honey, i still don't think james even knows who i am.

you should spend more time with him.

what time? i'm so busy—

—pushing that car around in final fantasy?

ian is not wrong. final fantasy xv came out last week after a full decade in production and i've logged 26 smooth hours of circling around marshy patches looking for five dumb frogs. my autobiography should be titled i know i am wasting my life but i can't stop.

mr. james turned 4 months old on december 1st, cruising on an arc of sensory and motor development that peaked in the constant desire to cradled by his father like a baby otter. he is less excited about being carried by his mother, who has such astonishingly poor upper body strength that she might clinically be an anemone. i also need to sit down a lot for reasons unknown.

he is exhibiting all the symptoms of teething already. his little cheeks always look mad flushed like he's tried on every blush at sephora, there is a steady river of drool pouring from him at all times, and he is gumming ferociously on anything and everything within reach. he has rolled over a grand total of twice and decided that he wasn't about that life. he is also now a real enough person to clutch his own bottle and put his own pacifier back in his mouth, albeit with arduously clumsy and fumbling motions. when he flails awkwardly with his little ham fists and biscuit arms, he finally looks like me- a drunk person.

in addition to his physical development, baby james has also picked up a mental shrewdness that has definitely surprised me. after 3 solid months of being a turnip, james now recognizes his favorite faces (ian, my mom, his own) and cries when there are too many people around (same). he has even locked eyes with momo a few times, but continues to ignore jean-luc (same). and most importantly, he is happier and louder in leaps and bounds with every week that passes.

the curse of the infamous and dreaded 4 month sleep regression, that flame of udûn, has yet to plague our household. james has truly been sleeping 11 hours through the night, every night, since around 11 weeks old. i try not to gloat about this but every day feels like an undeserved miracle. the desperate scrabble for two hours of sleep during the first month seems like a distant memory of a half-forgotten hazing.

and of course, i'm squandering all these precious nights by staying up too late reading old lipstick alley threads, trying to find that tea on what weird stuff drake is into.