Max is 4 months old today. This statement is almost unbelievable.
When he was born he weighed an epic 9 lbs. As of Thursday when I took him in for his 16 week vaccinations (a week late, but whatev) he weighs 16 lbs and 4 oz.
He smiles and laughs and makes ridiculous noises. He’s more amazing than I ever could have expected.
He also knows how to rock a moustache.
He sleeps through most nights so hopefully my brain will stop being such a fog soon and I’ll be able to start using my evenings for more than just a thunder run on the dishes and laundry.
Max and I are laying in bed together. He’s sleeping and I should be too, but I’m not even though I’m exhausted. Instead I’m thinking about all the crap I want to do. The knitting that’s half finished, the collection of birth and postnatal stories I want to collect from friends, the writing I want to do, the laundry that needs folding, the milk that needs pumping, etc.
But I’m not doing any of these things. I’m laying here with a snuggly baby looking at the grey clouds moving in. I can’t seem to make myself move this is too nice and he’ll be too big for it soon and all that other stuff can wait another day.