Month Four

Dear Henry,

Yesterday you turned four months old. I'd list all of the changes that have taken place the last month if I wasn't still suffering from baby brain. What I can remember, I often cannot find the words to express. So when your dad comes home from work he often has to listen to something like this as I tell him about our day: "Oh my God, it was so cute, Henry picked up the thing <point to nearby toy> and then he tried to cram it into his <point to your mouth>, and by then those things <point to cats> came over to investigate so I grabbed the, uh, picture-taking device <point to camera> and took some photos." Enjoy your testosterone, son, it means never having the hormones that cause this disintegration of basic vocabulary.

Your new best baby feature is that you are ticklish. It is an extension of the giggles that started last month and is so incredibly adorable I want to record it and throw it up on YouTube so the entire internet-utilizing world can access it and laugh along with you. Your laughter is infectious and now that I can facilitate its production I expect to hear it daily, perhaps hourly, if you'll oblige. To activate said tickles I remove your socks and torture the bottoms of your feet. Then I attack your rib cage from the front and the sides. Both under the chin and the armpits are areas of extreme ticklishness so caution must be used. I don't want to cause spontaneous combustion from an unexpected surge of tickles.
About a week ago your father walked into the spare bathroom where your burping cloths are kept and was surprised to find a stack of cloths available. I, too, noticed a decrease in the daily washings of said cloths. I'm not sure I believed your doctor when she told us your puking was normal and would abate over time but it does appear as if this is turning out to be true. That being said, as soon as we were patting ourselves on the back for making it through the vomit phase of raising a kid, you let loose a stream of spit up that covered the front of your shirt, the front of mine, the side of my shirt, and down one of my pant legs. Baby, one. Parents, zero.

Your arms are in constant motion. If one hand isn't helping the other hand get to your mouth, they are both swinging in the air or grabbing for whatever nearby object has captured your attention. When changing your clothes we have to work quickly to avoid keeping your arms stationary for too long. Thankfully, you have found your vocal chords and are quite adept at choosing these moments to use them to spur us along in our task so that you may be reunited with your hands once again. You don't yet realize that sliding hands into a shirtsleeve is not a permanent disappearing act but rather a quick and nearly painless exercise in dressing.
Certainly your eyesight is improving as you watch everything with a concentrated gaze. Just a few days ago I was drinking from a water bottle, something you found infinitely entertaining as your eyes followed my movements. When the bottle was empty I handed it to you and your eager hands grabbed the bottle, tipped it as you had seen me do, and made a beeline for your mouth. You missed, hitting your cheekbone instead. And then your ear. And then your other ear. The point is, of course, that you notice what we are doing and are already trying to imitate our actions. This is nowhere more evident than when we eat. Your little mouth opens and closes in a preliminary chewing motion. I fear trying to keep food at bay for another two months (per doc's recommendation) might not be possible. Although, given what I've heard about food poos, I'd almost rather keep you on breast milk indefinitely.

We have discovered you prefer showers to baths, which, besides the Y chromosome, is one thing that without a doubt you get from your father. You respond well to George Michael lyrics so I belt out Faith and Freedom, along with such shower favorites as Rubber Ducky and Tesla's What You Give. OK. Arguably Tesla is not a shower band favorite but it's still a great song for you to know so I'm happy to introduce you to it a cappella-style. Showers are a bit trickier than baths, I think, as there is this whole slippery-baby element that is far more precarious in showers. Perhaps due to the height at which showers take place and the potential for deadly falls, eh? (Note the Canadian usage of "eh?". That comes from your father as well.) We try to make the transition from warm shower to cold world less traumatic by heating your towel in the dryer and having your pajamas ready. Pops comes to your aid, whisking you away to the changing table to dry you off and get your diaper attached before anything untoward can take place. We are not current EC (Elimination Communication) enthusiasts.
We are teaching you how to be gentle with the cats, who have not only attracted your attention but are now subjected to your little hands, little hands that reach out to grab fur. So far, so good. In return, you have constant companions when you nap.
Thank you for being a good baby. Your parents appreciate it. A lot.

Love,
Mom