Three Words for Three Months Old:
Fat. Happy. Baby.
He loves to coo and ‘talk’, way more than we ever got out of Pete at that age. He has this squealy-giggle that is to die for. He loves that Charlie Brown doll and can sit up decently in his sitting-activity-table-thingie, although that giant bobble head of his still gives him trouble (sooooo heavvvvvvy and biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig).
He sleeps like utter crap. There, I said it, I was going to dance around the subject like he’s perfect or something but COME ON. No. He gets up about every hour, that is if he’s not up every 45 minutes. But thankfully, he’s back to sleep fairly quickly when he gets up, and I have a kind husband who deals with the preschooler and breakfast and such while Linus and I sleep away our Saturday mornings. So there’s that I guess.
Plus there is a certain miserable pride in knowing I barely sleep and still get up, get myself cleaned up and dressed and presentable, and have the boys ready and then we’re all out the door every morning, on time. I’m like Ginger Rogers, doing it like Fred Astaire, but I can do it backwards and in high heels! And yeah! None of that makes any sense I know, I’m sorry, I’m tired!
Learn to sleep, little dude. We’ll see you again in another month.