I missed writing you last week. You're getting bigger and bigger, which is continually fascinating to me. I mean, going from 5 to 6 inches is probably not a huge subjective jump, but that's a 20% increase in length. I would be 6'7" and taller than almost everyone I know, except for your cousin Booker, who is basically the Jolly Green Giant except, you know, black.
It turns out that you're going to have a cousin super close in age to you! Your aunt Brooke is 9 weeks pregnant, so at least you'll have someone to hang out with when all of us adults are like, so embarrassing.
It seems that most of the things I read about having a kiddo are perspectivized in either a) glowing, romanticized, miraculous heaven-experience, or b) birth and newborns are pure hell. Hoping that you are somewhere in the middle. My inclination towards preparing for worst case scenarios makes it so that the horrifying stories only scare me so much, but I so want to feel excited about your coming into our lives, that it's hard to not feel put off with all the cynicism.
Your grandfather (my dad) is constantly after me to take things easy, don't push myself to hard. But you are really very easy so far. You may get more cranky as you start running out of room, but hopefully my child-bearing hips will give you some space.
I've been registering for baby stuff. It's hard to know what you'll want. I hope that I am choosing things of which you would approve. I am, however, putting my foot down at all of this.