I just realized that Elliott will be eight weeks old on Monday. EIGHT. I had lost track and thought we were coming up on seven weeks. This is just unacceptable. (And only four full weeks left at home with the boys, which I do not want to talk about. Well, I do…but not tonight.)
Since we last met, Nico has completely recovered from his doom-croup. We were at the ER on a Sunday, saw the pediatrician Monday, and spent a bit of time Tuesday afternoon playing in the sun on the playground down the street. He had a week of nebulizer treatments at home (which he really was great about) and so far, so good. I hope now that winter's over we can all stay healthy for awhile. We let him hunt for eggs in the front yard the Sunday after Easter and he had a great time. I made an attempt to get posed shots of both boys, which went about as well as you might expect from a hopped-up three-year-old and a six-week-old. They're cute, though…I think I'll keep them.
In spite of the unfortunate hair, he is truly a most excellent baby. He is generally sweet and adorable and usually only gets mad if he wakes up hungry or if I drink something with caffeine (oh, chai lattes, how I miss you). He makes some seriously hilarious faces and has possibly the best baby eyebrows of all time. And he's wonderfully portable and has slept through quite a few outings in his Snugli. I haven't had as much time with him as I had with Nico to write schmoopy letters or to sit gazing into his eyes in wonderment. I suspect in the long run it'll work out okay.