I'm a little late on this one, but Sophie has changed so much over the past month, I don't want to let number seven go unremarked...
Dearest Sophie,
In the past month, you have transformed from a reluctant-to-nap, high-strung, serious, fuss-bucket of a baby, who has a hard time settling herself unless her parents are walking her across Western Kansas strapped to their chests, into a delightful cherub of a chub who takes two naps a day like clockwork, happily munches on cheerios in her highchair, joyfully rolls across the carpet in pursuit of a rattle, and can sit by herself playing with a basket full of toys for a good half-hour.
Wow. What a difference one month makes. You sleep from seven until about seven the next morning and wake up with the brightest smile this side of sunny side up, showing off your two bottom teeth, sweet little pearls nestled in the pink of your gum (although alarmingly sharp). You like every food you've tasted except for apples and canned meat (and we don't blame you on the meat front; the stuff smells like cat food!). You love bananas. You'd eat them every meal if you could. You love them so much, you'll probably want to marry them when you're older.
The one sad thing about month seven, however, is your relationship to books. You'll no longer sit in Mommy's lap and quietly watch the pages turn. Now you want to eat them. You're dying to eat them. You want to digest our entire library: baby books, novels, the OED. You even have a couple of paper-cuts from a pile of student essays your Daddy left on the floor.
The best part of month seven, however, is just how darn happy you are. You may not have quite made it through a day without crying, but you're getting there.
And don't worry, we'll stick around till you do.
Sophie behaved like an old pro in the salon chair. It may have been the marshmellows Mommy fed her, or perhaps it was all the attention the cosmotologists lavished on her, but she sat still while her stylist trimmed those baby curls away--okay, straight, fine baby hair that resembles her father's.
Sophie and me on the Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls
Sophie started walking at 13 months (yes, two months ago).
She also enjoys taking objects out of one container and putting them into another container. Including herself.
Wow. What a difference one month makes. You sleep from seven until about seven the next morning and wake up with the brightest smile this side of sunny side up, showing off your two bottom teeth, sweet little pearls nestled in the pink of your gum (although alarmingly sharp). You like every food you've tasted except for apples and canned meat (and we don't blame you on the meat front; the stuff smells like cat food!). You love bananas. You'd eat them every meal if you could. You love them so much, you'll probably want to marry them when you're older.
The one sad thing about month seven, however, is your relationship to books. You'll no longer sit in Mommy's lap and quietly watch the pages turn. Now you want to eat them. You're dying to eat them. You want to digest our entire library: baby books, novels, the OED. You even have a couple of paper-cuts from a pile of student essays your Daddy left on the floor.
And don't worry, we'll stick around till you do.
Sit, who me?
Not really interested.
Frankly, I can drool just as well lying down.
Please, make it stop!
Much better....ah....
Oh how she's gonna hate this blog when she's older!
