Dear Sprout, I owe you a love letter big time, but somehow every time I sit down to write about you I end up staring at the page and grinning and I never get more than a couple of sentences written.
Somehow I can't seem to put into words how utterly smitten I am with you. But I am. Over and over again. You are the best surprise I have ever had, hands down.
I'm so happy you picked us. I'm so happy you are here.
You are crawling. You have two teeth. You are pulling up on everything, always standing, always trying to get to wherever your big brother is at. You are HUGE. 95 percentile. 12-18 month clothing. And it's not all chub, either. The nurse had to re-measure you at the doctor's office today because she didn't think she'd gotten your length right. You are just shy of 29 inches.
You say dada and mama now. You giggle. You reach up to me to be picked up. You crawl after me all around the house. You love to eat, and you want whatever we're having. You put everything in your mouth.
You are (almost) always happy. You spend entire days smiling. You hardly ever cry---but you have perfected a lovely indignant grunt/squeal to let us know when your big brother is squeezing you too tightly.
I haven't written you letters every month the way I did with your brother because I am in utter stunned shock at how time is whirling by. I cannot fathom how you got to be this big.
I loved you from the moment I met you. I loved every single minute of you as a newborn. I've loved every phase you've entered, even with the sleep deprivation (and the short term memory loss) that invariably occurs as you go through growth spurts or cut new teeth.
As a baby, your brother taught me how to be a mother. You are teaching me daily how to mother with grace and delight.
I adore you. I adore you.
Happy eight months, little dude.