This week you are four months old. It is the strangest thing, because that must mean that your sister is almost two. And that just cannot be.
Where to begin. You're still, as far as this woman in her thirties is concerned, the type of baby that all mothers should pray for. Other than christening the new Trader Joes with the most epic blow-out of all time (I spent ten minutes wiping poop from the creases in your neck...) and then just this morning christening our favorite Super Target with the second most epic blowout of all time (you walked around with me without a shirt on, that's how epic it was), I think you might be pretty much perfect.
But it's more than that, isn't it? The thing about number two is that they are so much more than an excel spreadsheet tracking sleeping schedules. How do I track how patient you have been this week while Anna has had strep throat and has needed her Momma?
(Okay. Mostly patient.)
How do I document the look you give me, even when I'm sleep deprived and nearing the end of my rope, the one that tells me that I'm pretty much the greatest thing you've ever laid eyes on and you'll always love me forever and ever?
(Yeah, that's the one.)
It's hard to be the second child, but you make it seem like it's okay. More than that-- you make me feel like I'm doing a great job, even when I know I'm not. And for that, when I think of the first four months of your life, I'll always be grateful to you.
I know what people say about little boys. They are crazy, rambunctious, dirty... snips and snails and all that. But you, Mister Mister, are just about the sweetest thing I've ever been around. You laugh and smile and humor me with wink-wink-nudge-nudge college wear.
Your little personality is starting to shine through, and we've decided we like it a whole lot. Stay with us forever, okay?