Dear Elena,
Oh, sweet girl, to celebrate your eight months here with us, we gave you your first antibiotics. I didn’t want it to come to this, but you’d been fighting conjunctivitis (the highly contagious “pinkeye”) for four or five days already (I’m sorry, I don’t remember who had what when; it’s been an endless hamster wheel of boogers and vomit for four months), and we didn’t want to be irresponsible and blasé when it came to your eyes. So Daddy took you to the doctor yesterday, and she gave you antibiotic eye goop to help you shake the green eye goop. Happy Birthday!
In the past week, you’ve started sitting much more comfortably. I still put a pillow on the floor behind you lest you crack yourself, but I’ve sat you down to run things to the car and come back to find you playing with a toy, smiling at me.
Last Monday, I saw you crawl backward. For months, you’ve scooted backward on your belly, and you’re quite competent at a combination of rotating and rolling to power yourself around. But you lifted yourself onto your knees and moved backward the other day. Today, I saw you inch yourself forward, albeit on your belly. You put your toes on the ground, as if you were going to lift into downward dog (a move of which you’re capable), then pushed forward off them. You needed that bulldozer that was just out of reach.
Annie, Annie, are you okay?
Just over two weeks ago, you went to “school” for the first time. We’ve called Moss Street “school” ever since Sylvan started when he was sixteen months old, so school it is. (note: you’ll find Sylvan in two of those Moss Street photos if you look closely) You’re in the Chickadee room, where Sylvan started out. The room is smaller and cozier than the other under 2-year-old room, and I think very highly of the lead teacher, Lori. The drawback is that I have to pick you up by 2:30, which means that, with an hour commute in each direction, my work days are short, and I only have two of them a week. I can also no longer take the bus, since it only runs a couple times a day. But it’s worth it to have you in that room, I think, where you get lots of gentle care and attention.
You fell asleep on Grampa. He's under your spell.
Thanks especially to your Dad feeding you off his plate as if you were a chubby cocker spaniel under the table, you’re eating many different types of food – in chunks that are too big, in my opinion. (Daddy says that’s how you learn; I say that’s how you choke.) You eat typical baby fare, like puréed spinach and yams, applesauce, and yogurt. You’ve moved on to Cheerios and cheese and tofu cubes (a surprising hit from the first) as well, and you’ve had plenty of pizza and cornbread, which you, admittedly, can’t get enough of.
You can’t yet feed yourself finger food, but you’re close. You can pick up Cheerios, usually by raking them into your palm and holding them there with your thumb, holding up your hand in a thumbless wave. Now, how can you get that food into your mouth? You did use your thumb and index finger to pick up some Cheerios today, so the day is near when I won’t have to swing by on my way from the stove to the dishwasher to stuff another cheese cube into you.
Love,
Mommy