Tomorrow, the boy is eight weeks old. I can hardly believe it's been two months, though we still get so little sleep that Christopher said (and I agree) that weeks tend to feel like one very long day. Calculating time that way, he's still the tiniest of tiny sproglets.
Not in size, though. We took a walk this afternoon around the neighborhood and ran into a father with his 17 month old daughter -- and Jack was nearly her size. He is one large baby, but still terribly cute, so I forgive him.
I don't see him doing much crawling. He's desperate to be up on his feet; he already wants me to stand him up often and "walk" him around. We do this every day on the sofa, usually after a feeding. It's funny... he can barely play and he isn't much into his stuff yet, but he is just dying to get up and run around.
Also, I'm fairly certain he called me a Jew today. I don't know who he's been hanging out with, but I won't have this kind of name-calling and ethnic slurs (slurring?) in my house!*
*Clearly, this is a joke, but it really did sound very much like "Jew!"
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