9lbs 11oz
22.5 in.
Our life at two months:
The Wren Bird took her chubs very seriously this month.
She rocketed into the 20th percentile and has the rolls to prove it.
I waffle somewhere between smug and bewildered that I now use "percentile" in everyday language.
This little girl loves her daddy.
I feedher.rockher.clotheher.changeher.takeherforwalks.readtoher all.day.long.
She's pleasant to me. She's happy for me.
But the instant the Mister walks in the door, she wildly flaps her now roly-poly arms and squawks like the love child of a seagull and Tickle Me Elmo.
While the time Wren and I spend at the changing table could been seen as a forecast of our relationship in fifteen years, the only sounds I hear from her room when the Mister is home are coos and giggles.
I encourage frequent use of the "Daddy Diaper Patrol."
While the time Wren and I spend at the changing table could been seen as a forecast of our relationship in fifteen years, the only sounds I hear from her room when the Mister is home are coos and giggles.
I encourage frequent use of the "Daddy Diaper Patrol."
Because of this shockingly warm winter, the Wren Bird and I went on our first run outdoors in the BOBS stroller.
We call him Bob.
We're that kind of clever 'round in these here parts.
The Birdie got her first shots.
If you think this is bad, you should have seen my face.
In addition to the coos and laughter, that achieve a level of verbosity we're fairly certain has never been and will never again be seen in an infant, the Wren Bird is learning many forms of self-expression.
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