Arlo turned eight weeks old yesterday. We're looking forward to his 2-month checkup tomorrow (minus the shots part). Last week, he was in the 32nd percentile for height, so we're hoping he's grown a bit—but we both know he's destined to be a shorty.
Rockin' the Shades / Sleeping at The Westside Market / Rod Stewart / Being Adored by Mommy
The reflux situation has definitely improved—but not as much as I was hoping. The happy moments are finally outweighing the screaming-nonstop moments, but we still have very bad days. Once upon a time, I was amazed by how Danny and I had adapted, with regards to sleep. I couldn't believe that I'd reached a point where I felt like a million bucks if I could get 4 solid hours. Well, it's caught up with us. We're exhausted. This is what all our friends with kids were talking about. I don't know how I'm going to function when I return to work.
We were able to get out and about quite a bit this week, though, and allow me to say that I love showing this guy off, crazy cowlicks and all. Love it, love it, love it.