Jones turned four months old today.
I think he's hitting all of his marks for this age - he's sleeping through the nite (proof that God DOES answer prayer!), eating 30 ounces of milk / formula a day (five, six-ounce bottles), cooing like a door in dire need of WD-40, smiling up a storm, and sucking on his knuckles (or his thumbs, whichever he can cram into his mouth first). He's also started drooling in the last few weeks, which, I'm assuming, means we are on the threshold of teething.
Somebody, pass the Orajel.
Biased I may be, but I honestly cannot get over what an easy baby he's been. Most people hear this and tell me what a holy terror number two will be. Though it sometimes sounds like they're cursing me rather than just making conversation, I'm sure they're probably right. That possibility would be one of two things that would keep me from wanting another one.
The other thing is dealing with the whole feeding situation. I'm not ashamed to say that I hated nursing the three times we tried it (after a month of seeing lactation specialists to teach him how to do it), and pumping ain't all that great, either. Why does he have to eat, anyway?! If he's like his mama, he's just gonna end up dieting all of his life. Why not start him out early?
But I digress ... as usual.
Happy birthday, Son!
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