Today is his two month mark, and none of us have perished. Go us! Also, the length and sharpness of his fingernails is directly proportionate to his desire to stick his finger in his eye. The greater the desire, the sharper the nail. Proven again last night as he gave himself his second Rocky Balboa scrape in the corner of his perfect eyelid.
Every time those little hands start flailing around, my stomach clenches and I suck in my breath as I wait for him to hit paydirt. No-one told me that this child-rearing thing was a bloodsport!
And people get this accusatory look on their faces when they see the little scrapes; they know it's his fingernails, they know they grow like lightening when you've just turned around to pick up a cup of coffee, but they (probably correctly) assume that they would cut his nails better than me. But you try it! It's like trying to stick a butterfly with a pitchfork, and seems just as full of potential for cruelty.
Now he sits in his bouncy chair, trying to work out a little sumptin' sumptin' so his tummy doesn't feel crummy (this morning's Shakespeare: "Much Ado About Nothing"), unable to decide whether he's completely entertained and smiley or on the edge of a fuss. He's so damned cute.
Happy Birthday, bun. We're having a blast! Fingernails and all.