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Our drunk looking Gilligan got a clean bill of health for his 18 month wellness check. 75th percentile for weight and heigth, 98% for foot length and head circumference. (I could have told you that. Or at least my uterus could have.) My baby is a Shake Weight.

You would think that it would improve his balance but it doesn’t. He’s managed to bruise his forehead multiple times and thinks landing forcefully on his bottom is the heigth of hilarity. Only to be outdone by his sister’s comedy prowess of throwing stuffed animals in the air and laughing at him.

They’re so heartbreakingly kind to one another one second and a nanosecond later he’s ripping out chunks of her hair and trying to eat it, tipping over the tent while she’s inside, and stealing her food. Then the kindness returns again. He’s chasing her down to hug her. She’s tucking him in with her favorite princess blanket while he sleeps. They lean on, and cuddle, one another while watching cartoons. They share a bed, a bath, a sippy cup. But don’t touch her headbands or jewelry and don’t you dare take his cars or giraffe.
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She tells him that she loves him and he cries when they’re separated. He mimics her every move until she’s desparately in tears, “Owen no I need space!” It breaks my heart to hear her voice quake, makes me want to crack up with laughter at the irony, and hopeful that they love each other this much forever.
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