You're starting to laugh. Telling us about your day with many raised eyebrows and quizzical looks, dobbing on my feeding you to sleep or complaining about the three changes of clothes you've endured because something I ate last night once waved hello to a soybean. I bathed you in the sink yesterday and was sad that you don't really fit in there anymore. Not the way you used to, from head to chicken legs and monkey toes. Now you have to sit up, or kick your legs over the side to immerse your torso and (still) bald little head. It's wonderful we can laugh at the paediatricians and all (with their gumpf about reflux meds you never actually needed) but seriously, could you slow down the growing just a tad? I still like taking pictures of you next to common household objects; I remember as a child how much I liked to see JUST how small I was. You might be a little freaked out, but trust us - you were drowning in those quintuple zero suits.
You've been to your first dance (Strayhorns, September 1st) and have the child-size noise-cancelling earmuffs to prove it; you've had your first sleepover at my parents' place (memo to self, must replace absent child with pump) where according to report, you mostly laughed at the bulldog.
(You WERE laughing at the bulldog, right? Not us?)