Six months, Mister

My dearest, darlingest Mr. Baggins,

Six months, son! It's been entirely a half of one year since you slid out into the world all screaming and pink and who knows what to think about that? Here's the thing. Mama loves babies who are four months old. Four months old is the very best age in baby land, what with the snuggles and the cheeks and the sleeping through the night and the chubby-yet-not-too-grown up status of your cheeks. I loved you to pieces all the way through month four in a desperate attempt to keep you that way, and now here you are at six months old no matter all my efforts.

And what do you know? I still love the stuffing right out of you!

Today we visited our very favorite pediatrician to update him on your recent doings, and guess what? You're a giant! You are taller than 93% of other babies your age. Sheesh. You are getting better at this whole sitting independently business, though once your heavy noggin starts drifting to one side or the other, the rest of your squirrly little self usually follows and you topple over into a tangled little pile of deliciousness.

And here's the thing about all that growing you've been doing (quite without any input from me, I'd like to reiterate.) I realized that there are things about you already that you have grown right up and out of that I hardly remember anymore. That little growth you had on the inside of your lip, for example, and the way we had to take you to that oral surgeon. You were his youngest patient ever, Baggins, and all he had to do was say, "it'll be fine!" and just like that, it went away. Magic!

Or the way we had to switch from Costco formula because your poop said No bargain brands for me!   And trust me, when poop speaks, we listen. That's also the reason we switched to better diapers. (Between Mama's name brand Mac and your fancy-pants diapers, we'll end up in the poor house, just you watch.) The thing about diapers is that if they don't contain the poop like, ever, then it doesn't much matter how much cheaper they are, they've sort of ceased to be diapers and started being really bunchy underpants. Can't have that for my Baggins!

Poop aside, Mister, and ignoring all the curdled milk you happily urp up regularly on your Mama, you are just the sweetest, gentlest little pumpkin baby that ever was. You are quiet and pleasant and every time I try to describe you I just end up saying the word 'sweet' a billion times and nuzzling your neck for half an hour. People are constantly asking if you are always that well behaved, and I just smile. Because, YES! You totally are!

So here I am blogging about the unbelievable way you are so old, and you are looking up at me from the bed with a drooly smile when Daddy decides it's high time to work on your ball handling skills because--did I mention this?-- you are to be a Tight End someday at BYU. I mentioned that I thought there was a stuffed football in your room someplace and Daddy popped back in the room with his eyebrows low and said, "WTF, wife?" (which he has never said before, I'll have you know) just like that, double-yew tee eff, all because when he found that stuffed football, it was red. The horrors.

And that's unimportant, of course, colors of footballs and whatnot. It doesn't matter in the long run, even to your Cougar daddy. What is mportant is that you are happy and well and we love you.

We'll always love you, all the way to the moon,

Love,
Mama