12 Weeks

Arlo is 12 weeks old today, which means I returned to work. I can't believe it, but I didn't shed a tear all day. It was actually kind of nice to get back into the swing of things and get a feel for what our new normal is going to be like around here. I'm not saying I didn't run out the door as fast as I could at 5:00 or anything, though. I couldn't wait to have my boy in my arms, where he belongs.

Sleepy at the cookout we hosted last Thursday.

Last night was rough. I was hoping to have a nice, chill evening at home, all of us just smooching and cuddling, but the universe had other plans. Arlo was crankier than ever, and he projectile vomited all over the place. That was a first for this household. Wow. And of course the couch caught most of it. He cried and cried and cried, so we called the on-call doctor, who told us not to worry unless he projectile vomited after his next feed. Fortunately, he didn't, but I worried all night and slept like total crap.

He's still pretty angry today, but Danny said he had lots of happy periods, too—so I'm trying not to fret too much. If he's not happy tomorrow, though, Danny said he's taking him to the doctor.

Anyway, Arlo's discovering that he can make his hands and feet do things at will; he has a little monkey guy that he likes to bring up to his mouth and gnaw on, and he kicks the hangy toys on the bouncy seat at Grammy's house. He stares and stares at the doodads on his jumperoo (which he's way too small for, but he looks so adorable just dangling there), and I can tell he's just itching to grab them.

Snuggling with his monkey guy. (No, I'm not stupid enough to let him sleep with that thing.)

He gives us at least a couple giggles every day (Is there a sweeter sound?), and he makes us laugh several times a day. This kid's gonna be hilarious, I'm telling you.

Cracking himself up in the jumperoo.