The two-month appointment at the pediatrician's was nine kinds of awful. The Bug laid there, flirting joyously with the nurse, and then she stuck him FOUR TIMES. The first stick, he froze, looked surprised, as if he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He shrieked bloody murder through and after the next three. I felt so bad. I hugged him until he hiccupped himself to sleep, then he slept most of the day, waking only for short feeding sessions and Tylenol doses.

Doc says he's short and chubby. He doesn't have much chance of remaining short, as his parents are both tall, so he should enjoy it while it lasts.

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The Bug has many, many chins.



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One would think The Bug owns no clothing. He really does have a cupboard full of it, but he's too cute without it.

Here he is, stealthily putting the zebra down his pants, like his namesake Gabe.



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Glamor shot.



And... a not-so-glamor shot.



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He now has keys. It's a big step in a person's life, the having of keys. I told him: "The blue one is the key to the sky; the green one is the key to the grass; the yellow one is the key to the sun; the red one is the key to the flowers; and the purple one is the key to your Gramma."