Our boy is now more than nine months old. Where does the time go?
Because so many people have asked me in the weeks since I wrote about Owen as an infant, I will say here, for the record, that I no longer believe my son is trying to kill me. Since making his debut as a cranky, occasionally implacable baby, Owen has become the happiest little guy I’ve ever known. Of course, he has his fussy moments — especially now that he’s growing a mouthful of teeth — but even when he’s crying, it’s easy to make him laugh.
He’s also impossible. Where his sister was a very quiet, thoughtful baby, content to sit and absorb her surroundings in relative silence, Owen is a writhing, babbling whirlwind of activity. A snuggler he ain’t — as soon as you pick him up, he’s trying to make a ladder out of your ribcage (or, if you’re Leah, he’s trying to use your shoulder as a teething ring). He can’t sit still — turn your back on him for a minute, and he’s found his way into a drawer or cabinet, or better yet, pulled the kitchen garbage can down on his head.
(The garbage can in our kitchen has a totally awesome motion-activated automatic lid. Sophie has named it Roga. I’m assuming it’s short for Robot Garbage.)
Anyway, here are some basic facts about our son:
Obert (or Bertie)
O-down and Dirty
Obot (or Brobot)
Garlic bagel chips
Open showers, toilets, cabinets, drawers
As you can see, he’s quite a lot of fun, and it’s only getting better, especially since we’ve agreed that two children is plenty. Now I can look forward to being able to sleep again…in ten years.
Next: Sophie goes to preschool!