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