Cleopatra, Bathed in Milk

She's a month old today. It feels more like a parent milestone than a baby milestone, somehow: She's still alive! No blood has been shed! No babies have been harmed in the making of this family! I still chant a little safety mantra when I carry her down the stairs, and I can't stand to watch her father suction the boogers out of her nose with the blue sucky thing, even though he's very gentle and careful, and she always feels better afterwards (although the piggy little sounds she makes with a stuffy nose are adorable).

All that aside, though, we're starting to emerge from the foggiest part of Babyland Forest. We've been on a couple of family outings (bakery, concert in the park), and I'm almost back to being a functioning member of society. I've made dinner a few times, I can go up and down the stairs as many times as I want (woo!), and Cleo and I survived while her father went to a movie.

(edited to add: It's July 2010, and I just found this post lurking in "drafts." Cleo is now a robust almost-two-year-old who walked into the bakery with me this morning and requested a "bistuit an' a hightair", and this all sounds like a very long time ago.)