Joy of the Boy

Deuce was four months old last week - I will have to ask parents of large families whether the time seems to shorten exponentially with each successive child, because that is my experience so far.

If second babies know that their development and personality are assessed almost entirely in the context of comparison with their siblings, no wonder they are prone to rivalry.

I don't mean to do it. Because, of course, each of my boys is as Unique and Wonderful as Peter Pan himself, and who hit what milestone at an earlier age, or who is the better sleeper of the two, is irrelevant to their inherent worth. But they are such a study in contrasts that I can't help noting their differences.

Peanut smiled at six weeks, cooed at us only intermittently, and often worried me over his avoidance of eye contact. He demanded to be held but once in my arms frequently seemed to ignore my existence. He laughed, finally, at seven months. He took 40 minute naps, defied being put into a schedule, and often refused to sleep at all without me next to him. He slept through the night for the first time when he was 2.5.

Deuce smiled at six weeks and is rarely silent. He coos, shrieks happily, gurgles, and in all ways seeks out interaction with us. While he does prefer to be held, he is happy almost anywhere as long as there are people in the vicinity who will talk to him. He has been laughing since he was two months old and now guffaws delightedly at his brother's antics.


He naps right on cue, sometimes for four-hour siestas during the day, and sleeps in seven-hour stretches in his own bed at night. It is rather well, for me, that he is my second baby, because if their birth order had been reversed I would have been lulled into a false sense of the easiness of parenting and been totally unprepared for Peanut's high needs.

Peanut is pretty much the spitting image of me as a toddler, right down to the golden-brown curls (which I finally cut short last weekend - sob - but actually his hair, unlike mine, is apparently going to stay curly, and the resultant unruly mop is very cute) and orange-based, easily-tanning skin.

Deuce has his dad's eyes and his fair pink and white skin, probably prone to freckling. His hair, in spite of my early protestations to the contrary, has quite a bit of red in it. (I thought it was wishful thinking on my part.) He is losing most of the newborn stuff, however, and it is too early to call the color of the fuzz growing in behind it, though it seems lighter. He looks so much like Mr. RB's baby pictures I think it's safe to say we have pretty good representations of each of us.

He rolls over, sits unsupported for a few seconds, chews ferociously on his hands, and produces enough drool to irrigate an acre of farmland. (How babies seem to emit fluids in amounts vastly greater than that which they take in, without becoming dehydrated, is one of the mysteries of the universe, but I'm convinced there is a solution to ending world hunger somewhere in here.) He is deliciously chubby and roly-poly, with thighs so fat it takes two people to pry him out of his bumbo seat. He is sixteen pounds and wearing 6-9 month sizes, and will probably be in 12 by Christmas.

He is a joy and delight, and I am so grateful for him. For both of them.



And in spite of their myriad differences, there are certain things that are eerily similar: