his head to the beat. I know I’m biased, but it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.
He is magic to me.