I am officially registering a complaint, Mr. David. Oh yes I am. I would like to know, in no uncertain terms, why you have failed to "stop growing so fast!" as I have repeatedly instructed you? I mean it. You had better stop. This just can't be happening. Oh no it can't. You are not six months old, no sirree. Lorelei is not nearly two. Isaiah is not four, and Ben is not five. No. No. No! It's all a figment of my imagination. You are all my little wee babies still. I refuse to accept reality. But I know it's no use. You, my little wigglebug, are flipping side to side, tummy to front, and doing crazy break dance circles around the playroom. And in 9 to 12 month old onesies, and busting through your pants because you are so very tall, just like your brothers and sister (and uncles and aunties and great uncles and aunties and, well, just accept it, y0u were born into a family o' giants). I used to tease my daddy, Mr. David, because he could never quite get my age right- he'd always say I was two or three years younger than I actually was, and he was being entirely serious. It became a running joke- "How old am I, Dad?" "What year was I born?" But now, here I am, and although it's still funny, I totally understand it. I simply can't believe you are half a year old. It is far too fast for me! Just sayin'. You can slow down anytime. Got a whole life ahead of ya. But in case you decide to keep on growing, and I have a feeling you will, I love you forever, I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.