Hello, inability to form coherent sentences.

At my house? There is milk everywhere, I swear. (Well. On the baby and on my arms and on my clothes and on his blanket and on the spit-up cloth thingy. That’s all. I think. Maybe.)

This baby fellow, he is a month old this week. A month. One month. Has it flown by, does he seem still brand-new, does it feel like we’ve always had him? Yes and yes and yes. He’s gained a pound every week so far. We’ve been out of the house I think twice.

Not a bad existence, overall. Messy. Good.