When they put him on my belly, immediately after birth, I was stunned. Was this squirmy, hot, wet thing the same thing that was my pregnant belly? No, you read that right: pregnancy was my belly, not what was inside it; the baby, outside it, bawling, came seemingly from out of nowhere. Why was he so hot and wet? And why was he crying?
Now he's four months old, drooling, laughing, and putting everything in his mouth.
At first I thought that six weeks was my favorite age. He was so portable. I took him with me everywhere: to classes, to meetings, even to a conference. He would ride in my little pouch on the bus and the motion of the bus would put him to sleep. He had no opinions. He was happy being fed every two hours (every. two. hours.) and changed when he pooed (every. two. hours.) and so alert, looking around with his enormous eyes.
But now, at four months, when he giggles and coos when he sees his papa and opens wide when he sees his mama; when he gets excited when he sees boobies (I guess most men do); when he grunts to indicate bedtime --- I think this is my favorite age. It's delightful to sort out his preferences, to play, to interact. That's something we didn't have at six weeks.
He's a puzzle, and the pieces are still forming. But as they do, we can snap them into place. The landscape that is my son is growing, and it's an exciting time.