Real Deal Holyfield

We trekked throught the slush today and made it to Will's pediatrician for his four-month checkup.

I would say my predictions were spookily accurate, except that since I spend every waking moment (and some sleeping ones) with the kid, I guess it isn't spooky at all.

Will's just over 16 pounds, just over 25 inches, his head is DaveNoonalicious (=elephantine) and he remains bigger than 75% of babies his age in all three categories. I know, alert the media and all that.

Four months, though...it's a really fantastic age. We were reading Brazelton's "Touchpoints"--an old edition thereof, with children dressed in plaid shirts with wing-tipped collars and bell-bottomed cords--and he describes how smitten parents are with their four-month-olds, how they form a little adoring trifecta in his office. Although Dave wasn't there to make up the third point in the triangle, I can attest that this visit was different from our first two because now that he has an actual personality to speak of, WILL IS JUST SO HAPPY ALL THE TIME.

Whether he's a baby, a teenager, or one of those full-fledged grown-ups, anyone who smiles and laughs and chirps at the mere sight of you is bound to make you ecstatic, in return, at the sight of him. So, as T. Berry could have guessed, Will and I spent all our free time (in between the vaccinating and measuring and stethoscoping) cooing and grinning at each other like a couple of daffy fools in love.

"What a good-natured guy," one nurse said as Will chuckled gutturally while I undressed him.

"Yeah," I agreed. "He's spoiling us for the rest of our kids, I imagine."

"Four months, that's the age," she replied. "Trust me--anywhere from four to nine months, oh man, I'll take it. It's the best."