"Maybe he can be the next Michael Phelps."

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear Huddy Buddy, happy birthday to me.

Tuesday was my birthday. I turned eight months old, and as papa pointed out, that's two-thirds of a year. Can you believe that? I celebrated by having a solid day at daycare -- left in the same clothes I arrived in. I didn't sleep much because I was too excited about the day.

When I came home, I was exhausted so I slept a little bit. And when mommy and papa woke me up to eat at 6, I wasn't exactly peachy. Part of it was because I was tired. Part of it was because the birthday meal was something totally different: ham and apples (I know!), oatmeal (which is becoming boring), real bananas smashed up (weird) and a bottle (yay!). I survived it, and then the fun started.

Papa was singing the tune to Low Rider and playing with my bib while mommy worked the camera. I don't know what it was, but that bib and the sounds it made were hilarious. I have never laughed so hard. We were all out of breath from laughing.

Then it was time to crawl around for a while, which was pretty fun. I kept trying to get papa's crutch, but he never would let me have it. One day ...

Finally, I had been hearing mommy and papa talk about watching Michael Phelps swim to all his gold medals in the Olympics, which are way past my bedtime. It was bath time, so I hung out in the water while mommy scrubbed me down. Then, to rinse off, I showed mommy and papa how easy it was to swim like Michael Phelps. Or at least how easy it was to make a splash!

"Maybe he can be the next Michael Phelps," mommy said. She and papa agreed that wouldn't be a bad thing at all. But just seconds later, papa added, "... or the next Peyton Manning."

Hudson W. Pate