As I write this post, I am typing with one hand and knocking wood with the other, because I'm about to officially report that we have somehow been given An Easy Baby.
I'm tempted to say A Good Baby, but I know that most of the pleasing behaviors Mr. Baby demonstrates are beyond his conscious control. I can't really give him any personal credit for not puking very much, or for keeping his diaper-change showers to a minimum, or for - oh lord bless him - going from consciousness to sleep without significant outside assistance. But in irrational moments, it's hard not to think he's being so accommodating on purpose. As if it's not enough that he's simply adorable.
Last week marked my return to retail, baby in tow, and aside from a minor meltdown during the first ten minutes (mine, not his), we've been doing pretty well. It's taken some adapting, and I still haven't quite managed to tackle the mail and to-file pile growing ever larger on the counter even though I've figured out how to do 118 other things with a baby slung onto me, but overall we're handling things. And again, most of that is because I have a baby who is easily contented. As long as he's dry and full, he's a happy kid.
Sure, he's got some less than perfect habits, the primary being his dislike of being in a stopped vehicle, demonstrated by high volume, inconsolable crying that can last anywhere from 5 to 50 minutes. And he's also got an uncanny ability to wake from a dead sleep and enter his grumpiest state the moment hot food is about to enter my mouth. And he still has some highly questionable nursing habits (although those didn't stop him from tipping the midwives' scales at 12 lbs this week). But in general, I can't help but feel awestruck at his temperament. And, I must admit, a little proud. There's just something so Norse about the way he can lie calmly and quietly in a room/house/yard/store whirring with chaos.