Friday, June 27
The Saddest Baby in the World
Can you believe the lower lip? Heaven help us when he learns how to use that thing with intent!
Sunday, June 22
Carbo the Second
Well it took ten weeks, but Noah has now officially got man boobs. Just like his Uncle Awesome, circa 1983. Glad to know that Uncle A is sporting a six-pack these days.
The bug is still pretty cute, though. Here he is in Month 3.
Monday, June 9
Little Man
Sixty-three nights have passed since Noah was born, and for the last 62 he has refused to let his arms be pinned against his body by a swaddling blanket or any other contrivance. He sprawls them out like someone miming crucifixion, only without the melodrama, which after all would be hard to pull off for the owner of a boob monopoly.
In the morning, sated, he falls into his mother’s lap, back curved like an archer’s bow, hands over head, bottom lip somehow a semaphore for bliss.
He’s apt to gab after breakfast, but when he’s said his piece he might not say another for half the day.
The only thing he likes more than a diaper change is a bath in the kitchen sink. Just try coaxing an arched back from him now. He slumps down lower and lower in his little bathing chair, wet hair flat on his scalp, looking like Marlon Brando. Young Brando in the face, old Brando around the middle. Judging from the fat he’s packed onto his thighs and midsection, Noah is shooting for the junior sumo circuit. (If he keeps growing at the current rate, he will soon need his skinny dad for physical as well as emotional support.)
Arms raised at bedtime, arched back at dawn, the posture of unalloyed decadence under running water. Two months old, first word nowhere close to his little tongue, and yet here he is broadcasting a personality. What comes next that can possibly be better than this?
In the morning, sated, he falls into his mother’s lap, back curved like an archer’s bow, hands over head, bottom lip somehow a semaphore for bliss.
He’s apt to gab after breakfast, but when he’s said his piece he might not say another for half the day.
The only thing he likes more than a diaper change is a bath in the kitchen sink. Just try coaxing an arched back from him now. He slumps down lower and lower in his little bathing chair, wet hair flat on his scalp, looking like Marlon Brando. Young Brando in the face, old Brando around the middle. Judging from the fat he’s packed onto his thighs and midsection, Noah is shooting for the junior sumo circuit. (If he keeps growing at the current rate, he will soon need his skinny dad for physical as well as emotional support.)
Arms raised at bedtime, arched back at dawn, the posture of unalloyed decadence under running water. Two months old, first word nowhere close to his little tongue, and yet here he is broadcasting a personality. What comes next that can possibly be better than this?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)