Nothing all that amusing has happened over the last few days. I’ve had a headache since Monday, if that counts for anything. Seems like I’ve just been this heavy weight that drags everyone down lately. But that will change! I’ll start being more chipper. I’ll skip and run and sing little songs!

Right. Gertrude’s learning how to smile and laugh. The process is amazing to watch. She’s learning that this “thing” that’s attached to the things that make her see is controllable. She eats her hands as though they are hamburgers and she’s the remaining contestant on Survivor. What’s funny is she has no couth (how many two month olds do?) so she makes horrible, sloppy slurping sounds. It’s like a giant leech has landed.

But the smiles and laughs are the best. They just seem to come out of her, as if she’s suddenly overcome by joy. When she smiles, it’s with her whole head. When she laughs, it’s not a giggle, but a full belly laugh.

It’s hard to say what triggers her humor. Sometimes it’s silly voices, or rubbing her cheeks. Other times, she’ll spit up an ungodly amount of milk and then laugh, as though she’s part of a medieval king’s court and vomiting is just part of mealtime. It’s gross . . . but funny.

No one can really explain how you feel when your little baby smiles. As an uncle I just thought it was cool. As a father, it’s a different matter entirely. I want to call everyone I know. Take pictures and share them with complete strangers.

“See that? She smiles! I mean, really smiles! How many kids do you know who can do that? One? Maybe two total. See? We’re good parents! She’s a happy baby. No pouting little babies for us. Nosirree! We only have the happy, laughing babies!”

Of course, it’s totally normal. And it’s probably all gas, as the old wife’s tale claims. Why is that? Were babies not allowed to be happy once upon a time?

”That’s not a smile. It’s gas. Doesn’t this baby know there’s a war/depression/global catastrophe/evolutionary change/tidal shift on?”

Luckily, we aren’t living in the times of baby denial. Gertrude is allowed to be as happy as she wants to be. As long as my credit card and boys aren’t involved.

Well. I feel better now. Almost happy! But, it’s probably gas.

More later . . .

(Please note in the paragraph above I referred to an “old wife’s tale.” This was not a reference to my wife in any way, shape or form. My wife is quite young and beautiful. She is not, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be an old wife. She will always be young and jubilant. She will always be beautiful. And her butt will never look fat in those jeans. On this I swear, so help me God.)