If there's one humbling thing that the wretched cough that accompanies this interminable, abysmal cold has taught me, it's that I should not have been so quick to congratulate myself on the speedy post-partum recovery of my bladder control.
On the plus side, if there can be said to be one, the small creature who both gave me this cold and, somewhat indirectly, did this terrible, terrible thing to my bladder, seems to have rounded a bend, personality-wise.
That's right. My boy -- he of the at-best-deadpan expression, the mercurial temperament, the tendency to blame others for life's ills -- has become a card. A joker. A comedian. A charmer. In other words, a fun baby.
He chuckles helplessly when you kiss his neck. (Actually, the action is less like kissing and more like starting to blow a raspberry then suddenly going "CHOMP-chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp" on his neck. Cracks him up. Every time.) If you holler "KISS!" when zooming close to his face, he opens his mouth wide and plants a big, smile-y, drool-y one on you. When you pick him up, he grabs you around the neck in a fiercely enthusiastic bear hug (admittedly using the opportunity to also practise his fine motor skills on handfuls of your hair, but hey! Whatever!). For some mysterious reason, if you clap your hands you can get him to go from crying to smiling in under three seconds. I guess he just appreciates the applause. He flirts shamelessly with strangers, particularly our yoga instructor and the ladies at the deli. I can actually put him down in his crib or exersaucer for minutes at a time to go to the bathroom or whatever, and still return to a happy baby, and not one who's screaming and glaring accusingly at me like I just tied a steak around his neck and left him in the dingo cage at the zoo.
My boy. Fun. I'm reeling.