Time, you deceiver.

Five months old, Viv is five months old today, and is celebrating by coughing her lungs up from a bronchial virus.  Can she be this big?  She weighs 15.8 pounds, according to the doctor's scale, still spot on at the 75th percentile, but lanky.  She has a long, skinny midsection and all of her pants, while too big in the waist, are already too short.  Her twiggy arms are utterly unlike her pleasantly hamhocky thighs.  She also has really big feet.  Can it be that she'll be tall?

This kid, this little peanut has completely reordered the way I think about life, and even though it's going by way too fast, the changes she undergoes every day are so exciting that I eagerly await each new coordinated hand eye movement.  She smiles every time she sees me, even if I've only been out of the room for a second.  Every morning, she wakes up happy, thrilled to bits to be seeing us again.   I wondered, before bringing her home, how to spend time with her.  What would we do?  Now, the days seem to fly.  I chew on her ears and cheeks constantly, and the bald patch on the back of her head is more bald because I rest my cheek against it.  She likes to play by herself already, which I hope is a good sign for her future intellect.  She's teething and so droolier than a hungry basset hound, and she's eating real food, so the mess is substantial.  She goes through five bibs a day at least.  She's sitting up almost entirely on her own and she can roll partially over in both directions.  She's an utter genius and I love her so much I have to close my eyes and remember to breathe.