eight months

Dear Eleanor, 

It's finally peony season around here, and I am eager to show you how to lean over and smell these wonderfully pink flowers that grow in the corner of our yard with such gumption. "Sniff," I say, holding you over the tangle of blossoms, "Don't they smell nice?" But you, being only eight months, aren't quite sure what to make of these plants, or my words, and you grab at the velvety petals, tearing and grabbing until one poor peony is reduced to pink and green confetti, laughing as you do. You look up at me with your fist full of petals, as if to say, "Look what I did!" and, "Aren"t you proud?" (And, of course, I am).

This month you have doubled (perhaps tripled) your crawling speed. This means that you're pretty good at scrambling away mid-diaper change, and that you've discovered a love for peek-a-boo and hide-and-seek. Also, eating. No food is off limits. You eat what we eat (as long as its soft) and, I admit, its terribly fun to sit beside you, each of us with our own plate of avocado toast, or hummus, or scrambled eggs. (I am wondering when those teeth will come in...you really are a champion eater considering your mouth is all gum). 

Life is exhausting, but ten times more beautiful with you in it, sweet girl. 
Happy eight months.



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