Month fourteen

Dear Eleanor,

Yesterday you turned 14 months old. If you’re wondering why this is a day late, then perhaps you would like to talk about napping. I know I would. Where are your naps? They have gone missing. For months, you had slept every day from about 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. My day revolved around that nap — my time to shower and make lunch.

The past few weeks, you have continued to get cranky at this time. You become clumsy and bump into things, then drop to the floor to roll around and cry. You need that nap, but when I put you in your crib, you start to babble happily. I wait a while for you to sleep, but you don’t. I get you back up, and you’re happy for five minutes before the rolling on the floor begins anew. By the time you finally do fall asleep, sometimes two hours later, I’m the one rolling on the floor.

Your palate has also been giving us challenges. All of a sudden, a lot of things you used to like are getting flung to the floor. Always over the right side of your high-chair, where Abe is stationed. You also do this in restaurants, apparently not realizing that there is no dog. Yesterday you refused to eat pizza! Apples remain your one true passion, which is interesting because I craved them the whole time I was pregnant. You scream — I mean tears-running-down-your-face, bright-red SCREAM — when we take an apple core away from you.

The biggest news is the walking. In the past few weeks, you’ve gone from a few tentative steps between furniture to full-out wobbling everywhere. It’s a little scary because you can disappear very quickly, but it’s such a thrill to see you navigate the world upright.

We’ve taken you on several adventures this month — to a strawberry patch, the set of a Western movie and the JFK museum in Dallas — and everywhere we go people want to meet you. They wave at you and talk to you and help me with my groceries. You bring out such kindness and happiness in people. And almost all of them tell me to enjoy these fleeting moments. I hear this so often that I nearly want to cry at my inability to freeze time. If I could bottle up a little of this wobbly, babbling version of you and uncork the bottle in 20 years, I would.