Happy seven months, little mama.
You weigh twelve pounds, fifteen ounces, give or take a poop. You finally doubled your birth weight during your sixth month. You’ve sprouted rolls on your wrists, dimples on your knuckles and an amazing double chin.
Your daddy and I rarely call you by your given name. It’s a terrible habit, and I’m afraid you’ll grow up thinking that your name is “baby” or “mama” or worse, “tummy tiiime!”
You love your feet so much that you sucked the skin off the side of your big toe.
Now that you’re standing (supported) and sitting (unsupported), you hate being on your back. You’re not crawling yet, but you roll and pivot like a champ.
You’ve tried sweet potatoes, butternut squash, carrots, chicken (in a jar), peas and green beans. Chicken was the clear loser (sorry about that, it smelled gross but I fed it to you anyway).