Andrew, 7 weeks
The news of the week for Andrew, aka RockStar P: He’s growing eyebrows! Oh, and planning world domination in his sleep, it seems. He has this creepy giggly-cackling thing he does while dozing, like he’s just pushed the button to bring on the apocalypse and is sharing a beer and some laughs with his henchmen.
I’ve decided that Andrew’s appendages are actually being controlled remotely by an alien life form. There is NO other reason for the crazy uncontrollable hands that are attached to my son’s arms that try to gouge out their owner’s eyeballs and pull his hair. It’s some alien on a distant planet, pissed off at all of humanity and taking it out on my infant. Except when he hits me. That’s all Andrew. He swung a mean right hook the other day that caught me right in the breast. I’m pretty sure he was letting me know that my withholding the milk is really not OK with him.
He’s now 7 weeks old and is pushing 12 pounds, I think. He has outgrown all his 3-month outfits and is now in 6-9 month stuff. He is holding his head up really well, except when he is bashing it on my chest to make a hole for the milk to come out. His hair is fabulous still, and I am styling it every day in a faux mohawk, something he will be telling his psychiatrist 20 years from now was the first thing I did that ruined him.
I would write more, but my brain goes on autopilot whenever my milk lets down. And I made the mistake of writing the word “breast” up there a few paragraphs ago.
I’ll try to update again as soon as my brain and baby allow.