bee-and-erin

Dear Bee,

Happy almost four month birthday! Here’s a pro tip for your future uterus to keep in mind: four month old babies are made of pure maple syrup goodness. You are the cutest you’ve ever been, filled to the brim with giggles and love and thigh rolls and OMG I can absolutely not form a coherent sentence about you. I’m going to try super hard, but I’d likely save time if I just published one large exclamation point this week.

First things first, Bee – you are sort of scaring the crap out of your father and the madness must cease. You learned to roll from your back to your front now and it’s just all happening so fast. I think you know this, so you keep the trick in your back pocket until verrrry late at night when sudden muffled sounds start to ebb from the monitor and your father and I run down the hallway to make sure you’re breathing and then, HI! You’ve flipped over and are whispering sweet nothings to your crib sheets, not sure what all the fuss is about but quite sure you can’t figure out how to roll back over. And so our nights go: your father and I, no longer up late watching rousing episodes of Battlestar Galactica, but instead, deciding whose turn it is to flip the baby.

You’re also starting to make semi-dinosaur sounds, and I’m convinced you’re either teething or inhuman. The latter would actually make more sense, because I don’t know any genetic being that can fit so much cuteness into one body.

You’ve taken to your baby gym this week, but you prefer to play with/marvel at/suck on the wooden legs rather than the super!fun! toys that hang overhead. I’ll admit; it’s a bit odd to look over and see you caressing a wooden stick with a look of wonder in your eyes, but I suppose you’re preparing me for many surprises in the future. (Please don’t “surprise” me by shaving your eyebrows in 7th grade, OK?)

In other news, your father and I are running out of cute nicknames for you. We’ve used every variation of pumpkin-munchkin-cupcake-muffin-face we can muster, but you keep doing cute things and I fear our literary skills simply aren’t inventive enough. Do us a favor and stop being so cute, OK?

(No, don’t. We love it.)

And we love you.

XO,
Mama

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