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 windâ€). 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