Dear Eleanor,

Today you turned four months old. Your spunky personality has taken me by surprise. Last summer, when I was first pregnant, we visited your aunt, uncle and cousins in Pennsylvania. This was our first time meeting your cousin Beatrice, and she was so mellow and sedate that we hardly noticed she was there. Your cousin Sebastian, on the other hand, was (and still is) a little wild man, and your dad and I could not fathom how his parents kept up with him. So we were relieved when we found out you were a girl because it was clear to us that girls were much easier to handle than boys. But you, my sweet girl, are neither mellow nor sedate.

You have places to go and things to do. You have mastered moving from one end of your crib to the other. I say “moving” because you can’t yet crawl, but you have figured out something so much better than crawling. You put your forehead on the mattress, shift your weight onto your head and hands and then drag your legs forward. You are an inchworm!

You have started using this same tactic when we put you on the floor, especially if you spot a toy beyond your reach, though you still prefer rolling. We always set you on a blanket, but you’re tired of that. And now, when I set you on the blanket so that I can check my e-mail or tidy up the kitchen, I come back to find that you have rolled off the blanket, and often, halfway across the room. If I return you to the blanket, you roll away again as quickly as you can, frustrated that I have erased your progress.

As far as you are concerned, your hands and mouth are the only useful body parts you have. You tug on everything within reach, including my shirt when I’m nursing you. And when I say tug, I mean that you are trying to rip my shirt off. Is this something your dad taught you? Once you have something in your grasp, it goes into your mouth. I am sorry to report that this includes the dog. Yes, you have licked the dog. It’s as though nothing is real to you unless you can touch and taste it.

When there isn’t something going into your mouth, there’s drool coming out of it. Are you aware that Austin is in the midst of a severe drought? And here you are wasting water right and left. We could be watering the yard with that drool! And then there is the talking. So many ahh’s and la’s and oo’s. You have strung together sounds that resemble “thank you” and “good morning,” and like any good parents, your dad and I are sure that you’re a genius.

I know this is another parent cliche, but I also need to tell you about the cuteness. I have never been a girly-girl and – I hope you won’t take this personally – have never been that fond of babies. But I cannot get over you – your rose-petal-soft skin, your plump cheeks, the long lashes that frame your brown eyes. Sometimes I watch you sleep and start to cry because you are so beautiful. When you wake in the morning, you have your million-dollar smile. The only other time I’ve seen a smile like this is on the faces of Lottery winners. You haven’t won the Lottery, but as you see it, you’re just as lucky. You have a whole day in front of you for playing and exploring and eating. You’re happy because you’re alive. Thanks for reminding me what a gift this life is.

Love,

Mom

Eleanor is starting to take a lot more interest in her toys, so we often have random things scattered about the house. We recently left a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh in the middle of the family room.

Winston spotted the bear while doing his usual prowling about the house. He sunk three inches lower and froze. What was that? Hmm, not very big but suspiciously furry. He began to slowly inch closer. I could almost hear him grumbling. First that idiotic dog. Then the shrieking mini-human. What have they brought home now?

He reached the bear and gave it a tentative sniff. No idea what it was, but no matter. He thrust his tail back into the air, turned up his nose and walked away. His status as the most superior mammal in the house remained intact.

Greg almost always gets up with Eleanor in the morning while I sleep because I work nights. I decided that for Father’s Day, I should let him sleep in. And Eleanor and I were going to make him breakfast in bed (French toast, his favorite). And I had brought home the Sunday edition of the New York Times for him to read while enjoying his breakfast. It was going to be a great day.

Eleanor woke at 6:30 for a feeding, and when I put her back in her crib, she wasn’t asleep but seemed content. I grabbed the baby monitor and went back to bed. She would fall asleep in a few minutes.

More than a few minutes passed. Eleanor’s babbling got louder, so I went into her room to see if I could rock her to sleep. After much rocking and bouncing and pacing, I laid her down. And a fountain, no, a geyser, of milk erupted from her mouth. She had emptied the entire contents of her stomach. She blinked her long lashes, trying to see through the muck. I grabbed a couple burp cloths and started to dry her off and pull off all her clothes.

There was a pizza-sized wet spot on her bedding, so that would have to come off too. If I had gotten more than five hours of sleep that night, and more than four hours of sleep the night before, I might have been able to deal with this, but I am not one of those magical elves who can function without sleep.

I carried Eleanor into our room and woke Greg. At 7:20 a.m. Eleanor had not emptied the entire contents of her stomach. She spit up on him. Happy Father’s Day!

We did manage to get Eleanor to sleep a little more, and both of us got a bit more rest. But those people who eat breakfast in bed and read the Sunday Times? Those people are not parents.