Taken especially for my brother-in-law, Kip Willy—thought I’d do you proud! (Note the poster is hung above our bed!)

…is no Sunday at all.

At least, that’s how I’ve always felt. And a week with no church never really begins or ends properly. So it should come as no surprise to me that after missing two Sundays of church, I’m simply beginning to feel that this is the longest week ever lived. I keep thinking it’s almost the weekend — it’s gotta be — only to realize it’s only Tuesday. Bummer.

Just a week or two ago, I was contemplating how I hadn’t really and truly joined the ranks of real moms, because I hadn’t really dealt with sickness, to speak of. The real moms are the women who do the hard, heroic, heavy-duty vomit clean-up. At least, in my book.

Well, I shouldn’t contemplate things like that, because no sooner had the thought formulated than Jameson got a cold that started to keep him up, and then I got the flu, which put me in bed with hallucinations (almost), and then Jameson decided to do the fever thing, too. So, not only have I missed church and lost track of what day it is, I’ve also done nothing but laundry and the occasional meal prep for almost two weeks. Even if I did feel energetic enough to accomplish something, there’s a bleary-eyed baby who wants nothing more than for his mama to hold him. Daddy simply won’t do; it must be mama.

And that’s okay.

For the most part.

I confess to starting to go nuts today when I realized yet another spring day had slipped by, while I blew my nose and cuddled my crying baby. In an attempt to curb the onset of full-blown cabin fever, I did step out to get the mail. And since we’re confessing, I’ll also admit that I took advantage of Ryan watching the baby, and I stayed at the mailbox for a few seconds longer than actually necessary.

It felt wonderful.

Tonight Ryan had a dinner engagement, but before he left, he contracted the services of a certain sister. She helped me by vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom, and holding the baby while I made us some dinner. We made cookies together and talked the whole time, and she forgot to add the flour, which is such a sisters-in-the-kitchen-together sort of thing to do. But the point is I had a wonderful evening because she was here with me, and sometimes holding a 22 pound baby all day gets very tiring, but the evening is more fun than long when shared with a sister. And that 22 pound baby happens to adore our sisters, by the way. His and mine — they’re all hits.

Yes, 22 pounds. And 3.2 ounces, to be exact. HOLY COW. Let’s say that again. HOLY COW.

Spring is coming, Ryan’s going to California for 2 weeks, and I need clothes for little man’s first Easter (and probably for Danica’s first post-baby Easter, too. You know what I mean.)

I could go on and on. Signs of being in an apartment, sick, with a sick baby, having missed too much church, for too long.

But I’ll end. Good night.

Half a year.

Halfway to a year old, that is.

These past six months have given me lots of opportunities to reaffirm that “it won’t last forever.” Write it down, ’cause it’s gone before I have time to realize it. That applies to the cute little scrunch-up-my-nose-when-I-wake-up face, and to the 2 and 3 a.m. bedtimes. Gone. Over. Alive only in baby books.

I try not to cry. I do sometimes. But mostly I’m just caught up with how much he’s growing.

He’s mastered rolling over this month, for instance. Thwump. A moment lapses. Thwump, again. It’s the sound of Jameson rolling from tummy to back to tummy — whichever way seems to be advantageous in the procuring of the currently desired object.

He’s also already outgrown baby toys and would rather go for the stack of paperwork. I really honestly thought the stuffed animals would hold a bit more intrigue at this point. Oh well.

He’s become aggressive in his interaction with life. It’s like two weeks ago, he woke up and realized he could actually be a part. Suddenly he’s reaching and scooting and grabbing and deciding who he wants to be with. It’s so amazing! There’s a little person in there! For real!

He reaches for me now, too. How cool is that? In the middle of the night, when he whimpers from his basket, I bend to pick him up — and see little hands waving towards me in the dark. Oh, man, how awesome!

He laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s the most amazing thing to look in his bluer-than-blue eyes and know that he knows we’re having fun together. He also does this new upset routine. He must have figured out that being sad motivated me to do what he wanted, so if he just feigned sadness, maybe he’d get the same result… It’s a riot. I’m not sure he was hoping for the hysterical laughter that ensues every time he pulls that stunt.

We read books, and he’s already got a favorite. We play peek-a-boo and make funny noises with our lips. Sometimes I get on the floor next to him, and he thinks that’s totally awesome. Ryan has voices for the three favorite stuffed animals, and Jameson will break into a grin the minute he hears the voice — never mind seeing the toy. He’s mastered his Johnny-Jump-Up and can get some serious air. He also can spin like nobody’s business. And of course, we sing all day. Some songs are “real” songs, and lots of them are just silly-mama songs. (You know. The kind I make up without really thinking, but please don’t ever repeat them to me.)

So, at 6 months, I don’t have any real genius activity to report. Just normal stuff that all you moms have seen over and over. Truth be told, so had I. Babies aren’t new to me. I’ve held and loved more than my share as the oldest Sinclair. (Which means, Bri, that according to Merrick I will always know more than you.) But this being a mom thing, having my very own son… Wow. I can’t believe how totally caught up I am in how his diapers fit and how runny his nose is and if he’s lost more hair or not and how absolutely perfect his cheeks are for kissing. I love him.

Yeah. I love him.

That’s all.

(More six month pics on the ol’ flickr.)

…ice-turned-slush in March.

…turning the heat down — and having the temperature go up!

…putting a sweater and pilot cap on the baby and calling him good to go.

…breezing out the door sans jacket (or boots or gloves or scarves or….)

…a springtime urge to make something!

…starting AND FINISHING dinner in daylight.

You gotta love the baby-step-towards-summer kinds of days.