Simon, dude, if we thought the first month of your life was a ride, it had NOTHIN’ on the second month.
After passing your 1-month birthday in a hotel in Kansas City, you got to meet a bunch of friends and family and have lots of quality time with Grammy, all of whom love you ridiculous amounts. Like, stalker-ish amounts.
Seriously, we’re talkin’ “if you weren’t a baby it would be creepy” quantities of adoration.
Not that it’s unjustified, of course. You’re clearly awesome and brilliant and adorable.
After the Kansas City adventure, at the tender age of almost-five-weeks, you got to go on your very first plane ride, to your new home in Los Angeles!
And you were THAT BABY on the plane. No, not the scream-y fussy baby. The other one. The one who’s so quiet cuddled up in the Maya wrap on my chest that no one knew you were even there. THAT baby. Good job, little dude!
Reunited in Los Angeles with Dad and your dog and your kitty, and getting lots of cuddles from Granddad (who drove the moving truck all the way from Missouri, thankyousomuchDad), your next task was to help me unpack the whole apartment and send your dad off to work every day.
It’s a big job for a little dude, but you performed admirably. And you were busy growing leaps and bounds the whole time, too (50th percentile of your adjusted age for length and weight; 75th for head. Thanks, Jeff…). You also picked up some nifty tricks, like occasionally rolling from your tummy to back when you feel like it, and smiling a couple times, and becoming the frickin’ head control MASTER. You could, like, teach head control seminars to the other babies.
And then there’s the boob-ing. Oh god, the boob-ing. If I didn’t know better I’d swear my milk was chocolate or something, the way you go at it. But it’s paying off, because look at those cheeks! I don’t know if you’ll ever be a roly-poly baby, but you’re definitely plumping up compared to your NICU days. Go boobs go!
(behold the mile-long, translucent blonde eyelashes. I die!)
Now we’re settling into a routine of adventures every weekend, then during the week we take long walks with Roxie in the mornings and spend our afternoons reading stories (current author: Garrison Keillor), bopping around to music (you seem to love Muse, the Beatles, and Edward Sharpe. Good choices, son.), having tummy time, and napping in your super-swaddler (no more BabyDavidBlaine!). It’s really not a bad life, is it?
By next month I expect you to master baby phonics, develop a basic calisthenics routine, and help with housework (you can start by washing diapers). FREE RIDE’S OVER, DUDE. CHIP-CHOP. GET MOVIN’.