4 weeks, three days and eating

Bun-baby is officially a month old, whether you're counting by weeks or days. Fast, fast, super-fast, says Mama, as time flies by us again. It's incredible how quickly the days go. Except for those super slow parts when our Bee-baby-now-pre-schooler is out of sorts at the exact same moment our Bun-baby is screaming for food. Those parts do not fly by. They seem to linger, dissipating at an unbelievably sluggish pace.

The tiny baby sister is a sweet one, spending most of her daytime moments asleep and waking for conversation in the evenings while she enjoys (endless) hours of multi-course, specially prepared meals. She's cuddly, and soft, and growing. A lot.

Our girl came home from the hospital a bitty, teeny six pounds and eleven ounces. So small and wrinkly, with not a bit of baby-fat anywhere. Two weeks later, she was back to her birth weight, and a mere twelve days after that, she's surpassed her big sister's birth weight at 8lbs, 7oz. That's a big jump in the percentile chart, and some serious encouragement for a tired Mama who wasn't quite sure if her little Bun was getting enough to eat. Turns out, she totally is.

Not to let her height out-do her weight, Bun's head to toe statistics show an increase as well. She's up from her 20 inch birth length by 1.5 inches to a super-model tall 21 and a half inches.

Big sis accompanied her to this latest doctor's appointment, and was a model of perfect behavior and decorum. The baby sis was slightly less amiable, and graced the entire office with an operatic show of lung power. In the bitty one's defense, she was hungry (though she'd eaten but an hour earlier), and when she's hungry, well, she's just a tiny bit less than content.

Current family status:
Bun-baby: temporarily full, clean, and sleeping on Mama's bed.
Bee-baby: full, clean, dressed and playing with her Thomas, her bunny, her duck and the salt & pepper mills.
Dadoo: tired, @work, tired, still the cutest boy I ever saw.
Mama: tired, @(home)work, tired, tired, and thankful.
George Rémoulade: tired, frightened, hiding in the bathroom laundry.