Dear Eloise: Eight Months

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I am standing in the kitchen, where I suspect I spend eighty per cent of each day, you are in your highchair investigating various bits and pieces that have been placed there for your amusement, none of which are actual toys. The kitchen is a scene of chaos: food preparation spread across one bench and dishes waiting patiently to be washed across the other. Your brother races in holding a stapler he has pilfered from the office, bouncing from one foot to the other in that crazy excitable way he has. “Look Eloise” he says, opening the stapler wide like a beasts mouth ready to devour his pray. He slams it shut and you break out in hysterical laughter while I observe the scene wondering if it is wise parenting to let a three year old play with a stapler. Open. Shut. Giggles. Open. Shut. Giggles. And so it goes: the two of you playing your game where he acts the clown and you, the ever enthusiastic audience.

My dear sweet girl I must apologise for the lapse in letters. Something you will likely learn about me is that unfortunately on the scale of routine to erratic I lean much more toward the latter. My absence has not been from lack of things to write of. Not at all. In the last three months you have morphed surely and steadily from a stationary baby to a sitting, crawling, and now standing (god help me) infant. Nothing is safe anymore. The baby gate has been erected and I am in that constant state of alertness that comes with a crawling, standing baby: always at the ready to pull some tiny non-food object from your hand. I’m also coming to realise that if I want to keep dressing you in white Wondersuits, daily sweeping and mopping will be required.

This newfound mobility means play with your brother is getting easier. It tends to be a mix of happy giggles and hair pulling. He really actually adores you. And you, him. And I’m surprised that already the two of you seem to have this bond and certainly a strong affection for one another. On kindy days when we drop him off he always give you a kiss goodbye. Always. And in the mornings when you wake he asks me to lift him into the cot so he can play with you. There are also tears, of course. When you get your chubby hands on his lego creations, when he gets too rough with rolling you over, when you laugh at his tantrum-ing four year old ways. But the smiles and laughter far outweigh the tears. And seeing you two together is the most joyful sight to my tired, sleep-deprived eyes.

It has been a joy these last few months getting to know you. You remain a happy and easy-going baby: smiling for strangers with your big dark eyes and sweet dimpled grin. When you do cry you are easily placated by food, sleep or cuddles. Which is just as well because although you are not a noisy child, when you do scream it is at a volume that leaves ears ringing and ensures that your needs are seen to right away. Oh and I have to tell you about your Pterodactyl squawk. It is equal parts disturbing and hilarious. You squawk when you’re excited, when something is funny and probably most often when you are waiting impatiently for dinner. My girl, you love your food. Almost anything we put in front of you, you are happy to eat. Except banana and avocado which is surprising considering they are two of your brothers (and mine) favourite foods. It is certainly a relief having another child who is a happy and willing eater, which is just as well because you are still a pretty terrible sleeper. Good thing I’m experienced in this whole sleep-deprivation caper (your brother has given me good practice).

I just adore you Ellie, you bring so much joy to our family.

Love mummy. x

More letters to Eloise.
Letters to Lachlan.

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