The bun turned over three times yesterday. This is not the first time he’s turned over, but it was so absurdly early for him to be doing so, I figured it either must be a fluke, or I had horror visions of a walking baby at three months. Well, maybe not three months… But after yesterday, I have confidence that he can do it after I watched with both glee and fear as he figured out how to use gravity to rock himself over from front to back. Unreal. I kept flipping him to his stomach, he kept flipping himself back. Defying me already!

The last two (three? Who can count?) days have been pretty brutal. The little fellow is going through a growth spurt (Oh, god, I hope that’s all it is) so he’s been chomping away pretty constantly, night and day, round the clock. “The girls” are feeling flattened like dried raisins. And then he’s been practicing all sorts of Shakespeare lately (“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May”), so he’s fussy and cranky and sometimes downright inconsolable. I’ve been at his beck and call fairly non-stop, and the hubs has been working, so I’ve learned in some small way what I face when he leaves town in a couple weeks: complete delirium.

But the bun seems to be settling into a smallish sleep routine: 9:00 pm-ish seems to be more or less when he goes to sleep at night. Naps are still a complete crapshoot. Along with most everything else.

And I’m haphazardly trying to childproof the house, a task seemingly insurmountable at this point due to an overwhelming number of tchotckes and ancient house with danger around every doorjam. We used to joke that it would be easier to take everything out of the house and then bring it back in with an eye to a tiny tornado on two legs, but it seems less like a joke and more practical every day. Maybe we’ll just have a big bonfire this summer.

Alas, the little master awakes. I must heed lest I be punished with shrill tones for my ill behavior.

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