Stella in the Johnny Jump Up. She likes it and maybe it will help strengthen her legs--she is what my mom calls a 'floppy' baby, just like aunt Becka was.
Stella's new do. Her hair fits into a piggy tail but it is still pretty sparse.
Still trying to roll over! Will it ever happen? I guess it makes me worry less that she isn't rolling over in her sleep . . . although Presley slept on her stomach starting at about 3 months.
4 comments:
Stella is getting so big. I have learned that babies are all so different and they all do things when they want even if they can. Your girls are adorable. I love the hand prints! They turned out so cute.
Given the little turd that P has been lately, I am wishing Stell-Bug could stay like this for a while.
I also found this little number and thought it appropriate:
Song to Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female
by Ogden Nash
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.
Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.
hahaha, I love what chris wrote! O he is in for a treat with these two cuties :)
Cute little Stella.
Yep Chris is in for it. Sorry big guy.
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