Eugenious

Dear Elena,

To celebrate your five months breathing air, you took me on a hike up Spencer Butte on Thursday, where I breathed lots of air (actually, it’s called “sucking wind”). Just out of the parking lot, the Douglas firs rained on us, so soaked were they by clouds blowing through. But, as we climbed, the trees quickly dried out, then the sun shone through the clouds. I just assumed the fog was burning off, but, when we hit the bald summit, I looked out to see a sea of clouds dotted with nunataks, all those hills higher than about 1600 feet. Even Mt. Pisgah, north and east of us, was just an undersea mount, hidden in the foggy sea. Mt. Jefferson and the Three Sisters, completely snow-covered, stood tall on the eastern horizon, though. The sky appeared lit from within it was so blue and perfect.

I was reminded, as I am nearly every time I actually get outside, that the nature nearby inspires in me a desire to be outside even more, a convenient consequence. I’ll try to take you on more walks, Elena. (Shh, don’t tell him, but we might have to hike when that brother of yours is at school, since he tries to ride on my shoulders every time I take him for a walk longer than two blocks.)

This is  your view at the start of the hike (minus my nostrils, to spare our readers):

Then you took a rest:

Then the sun broke through:

And – cue the boys choir – the mountains:

You’ve been busy recently. On Christmas day, you finally managed to roll from your back to your belly, and we haven’t been able to keep you in one place ever since. You roll to your tummy and push up into a flawless Cobra position, then you scoot yourself backward, traveling impressive distances and lodging your legs under chairs.

You’re not crying much in the car any more, although you’ve realized that we’ll love you even if you cry at home. Or at work. Or in the grocery store. Still, though, you’re pretty receptive to distraction, especially of a musical sort – if you can call Little Rabbit Fufu music.

Hey there, what's your name?

Daddy set up your crib when we returned from our Christmas travels. You spend the first part of every night on your own, then you come into bed with us at your first request for milk, usually between 1 and 3 a.m. You take naps in your crib with little fuss; just twenty minutes ago, I put you in your crib, and, after only seven minutes of a very sad Elena, you turned your head into your pink lovey bunny from Uncle Tim, Aunt Michele, and Elliot and gave in to sleep.

Santa's cutest elf

The U.S. Senate wanted to commemorate your first five months, too. They voted on January 15 to set aside two million acres of public land in nine states as Wilderness. Yippee, more room to roam without encountering any cars!

I love you,
Mommy

Dear Elena,

Your little fingernails scratched my face, pulling me from dreams so apparently dull I’d forgotten them before they were over. In the past three weeks, Elena, you have started to touch anything that looks interesting — my mushy face in the morning, chimey lion, who makes pretty music, the red trousers lying near your head, or the box of wipes in the bathroom. I actually don’t remember reading soft, crinkly books with Sylvan, or at least I don’t remember him enjoying them like you do. You reach right out and feel the soft noses and satiny wings.

And you’re talking! It’s in a dialect that I haven’t learned yet, but you’re stringing together subjects with verbs, creating phrases about how exciting it is that you have this newly discovered voice. Sometimes you talk to yourself, and, if I enter your field of vision when you’re feeling chatty, you’ll converse back and forth with me.

Touch, talk, and Tephra. You’re such a quiet, gentle presence that Tephra cat doesn’t run as if the Dementors are reaching for her with their cold claws when you enter the room. She will, in fact, come up and ask for my attention when you’re on my lap. You don’t understand the significance of this yet, but you will. Tephra is afraid of everything. Most recently, she’s realized that monsters live in Daddy’s office skylight at night — but only when the light is on. The monsters wave at her when Daddy waves at them. She pretends they can’t see her, but she keeps one eye turned upward, awaiting disaster.

Daddy says that you’re laughing with him when he plays peek-a-boo with you. I think he’s hoping you are. But keep flashing those pearly gums and playing innocent. It’ll work wonders when you get arrested for [CENSORED] when you’re fifteen. Just ask Aunt Jenny.

You had your two-month check-up on Halloween, when you were two and a half months old. Dr. Weiner placed you on your tummy and asked if you’d rolled over yet. “No,” I said, then looked at you, flipping effortlessly onto your back. “Um, I guess she has now.” You can’t depend on your roll-over muscles yet, but you’re getting there. And, in your manic desire to reach the wicker hamper, you’ve even rolled from your back to your front, a more difficult maneuver. That hamper is such a good friend that you’ve even rotated 180º around your head, like the hands on a clock, in order to see it better.

You can still fall asleep on your own if we catch you before you’re so sleepy that you’re grumpy. If you retain this ability, we might not have to deal with repeatedly laying down the overtired toddler who’s screeching at 2 a.m. (and, yes, fellow parents, I’m knocking everything wooden within reach)

And you still don’t like the car. Car rides are, quite honestly, miserable. (Be forewarned, Grampa! The ride home from the airport might seem even longer with Miss Elena in the car.)

We love you anyway.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Elena,

You found your hands! While you don’t cry much anyway, you’ve found another way (other than just sunny disposition) to soothe yourself: sucking on that big, index-finger knuckle. Your flailing hands aren’t always reliable, but you’re slowly bringing them under control. Well done.

I remember how Sylvan struggled with tummy time. Most kids do, now that babies are put to sleep on their backs. While you don’t revel in it like you did at two weeks of age, you’re still pretty good at it, and, if I give you enough time on your round belly, you’ll probably flip right over here pretty soon.

On the day you turned six weeks old, you smiled at your faithful friend, the shiny toilet. Two days later, you smiled at me. Now you’ve even smiled at a few lucky strangers who probably look particularly pleasant to you.

Two weeks ago, you and I boarded a bus for our commute to work for the first time. Since then, we’ve taken the bus once more and driven twice. You sleep and eat throughout the 55-minute bus ride up the McKenzie River, the river sparkling in the morning sun, hiding redds of fresh salmon eggs. When I look up from my morning reading, the quiet but powerful Strange as This Weather Has Been, bigleaf maples brighten to yellow as the days close in on winter. You and I surprised a pileated woodpecker as we walked up Barry’s drive the other day; he called as he flew from tree to tree, slightly farther from us with each flight. You bent your head back from me, listening.

You’re a great baby to bring to work. You can put yourself to sleep, you’re rarely upset for long, you let me know when you would like a diaper change (now, please), you’ll sleep on the seat of a bus, and you don’t mind if I bonk your head as you eat while I type.

You’re a dear one.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Elena,

Happy First Month outside of my amazing shrinking belly! You’ll notice that your very first birthday message is late; you should learn never to expect any better. While I mean well, I’m rarely on top of things.

Today you helped your brother settle down for his nap. You lay on his bed next to him, listening to Frog and Toad adventures while he alternately asked “why?” questions about the stories, patted your head with gentle hands, and rooted around in the blankets like a little piglet. You listened, watching my face as I changed voices for different characters. You became a bit distressed when you’d lay there for a while; your little arms and legs picked up speed, windmilling around as you grunted. I thought I’d have to pick you up to soothe you, but I kept reading, then looked down at you. You’d fallen asleep.

This little picture of our lives illustrates a major difference between you and your older brother. You just fell asleep on your own. Not in anyone’s arms, not in a sling, not swaddled, not while walking around or bouncing on a yoga ball, not while being shushed or sung to. You just fell asleep. While I realize that it’s still early, that you still might turn into a beastly crying machine, I’m going to continue to appreciate you and hope for the best.

I appreciate that I can leave you in a bassinet and that you will look at the contrasting light basketry and dark shadow until your eyelids droop and your lip movement belies your REM sleep. I appreciate that you usually only cry when you need your diaper changed, you’re hungry, you want a change of scenery, or we give you a bath in the big, scary bathtub. I appreciate that you don’t need me to help you fall asleep, that your Dad can swaddle you and lay you next to him and — sometimes with some shushing or rocking, but sometimes on your own — you’ll fall asleep. I appreciate that your favorite buddy is the toilet bowl, that you could lie on your changing pad and stare at the shiny, white, reflective bowl for hours.

This is not to say that you don’t love the sling as much as the next baby. Of course you enjoy its dark, warm comforts — and, during your first few weeks, you needed to take quite a few sling walks with Daddy. But he was already a pro (Sylvan broke us in; I’m just glad we didn’t remain broken), and your crying jags didn’t last very long.

Enough with my amazement and appreciation of how seamlessly you worked your happy self into our currently crazy lives.

You’re just starting to try out your voice, cooing and ga-ing. And, while you’re probably still weeks away from a smile, I saw you using those smile muscles today while you stared at me: the corners of your mouth turned up, your eyes sparkled and your eyebrows lifted, and you wrinkled your lip as if I’d just cracked an almost-funny joke. The architecture for a grin was all there; you just need the right motivation.

This is Elena’s friend Sage, who looks on while Elena does her Karate Kid imitation.

You’re gonna fit right in! You already do.
Love,
Mommy