Ellie is cutting a tooth. Loudly, and with much lamentation. And this means that she will eat anything she can get her little fists around, although she much prefers it when she can get her fists around my fist.
I was beginning to feel a little soggy. So I pulled out Sophie the Giraffe, who has the most hair-trigger squeaker in the history of rubber giraffes.*
Ellie liked it, and so she took it with her to Brent’s house last night for Hannah’s birthday. I barricaded her in a chair (she’s been learning to sit up, the clever turnip), and she gazed in some trepidation, giraffe clenched in her jaws.
And then she switched to the moose, but was no less worried.
There’s a lot to frighten a baby of sense over there, since I’m not sure that my children’s cousins are completely certain whether they belong on the ground or hurtling through the air.
*A long, sad tale, I feel sure, but not one implicated in the present story.
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