Every photo I take of this baby is immediately my most favorite.
We've officially entered the Four Months Old Ball of Sunshine & Glee stage, where almost everything is worth smiling at or over because WHOA CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS NONSENSE? I'M SITTING UPRIGHT KIND OF! THAT TOY MAKES NOISE. MY FEET ARE IN MY MOUTH. BOOBS CONTINUE TO EXIST.
Yeah, he's very caps-locky right now, sorry. Just be glad I'm sparing you my version of I'M ON A BOAT entitled I'M IN A STROLLER. For...now, anyway. (Just need another verse's worth of lyrics. THEN WATCH THE FUCK OUT.)
(Wooden teether/rattle from Little Alouette, a gift from HeatherB, better known around here as Ike's Boombox. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star is his jam. Pump it up! He's in a stroller! Mommy thinks she's funny! Etc.)
We're also in the midst of the four-month sleep regression, which for Ike has taken the form of refusing to go bed, at all, ever, until he basically gets ridiculously, irrationally exhausted around 11:30 at night. At which point he screams in fury at me like, DO SOMETHING, right before finally passing out cold. I AM doing something, child! It's called drinking. Go to sleep.
Oh, kidding. Kind of. The seven false starts at bedtime aren't my most favorite, but I know they shall pass and suddenly he'll erupt in a new skill, one that likely ups his odds of injuring his fool self in a spectacular manner the instant I need to pee.
Oh, Baby Ike. You are funner than a personal monkey, at least 20 times cuter, and you probably smell better too. Mama loves you heaploads.