Category Archives: Monthly letter

Month fourteen

Posted on May 4, 2010 by | Comments Off

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.

Love,

Mom

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Month thirteen

Posted on April 3, 2010 by | Comments Off

Dear Eleanor,

Today you turned 13 months old. I wasn’t planning to write these letters beyond your first year, but after your birthday, you just kept doing new things. The journalist in me can’t let it all pass without a written record, but I am busy these days chasing you around, so these messages will have to become shorter.

Yes, so your birthday party, The Saddest Birthday Party Ever, as I have come to call it. You awoke feverish and completely lethargic on the day of the party. You refused to be set down for even a moment, so I held you while Dad called all the other parents to tell them not to bring their kids. We still had our adult friends over because someone had to eat all that cake. You slept through most of it, then awoke. But for you, I think the waking was a bit of a nightmare because we brought you downstairs to a bunch of scary, tone-deaf grown-ups who began singing to you. Tears streamed down your face, so we reduced our singing to a whisper. But you forgave us when we gave you the cake. Wow. You and that cake: There was passion.

Your grandparents came to visit this month, and Grandpa taught you several bad things. First off is the pillow fighting. You always want to wrestle with us on the bed now. You crawl over to your changing pad all the time and lay there until I find you. This is your way of asking me to bring out the pillows. “Hey, Mom. I’m on this soft surface now, so this would be a great time to clobber me.”

The second bad habit involves your walking cart. Dad and I got you this cart for your birthday to help you improve your walking. Initially, you were thrilled to push it around the house. Then Grandpa showed you how you could sit in the front while he pushed. And guess what? Getting a ride is a lot better than giving one. You spend about half your day sitting in the front of the cart. Even if I’m not pushing, you sit there and wait like a queen expecting her horses to be hitched to her chariot. And Dad and I are the horses. The horses who can barely stand up straight after pushing you all day.

Every day as your mom is a thrill. Many days now you seem more like a little girl than a baby. And every day, I think I couldn’t possibly love this cautious, stubborn, playful child any more than I do right now. But then the next day, I do.

Love,

Mom

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Posted in Monthly letter, Parenthood

Month twelve

Posted on March 3, 2010 by | Comments Off

Dear Eleanor,

Today you turned 1 year old. Happy birthday, my beautiful girl! A year ago, we met for the first time, and my life split open. Even after all those months of waiting for you and imagining your face and feeling your punches, I wasn’t ready. Nurses kept bringing you into the hospital room and talking about my baby, but it didn’t sink in. They told Dad to change your diapers and told me to feed you, and I just wondered why they were foisting this baby on us. Who were we to take care of this little stranger? She should be with her parents.

Then they sent you home with us. My gosh, these crazy people are giving us this human! Learning to be your mom was the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced, bigger than calculus and moving away from home and enduring food poisoning in foreign countries. Did I just compare having you to getting food poisoning? I mean that in the most loving way.

Now we have survived a year together, and your needs seem small compared to all the joy you give back. And I’ll probably regret saying this, but you are at your funniest when you disobey me.

Our baby book says that you can understand “no” at this age, but if you get it, you’re not letting on. You have become obsessed with the bathtub. You constantly crawl into your bathroom, stand at the tub and smack your hand against it. This is your way of demanding things. If you want more food, you smack your high chair. If you can’t reach a toy, you smack the table it’s on. I might as well buy you a gavel because you are Judge Eleanor and this home is your courtroom.  You really don’t need a bath twice a day, so on a few occasions, I’ve set you in the empty tub with your toys. This, of course, did not satisfy you. You smacked the faucet to demand water.

Even more troublesome than the bathtub is the stairs. Whenever you get quiet, I know I’ll find you halfway up the stairs to the second floor. How can someone so short scale them so quickly? You could lead mountain expeditions. I follow you up, and when you get to the top, you crawl into your room and slam the door. The only problem with this is that you can’t open it, so you have to wait for rescue. You don’t even think about it though because you’ve crawled into your bathroom. To bang on the tub. Again.

Dad, who is excited that you’re climbing the stairs (and incidentally, isn’t in charge of watching you ALL DAY LONG), has started chasing you up. You squeal with glee as you try to get away from him. You’re always up for a game of peek-a-boo. You like to hold kitchen towels over your face while Dad and I pretend that you’re invisible and call out, “Eleanor, where are you?” A few nights ago, you tried to play peek-a-boo with Abe when he licked you on the face. You don’t like his licks, so best to become invisible, right? Sadly, Abe could still see you.

Given my talk of calculus and food poisoning and other hardships, perhaps you’re wondering why you’re here. I’ll back up a little and see if I can explain. A few years ago, your dad and I went to Alaska. It was the most fantastic time we’ve had, day after day of brand new things. We watched glaciers crack into the ocean, grizzlies lunge for salmon and puffins flutter about. That part of the world holds an orchestra of color and sound. We talked about how even though we were having a great time, it would be even better if we could share it with other people. And we wanted to share it with someone who had fresh eyes, someone who would be even more awed than we were.

Eleanor, every day with you holds a little bit of that awe. We took you to the zoo recently, and I kept thinking what it must be like to see a lion or a wolf for the first time. I’m so used to them now that I sometimes forget how magical they are. Yesterday I gave you ice cream for the first time, chocolate. And you frowned! Why was I giving you this very cold food? It stung. But after a few more bites, you realized that it melted into creamy perfection in your mouth. Every taste and object and person is new to you. Watching you reminds me to savor the ice cream, to wonder at the lion, to race up the mountain. To live.

Love,

Mom

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Posted in Monthly letter, Parenthood, Pictures