4 Months with these Mudfish Cheeks

The Goose is 4 months old. She's lovely. She giggles and coos when she has our full attention and squeals when she doesn't. She still loves crowds and has appeared at a few happy hours, but isn't afraid to cry nice and loud for the folks if she's just not feeling up for it. She sports excellent rolls and this fantastic double chin. After months of swinging well below the 1% line for weight, she's climbed her way up to 5% and growing. Her doctor said she is the most improved baby she's worked with, and we really, really appreciate her community of tummy doctors (and the GOAT: goat's milk).

I think about the things I wish I didn't worry so much about when I was growing up. I hope she knows she can keep those little chunky rolls forever. I hope she embraces every inch of who she is and who she becomes, not because of how she looks or how many people like her, but because she has character and the love of the good people. I hope she knows her value through doing whatever it is that makes her happy with whoever it is that makes her even happier. I hope she is independent but present for the people that value her time and talents and fine with letting go of the people that don't. I hope she finds someone like her daddy because he's absolutely obsessed with making us laugh and the way he loves her is present and loud. It's so much fun to watch.

But really, when I reflect on parenthood in its most vulnerable, frustrating moments, I realize it all boils down to one universal question, one small thing that rapidly trickles into every spontaneous burst of crying or waving of the fist.

I would like to know if the laundry will ever be done.

Anywhom.

Watching you blossom is the sweetest thing, Goose.