Well, it was bound to happen eventually. My perfect little lump of a baby is turning on me. Well, not on me exactly. More on the entire concept of physical development. He's still doing his best to maintain his happy demeanor, even when in obvious discomfort. I'm assuming it's the start of teething, perhaps accompanied by a poorly timed growth spurt, that has been causing his fussiness, sleeplessness and constant desire to nurse. I sort of blew it off the first night he woke up every 90 minutes, and then got a little annoyed the second night, and by the third night I was starting to panic a bit. I've heard of agreeable infants morphing into cranky, combustible babies at this exact age, so I started to worry that our carefree days were over. But this baby is still just trying so hard to be content. He'll have half a smile on his face, even when he's fussing.
I know I shouldn't gloat over his placid personality, and I really shouldn't compare it to Miss M's. Because of course, Miss M will end up as the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and sitting on the board of the Jolie-Pitt Foundation while I'm still trying to get a very calm, content Mr. Baby out of his apartment in our garage.