Little Man is one day short of the three-week anniversary of his prolonged escape from Terri's insides, and, well, has not really changed a whole lot since Day 9. He eats. He sleeps. He defecates (loudly and frequently). When he cries, he sounds like an angry sheep. When he's hungry and rooting, he snorts like a pig. He looks a lot like me as a baby (i.e. really really, ridiculously good-looking). He is coddled by Mom, Dad, and sister, as well as all Grandparents, Great-Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Great Uncles, and random strangers with trustworthy faces and a fistful of dollars. He is also scheduled for a growth spurt soon, which promises to be a barrel of breast-feeding monkeys for all. Prayeth!
As for Lydia - she has been remarkably well behaved given the amount of sugar, gifts and attention she has been receiving this past week. We are all relieved/proud/thankful. Christmas, as expected, has yielded her a new army of Disney Princess warriors, armed with Dora stickers and doctor kits. Be on the lookout; they have already invaded Basementonia, and are believed to be eying Upstairsia. They can be identified by their giant doe eyes, inappropriately large chests and plastic stethoscopes.
Speaking of Christmas - it netted me this and this. Thanks Santa!
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