At 4 months Lincoln is so healthy and happy, and by far the best-behaved Wallace baby. He's been sleeping through the night since he was a month old. We're talking over 10 consecutive hours. I can't imagine dealing with life without the wonderful amounts of REM sleep I enjoy every night.
Now Lincoln is smiling, cooing, rolling back and forth between his stomach and back, he's grabbing toys, clasping his hands, sucking on his fingers, and will laugh occasionally. His therapists were so impressed during their visit Friday. Lincoln continues to make progress. And I forget about his diagnosis. I mean, yes, I remember he has Down Syndrome in the "Let's participate in the fundraising walk!" sense, and I am fully on board with scheduling all the therapy and appointments he "needs." But in the day-to-day sense, he's my happy, healthy baby.
Until something reminds me. Little things like the physical therapist mentioning that he'll need extra help propping himself up as he learns to sit because his arms are shorter. And when I take him in for his 4-month well-visit, I can't check "sits with support" on the milestones list. And when the doctor says we need to do another blood draw in a couple of months because he has borderline indicators for hypothyroidism.
In the grand scheme, these are very small things. But being reminded of them isn't easy. And I get knocked a little off kilter for a day or so.
But it passes. I'm looking over at Lincoln, who is grinning at me around the thumb crammed in his mouth, grabbing his foot and filling his diaper. He's ready to eat and join his brother who is already asleep. And he'll give me another fabulous night's sleep. And I'm going to rock tomorrow.