As I sat down to write this, I realized that I haven't showered in two days. Whoops. At least I combed my hair today. That's something.
So goes my life recently. Somehow it seems that every moment of the day is crammed full of activity, from waking up in the morning to getting Carter out the door and off to school to Griffin-Griffin-Griffining all day to picking up Carter at night, putting both kids to bed, washes bottles, making food for us, and passing out on the couch (I wonder how many times I've used the phrase "passing out on the couch" on this blog. It's in the double-digits, no doubt). My mother calls to harass me regularly, reminding me to sleep when he sleeps, put my feet up and relax, all that good stuff. But there are dishes to be done, counters to scrub, and closets to organize (you trying packing clothes for TWO children into one small bedroom. It's like an episode of "Hoarders" up in here).
And despite the nonstop semi-chaos, I actually feel pretty damn great. The boys and I are getting over little colds (with the help of the Nosefrida, my latest and greatest investment. Oh God, how I love it. I could write a sonnet about sucking snot out of my kids' noses) but otherwise I am soaking in the holiday spirit. Thanksgiving was lovely, our tree (and accompanying tree-circling toy train) is up, and I'm looking forward to spending a week with my family up north for Christmas. And I still have two more months of maternity leave. Life is good, folks.
Griffin is a blissfully easy baby. He rarely cries, with the occasional exception of during the five o'clock witching hour when he's inevitably overtired and trapped in his carseat en route to pick up his brother. For the other 23 hours of the day, he's mellow yellow - since he was about six weeks old, he's been sleeping from about 8pm until 3am, waking to nurse, and then immediately going back to sleep until about 6am. I know - WHAT?!? Carter was not this child. Carter was the wake-up-multiple-times-and-stare-at-Mommy-for-an-hour-until-he-is-bounced-back-to-sleep-on-the-damn-exercise-ball baby. Not so with his little brother. When G is done for the day, he is DONE, and does not seem to particularly want to see my face until the morning hours. I am fine with this.
He's a pretty big boy, weighing in at 12.2 lbs at his two-month check-up, smack in the 75th percentile, and has outgrown all his 0-3 month clothing already (HUH?? Tiny Carter worn that crap well into months 4 and 5). He naps well during the day, he is generous with his smiles and he has started giving me the occasional chuckle during Mommy's tickles.
Basically, he's that dangerous kind of baby that makes you want to have ten more just like him. YIKES. I'm a realist however, and fully acknowledge that having both a mellow toddler and mellow baby is like winning some kind of cosmic lottery, and to add another child to the mix will certainly ensure that #3 is pure devil spawn. One can't get lucky three times, after all. We shall see - at the moment, I am quite content with my boys.
Voila - Thanksgiving:
I have no pictures of my husband from Thanksgiving because he's generally on the other side of the camera. But I guarantee that if you shrunk him and put him in a diaper, he would look exactly like THIS: