four months

Yesterday was the fuss's 4 month anniversary.

I don't think he's changed much until I scan the photographic record, which documents a startling transformation from angry red grub to professional sumo wrestler.

He's the size of babies twice his age.
I'm hoping he won't be any larger than me. I'm at the very edge of that sheer cliff over the edge of which you have to buy your clothes at the Freak Store.

The fear is that mom's prenatal partying, two pack a day cigarette habit & reliance on formula for my nutritional needs inhibited my own growth, implying the sky's the limit for the Fuss, who swims in the bottomless sea of breast milk pouring from his teetotal mother.

He's strong as hell and revving up to crawl. He has my tree trunk legs, and during Tummy Time uses them to plow across the blanket, face first. He hasn't integrated his arms into the equation yet, but it's just a matter of time. And he can keep his balance standing up, with some helping hands.

And he's doing a lot of talking.
I used to think little kids from Ireland made the cutest noises on earth, but Fuss Babble is the new heavyweight champion. I got a good 5 minute stretch on tape yesterday, once I figure out how to get it on the computer I'll post it.
We've also been calling random friends and having him leave messages.

I haven't been successful at separating the craziness of having a baby from the generalized chaos of the last year, it's all wound up in a single massive tangle.

The moment-by-moment demands imposed by the Fuss have short circuited my habitual brooding on and chewing over things until I figure them out to the 10th decimal.
Modern life is shooting an endless series of rapids, with no time to consider much besides dodging the next boulder and avoiding that mid-stream tree trunk.

It's a different set of challenges and rewards, more immediate and overt than what I've been accustomed to.