Yesterday, amid all the chaos and excitement of Eleanor’s birthday, you turned six months old. Alden, my happy, laughing, deliciously roly-poly little boy. You are perfect.
I wake up to your adoring, joy-filled smile every day and it is the absolute best way I could start my day. We still swaddle you to sleep, but loosely, so by morning your arms are free. When you wake you like to stretch them out high above your head. That’s when the smile appears and fills my morning with sunshine.
You are army-crawling now and can move pretty darn fast across the living room floor when there is something that interests you. Like the remote controlled car Eleanor got for her birthday. You want that thing bad. You are working on getting your knees up under you, but I think the big cloth diaper is hindering your progress. Soon, very soon.
Teething is your nemesis. You’ve been pouring drool for months now, and in recent weeks your chewing has morphed into outright chomping. Still, there’s no sign of any pearly whites coming through. I suspect it won’t be much longer until you have that first tooth, though.
I still can’t accept that you are six months old already, that you are old enough to grow teeth and crawl and begin eating real foods. I don’t know why I’m in such denial; I wasn’t with your sisters. It all just seems to be flying by, faster than I ever imagined possible. I blink and you’re doing something new. I look away for just a moment and you are a month older. I find myself begging time to slow down so that I can enjoy your sweet, precious babyness just a little bit longer. You just keep giving me that smile, though, and I’ll be fine.