And this is where I wax poetic for awhile. In twelve days, Jack will be six months old.
When he was first born, I thought that his tiny little newborn self was the greatest thing ever. I loved his tiny chubby cheeks, his shock of black hair, sweet, soft skin. I loved how snuggly he was, and how he wanted nothing more than to be cuddled up to momma. I didn't think it could get any better.
Then he started to outgrow that newborn stage. He moved past the hungry every two hours, nap-eat-stare cycle of the new baby. He began sleeping at night and napping at regular times. By three months he even showed us his beautiful smile. I didn't think it could get any better.
Then by four months he began noticing the world around him. The toys that were mere decorations before became objects of desire; objects to grab and hold. He began to notice our faces and our voices and react visibly to things he liked. We delighted in our ability to made him smile, and on rare occasion he'd even grace us with his goofy little giggle. I didn't think it could get any better.
Now Jack is five months old. He greets us with smiles and coos. He wakes up happy. He still loves a snuggle with momma, but sometimes he wants to explore his world without help. He plays with all kinds of toys. He eats solid foods and he wants to eat with us, when we eat. Moms...I can't believe it gets better than this. Does it?