Month seven

Dear Eleanor,

Today you turned seven months old. For all those people who keep asking whether you’re crawling, I just don’t know. You still pull both your knees up under your body and then push forward like a seal. When you started scooting a few months ago, I always thought it would eventually lead to a hands-and-knees crawl. But you have become so proficient at this seal motion that crawling seems unnecessary.


Now that you’re faster, you’ve started to chase the pets. And if you do reach them, you yank out as much of their fur as you can. I always worried the pets would harm you; now I’m forced to protect them, these creatures with sharp teeth and quick feet. You’ve also discovered Abe’s food. You were a second away from putting a piece into your mouth when I grabbed you the other day. It does look delicious, doesn’t it? All those bright colors and fun shapes. No, I’m not going to let you eat it, but it’s probably a step up from some of the other dirt you find on the floor and put in your mouth.

Anything on the floor...

And this love affair you’re having with electrical cords needs to stop. I’m constantly moving you away from a lamp or a computer or a television, and I know that my forbidding you to chew on the cords just makes it that much more tempting. When I go to the bathroom, you inevitably try to sneak over to one of them. And I emerge to silence. I don’t know how you already have this figured out, that you need to be quiet when you’re trying to get away with something. But if I can’t hear you, that usually means you’re in a corner trying to electrocute yourself.


You’ve been babbling a lot more and trying to imitate Dad and I. We’ve said “hi” and “hello” to you so much that you often greet us now with babbles that have an “h” at the beginning. And almost all of your talking is adorable. But there’s an exception. I have taught you your first bad habit. You laugh at Dad all the time; something about him cracks you up. But you don’t laugh at me as much. A few weeks ago, I blew some raspberries at you and you laughed. So I did it again a while later, and you laughed again. And your laughter is the sweetest sound. So I kept blowing raspberries, but at some point you stopped laughing and started blowing them back. And now you blow raspberries constantly. Even when I’m breastfeeding you, you will pause to look up at me with those tender eyes, and two seconds later my face is covered with your saliva and milk. I gave birth to a camel.


I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention our vacation. We took you to Vancouver Island, and it was beautiful and awful simultaneously. You were so unhappy with the strange bed and the long car rides. Dad would put you in the baby carrier every evening so that we could walk on the beach at sunset, and you would unleash ear-piercing screams as we strolled. The happy couples around us would quicken their pace to get away. We had no idea why you were upset, so we had no way to help you. I’ve never felt as guilty as I did during those days. But our first day back home, you were jubilant. Trumpets sounded. Angels sang. Abe and Winston cuddled up together for a nap. OK, not that last one.


That’s the first time I’ve realized how much you enjoy your life here. You already recognize this place as your haven. I hope that as you get older, and maybe even (horror of horrors!) start to travel, that you’ll always feel safest here.