I even had this really great, six-directional, manic 12:30 AM post that would have blown your mind...but then Blogger pooped on it and threw it back at my face. Probably for the best. Half-cracked moments of midnight desperation between a mom and her computer? No one needs to see that train wreck.
(Except for the part about asking total strangers in the library if they remember the exact moment when parenthood caused chunks of their former personalities began breaking off like gangrenous toes. That was gold.)
Besides, THIS is what you really want anyway:
Cuteness. Cubed. To the "n"th.
You should hear the giggling. Mine, I mean. He laughs SO MUCH, people. He is a very serious baby who studies things at length...and then laughs at it. I find myself giggling. I am not a giggler. Except for now. And at 12:35 AM, when a long emotional blog post suddenly and mysteriously goes poof-but that is a different kind of giggling. That kind of giggling requires a long island iced tea.
This, though. This is the shiznitt.
We went to Target to find a cool walker thing for him to cruise around in (because OMG, he wants to move and he can't because he's only 5 months), found one we liked, and put him in it so triumphantly because we knew that despite his hatred for binkies, bottles, tummy time, and now his Bumbo seat, that this-THIS!-would be the thing that gave him ultimate joy. So proud of ourselves, we plunked him in. And he is still too small. His little fat legs were swinging around, clearing the floor by a good three inches, and belted out his hoot-laugh because he thought it was great anyway. *hOOU HooU HOOT* So there I am in Target, giggling like an idiot at my very short son, pleading with Wendy to forpetesake stop making a fort out of the flippin' diaper boxes, and loving my life so much.
His laugh gets into my brain, ping-pongs down into my heart and makes it explode. Then there is giggling. I don't care. I'm not ashamed. I mean LOOK! You would too.