Two Months Old (by Matthew)

Well, here I am--two months old already, and Daddy and Momma feel like I've always been a part of the family. (Dad can never remember exactly how old I am anyway. "He's, uh... about six weeks. Oh, nine weeks? Wow, that went fast!") I think Meg likes me too. She's very compassionate toward me and says, "Oh, shamahoerrr!" when I cry (which, when translated, means, "Oh, sad Matthew!") She always tries to hug me and give me kisses and share her stuffed animals with me and put the pacifier back in my mouth when it falls out. Sometimes her hugs can be a little... um... crushing, but I know she's just lovin' on me, so I take it like a man and never cry.

I visited the pediatrician on Thursday and weathered my first round of immunizations. I screamed like bloody murder when the nurse stuck me, but as soon it was over and Mommy picked me up again, I pulled myself together and was fine from then on. As far as Mom could tell, I never developed a trace of fever or anything--I just slept A LOT for the next 24 hours. My weigh in put me at 11 lbs., 8 oz., which is about the 50th percentile, and I am now 23 1/2 inches tall, which is the 75th percentile. The doctor looked me over and pushed on my belly and legs a little. Then he said I'm lookin' good and that he'd see me again at four months. So that's that, I hope!

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you already know most of what's happened to me this month. Mostly I met a lot of family members, all of whom looked very nice. (But they were a little blurry, so I could be wrong about that.) I think my folks felt bad because my grandmas and grandpas never got to hold me for very long. It's not that I don't like people! It's just that I'm not yet awake for very long lengths of time, and when sleep calls to me, I get cranky! So Mommy whisks me upstairs for some quality time in my crib, and that's the last that anyone hears from me for a while.

The other news is that I graduated from a pack 'n' play to a real crib this month. My big sister was kind enough to vacate the nursery for my sake and go to sleep in a big girl bed. So now I have my very own room and a great big crib with lots of growing space!

I'm still a very happy boy in general (for the brief times between naps), but when I do cry, boy, I really do it right. It's not that I'm loud, so much--anyone can do volume. No, I try to imbue my wails with a note of true desperation, as if I have absolutely despaired of ever being fed again. It's hard to explain. I guess you just have to be born with the gift. It helps that I have the knack of crying real tears. (Meg never shed tears until she was 18 months or something, so my parents aren't beyond the point of being moved by this trick.) Anyway, I find that the histrionics really help to light a fire under Mom, which she seems to need fairly often. Sometimes when I get going pretty good, Daddy shakes his head and says to Mommy, "Man, we have the most dramatic kids." Mom says she has no idea where we got it.

Here's what I look like when I'm calm and alert...

...and when I'm starting to feel tired.

Sleeping on my Mommy's shoulder:

Breakin' it down:

Plain old happy: