Dear Roro,
Your blog is a bit late this month, sorry.
Your brother still thinks your name is baby brother, it’s what we called you to keep your name a secret and we haven’t really broken the habit. In his defense, we rarely stick to one moniker, thus far you’ve been called baby brother, Rowan, Roro, Row, Rows, Row-da-bows, lil’boo, wee lamb, and plucked chicken (although that is strictly used at bath time).
I’m slowly resuming dairy thanks to our learning you have acid reflux, not a protein sensitivity. You’re a much happier child now, although you’re still you, and want to be held or having conversation most of the day.
Your favorite person is your big brother; your eyes follow him wherever he goes when he’s in the room. You think the puppies are pretty awesome too, but only Snow is allowed to lick your toes, Dark is just a bit to rough in her own babyish way.
You like to drive with the windows down, you and your father have that in common. Your brother and I would prefer we found a different way to make transportation interesting.
You drool at such a severity, purchasing bibs on every grocery trip does not feel excessive and we’re still working on you sleeping somewhere besides my bed and in the carrier.
On the bright side your hair is fabulous, which your father pointed out that I neglected to style it for your photos. Next time kid.
Love,
Mummy
P.s. please make “mummy” a thing, your brother used to call me “mum” and it made my British-wannabe heart soar.
