The Boy is 8 months old today (actually, he was 8 months old two days ago but due to the magic of ‘date published’ I’m going to fix that). This means that he’s closer to being a year old than being born, over the hump, as it were. His favorite thing to do is teleport. He teleports from one end of the room to the other. At least, that’s how it seems. I’ve watched him “crawl” and he doesn’t do it particularily fast, but he can cross a room longways in nanoseconds.
He’s eating Stage 2 food. He ‘chews’ it but I’m so paranoid that I can’t give him anything chunky yet. I am more fearful about him choking than I think I’ve ever been with my other two kids, and I’m not sure why. He’s not in a greater danger of it or anything. Even a little spaghetti-O noodle will freak me out.
He sweats like Niagara Falls. Seriously. When I put him down for a nap, I can guarantee there will be a Boy-head-sized wet spot on the bed where he was sleeping and sweating. I don’t even put him in clothes anymore because I know he’ll be so uncomfortable. I barely dress him when we go out. Of course, this leads to ‘knowing stranger syndrome’ where people come up and tell you what’s best for your baby, or perhaps enlighten you to how he’s feeling. Case in point, “That’s a cold baby!” by some random man as we were passing the meat department. The Boy was happily grabbing at his feet and busy sweating into the car seat. I refrained from inviting the stranger to burn his hand off with the Boy’s back.
The Boy is a happy baby. He only cries when he needs a diaper change, a nap, or is hungry. I know we’re damn lucky to have him. Now if only I could remember to take more pictures of him.