I've recently succumbed to the cold hard fact that I need to post more. I get ideas for posts all the time, but before they get the chance to take root in the little square-foot garden of my brain, Robert will further his new fetish for nude construction by stripping down to nothing but his hardhat and begin comparing his boyhood to his Lincoln Logs. Or TwoBert will nuzzle in the Björn and suddenly grab a fistful of chest hair. (It doesn't really matter that his meathooks are so tiny. Uprooted chest hair hurts like a bitch, regardless of quantity.) And when I manage to recover from the shock to the system, the glimmer of an idea has disappeared down the rabbit hole, and I'm left mixing very awkward metaphors.
Unrelatedly, TwoBert's growth has been phenomenal. There have been times when my wife and I have sworn TwoBert was growing right in front of our eyes, like a rising soufflé. At TwoBert's 5-week well visit today, we learned his body mass has increased by 40.4% since he was born--which, according to the CDC, moves his weight for his age from the 75th percentile to the 90th. At this rate, he will weigh 254 pounds by his first birthday, and my wife's breasts will be a fond memory.
Also unrelatedly, Robert's need for speed is becoming alarming. He will tenaciously pedal up really steep grades at the park so he can careen downhill and slalom through scaffold supports (time to invest in a helmet, I think) and yell, "Look at me, Daddy! I'm an Andy car!" I'm pretty sure he means Indy car, but I don't know where he gets that because we are totally a NASCAR family. We like our racecars full size, thank you, because that means more surface area and more surface area means MORE ADS.
So to sum up: more posts, wood vs. wood, chest mange, Amazing Colossal TwoBert, speed freak. The Summer of Chaos has begun, a full week before the damn solstice.