The baby of the house is five months old and I can scarcely believe it. If you want five months to pass in the mere blink of an eye, just add a baby to your household.
Some of my friends with three kids insist that there is ‘something’ about the third. Something special, that is. And it’s true. I mean, he pretty much starts smiling the minute I enter the room.
Who wouldn’t love that.
And I think he loves all of us too. He endures big brothers who use him as a road for their cars. He puts up with ‘hugs’ and ‘pats’ that are a tad forceful given his age and size. He listens to his brothers coo ‘he’s so cuuuute’, directly into his eardrum. He allows the Hen to bathe him; patiently clenching his eyes shut when the water is ‘accidentally’ poured onto his face instead of the designated belly area.
He’s not a complete pushover though, with his newfound love of finding strands of hair and clasping them in a superglue-esque grip. Stubbornly holding on, no matter how hard his victim complains or begs for mercy.
Beyond the smiling and the laughing and cooing he is not really blowing past the developmental milestones. Unless gnawing on one’s fist ten hours a day is developmentally significant. Or blowing spit bubbles. Constantly. Of course no one ever learned to roll over from within the confines of their parents’ arms, either.
But the paternus familias is eager for him to roll over, to eat cereal, to do something.
I say, what’s the rush. This is as easy as it gets.