Today, my little sweetiepants, today you are eight months old.
Eight months! Two-thirds of a year!
Your two bottom teeth are coming in strong and proud. There's no evidence of others except pretty regular drooling, some crying, and waking up at night.
Those, and you chew on everything you can get your little mouth on.
You can't yet sit up on your own for very long - you still do the very sloooow fall over sideways trick. But you can roll and roll.
And you're getting very close to crawling. You do a very effective backwards scoot.
You've also become very proficient at what looks like a swim motion. You paddle yourself across the floor. And spin in a circle on your belly. It's extraordinary how far one can get on their stomach, it turns out.
You're wildly in favor of carpet fringes. One way or another, you make your way to the edge of any carpet in the room. Carpet! Fringe! Yum! And I'm just as strongly opposed to you chewing on them.
We passed a young guy sitting on a stoop the other day and he asked how old my little guy was. I said, "Eight months!"
And he said, "Oh, zero! Dude!"
And it's true - you're still not a year. And yet it is almost impossible to imagine our lives without you.
I mean, sure, I remember going out all the time and drinking a lot and sleeping in and not having to plan for anything. And that was fun and all.
But I don't remember those days in a longing way. At least, not very often.
And the truth is, I look forward to seeing you first thing every morning, and I rush home to see you at night. I get so excited when I walk in the door and you beam at me.
We have so much fun together. And you've changed us in ways I never anticipated.
I wouldn't trade my life now for anything.
I love you,