That's right, I said 11, and I want to panic just thinking about it. 9 months was already getting too close to one year, but this 11 nonsense has got to stop. (Which is why I have expressly forbid him from getting any older. I'm crossing my fingers that it will work.)
At 11 months, Spencer continues to be the resident baby-doll of the house, over which the girls are continually arguing. (I don't blame them, though. I want a turn to hold him, too.) I honestly thought that the novelty of him would have worn off by now, but, at this point it seems that the novelty just might live on in perpetuity. And another youngest child is born, folks.
Some of Spencer's interests of late include: knocking over trash cans, playing in toilets, being so darn squirmy as to render himself nearly impossible to change, taking long baths, eating food off the floor, jabbering, and generally keeping in motion at a constant clip. He crawls fast, he eats fast, he grabs fast, and he is also quick to smile and to be comforted, though slow to laugh; so far the only things we can do to get him to laugh involve blowing raspberries and swinging him really fast back and forth. (But watch out--he just might puke after that second one.) He has such a happy personality and is a champion at being picked up, squeezed, and lugged all over the house by at least three females in this household, but more likely four.
A sweeter, more healthy, active, kissable baby I could never have asked for.
We love you Spencer, but please please please don't get any older.
P.S. Would you look at how old his new haircut makes him look? I'm dying a little bit inside, I tell you!
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