When I put up my first post at the old domain, Robert was 15 months old and had already passed a lot of important firsts. He had teeth, he was walking and talking, and he'd eaten his first cake of soap. Thus, the world missed out on the early months, when little larva-children start studying things intently, and they laugh when you kiss them behind the ear, and they show the first signs of becoming something of a person.
Therefore, since TwoBert recently turned four months old, and Typepad tells me this is my 200th post (!) under its aegis, I thought I would devote this space to TwoBert's State of the Baby Address.
Four months is indeed a magic age, primarily because of the Cuteness. TwoBert's eyes, a deep blue that is slowly hazeling over, are still way too large for his fuzzy head, which has but a slim tonsure wending its way around the base of his neck. Imagine a fat-cheeked Peter Boyle cast as a Precious Moments figurine.
TwoBert is also learning that there's more to interact with than just my wife's breasts. (Sure, I still rate a distant second, but I'm gaining ground.) We converse now. I can unburden myself about the most ridiculous things that are rattling around in my head, but as long as I smile and waggle my eyebrows he'll pump his legs and cackle supportively. He also loves to sing along to mah-na mah-na, often in a warble that sounds like "ooooooooolllluuuuuurrrrrr" and equivocates between A-sharp and B-flat. The other primary noise is his dead-on impression of a creaking door.
The object impermanence (which he gets from his mother) is a plus, because every meeting starts with a clean slate. There's never any baggage. TwoBert can go without seeing me during the workday, or even for half an hour, and when we're reunited he reacts with such elated surprise. "Hey! The amusing man is back! I thought he was dead!"
The teething is a minus, because it's getting worse and has no end in sight. He'll be dozing away and then jolt awake with a violent yelp, and the copious drool that lately defines his existence will have backed into his nasal passages, waiting not-so-patiently for a groggy parent to suck it out with our mini turkey baster (which is actually a nostril un-baster). You should see this drool, folks. The boy can saturate a bib in the blink of an eye. Every day is a new Genesis flood in Sternum Valley.
Most of this is pretty common four-month-old fare. On a more individual note, his current favorite thing is screwing his face into a scowl, clasping his hands together, and arm-wrestling with himself. As far as we know, no one among our large extended family has made a living in professional bodybuilding, so he may be poised to fill that gap. (If he needs us to help fulfill that dream, we have plenty of baby oil.)
And secondly, he can't stand the fact that he can't stand. He shares his living space with three fully functional bipeds, walking and skipping and dancing around to Earth Wind & Fire, and he wants in. Lying around is so last month; if I place him on the floor, he flops and arches and grunts himself over and out of his Boppy, begging me to pull him up into a standing position. When I do, he clamps onto my fingers and stands rigidly until the unfettered bliss breaks his concentration and buckles his knees. Then he launches into a beatific smile that buckles mine.