This kid is just your basic dose of anti-birth control.
He is happy.
He is cute.
He is friendly.
He is sweet.
He doesn’t have those stupid looking top teeth yet, the ones that turn babies into hillbillies. I found pictures of Clara at this age and was horrified at her hillbilly teeth.
I dread the day this happens to Sammy.
Although that bottom one is looking suspicious.
He crawls, he stands, and he falls all day long and I would recognize the sound of that head hitting a hardwood floor anywhere, anytime. He rarely cries when it happens, but he always crawls to find me for a tight hug of reassurance.
He puts up with a lot of different business from a lot of little hands and he is eternally patient and long-suffering.
I tell him “no” and he grins. I tell him “no” again, more stern, and he laughs. He’s gonna be difficult to discipline, that’s pretty clear.
He loves being held. He loves giving hugs. He loves everyone.
His sister lights up his world. Here’s the scene at my house every morning at 7:30, when we hear him stirring and chatting in his bed:
Clara bounces towards the nursery shouting “He’s awake! Brudder’s awake, mama! No problems, I get him!” His grin beams across the room as she reaches through the crib slats to stroke his cheek and say “Good morning, Sammy. Hi! I miss you! Good morning, bubbies!” He smiles and chatters to her. I smile and try to memorize the way they look at each other.