Helena at 16 months

When I do these posts I realize that I need to be taking lots more pictures. Here is the little lady enjoying blueberries, which is one of her new favorite foods. She is a champion eater these days. She has yet to find a food she won't eat. Avocados, black beans, corn, carrots, broccoli, pasta, raspberries, strawberries, watermelon, cantaloupe, bananas--she eats and eats and signs for more. And yet I'm pretty sure she still weighs under 20 pounds. She has her father's metabolism, obviously. She did start nursing again after her little strike last month, though we're down to just three times a day. She is still an amazing sleeper--I put her down at 6:30pm and don't get her up until 8:30 am. I'm pretty sure she wakes up around 7:30 am, but she LOVES her crib and will play in there so quietly for a long time. I'm tempted to buy a video monitor just so I can spy on her and see what is so entertaining. She is taking one long nap--usually from 12-3pm. So yes, she sleeps 17 hours a day. And when she is awake she is busy busy busy. She has been experimenting with running and it is rather precarious business. She has lots of fun trotting around with Harper's pink birthday balloons clutched to her chest, which makes me inevitably think of Piglet on his way to Eyeore's birthday party.

When we are out and about most mornings, I am exceedingly thankful that she is perfectly content to sit in the stroller and watch the world. We went to the Museum of Fine Art this morning and she stayed in the stroller the whole time, just quietly looking around. As an aside, Harper and Hudson were intrigued with the Iranian art and especially the documentary footage of some Sufi mystics doing this dervish prayer dance. I really regret wandering into a temporary exhibit of an artist named Alice Neel who, according to her bio, is known for her "psychologically acute" portraits. No thank you, I say to this: Yes, please, I say to you, John Singer Sargent, with your lovely Mrs. Sears, decidedly not "psychologically acute" in her glowing white gown. You can call me provincial or prudish or even just ignorant, but I just don't like modern art. Nope. Blah. I mean I get that great art is Supposed To Make Me FEEL or whatever, but if the feeling is nausea mixed with mild disgust, that isn't useful, is it? Okay, I FEEL better.

Back to Helena. She is using her teeny tiny voice to make some words. I finally got "mama" out of her this week. Up until now, I would say, "Helena, can you say 'Mommy'?" and she would look at me, smile sweetly, and say "DA-dee." She says Harper ("Hah-poo"), Hudson ("seh-seh"), Sasha ("HI dee-dee!"), night-night, Grandfather ("deh DEH deh"), Grandmother (also "deh DEH deh"), balloon ("buh--oo"), thank you ("day-oo"), and Helena ("huh yah yah"). Speaking of Grandfather Pate, we visited him this weekend to make sure he is behaving himself after fracturing his pelvis two weeks ago. His lap, thankfully, is intact:
I watched the entirety of the Indianapolis 500 with him (we both napped somewhere around mile 285). The winner drinks milk, and I have no idea why.