Eugenious

Dear Sylvan,

I just left you upstairs in your room, head buried under your “Nubian seal” (bunny) fur pillow, made from a coat of your great-great-grandmother’s by your Gramma Diana, since she didn’t think the coat would be appreciated as a coat by anyone she knew. You definitely appreciate your soft pillow. On one end, the black pillow is embroidered in gold with the word “Babcia,” Polish for “grandmother.” Your Gramma Mia had a Babcia, too; you come from a long line of kruschiki eaters.

Four weeks later, and you and I are still figuring out how to transition into naptime in your big boy bed. But there’s a rocking horse! And board books! And pillows! And a doorknob! And puzzles! And a whole room in which to run around and bump into walls. We went upstairs at 1 p.m. to quietly read some books. Then you snuggled into your bed, and I tucked you in and patted your bum. I left, and you proceeded to rearrange the furniture. Now, it’s 2:30, and you’re asleep; you wiggled the doorknob and asked for cow milk when your exhaustion caught up with you, so, tummy full of fat and protein, you’re ready to sleep.

We’ve spent loads of time at Amazon Pool this past month, where you dump sand into the holes the big kids are digging in the sand; ask for bagels at the snack shack; sit on the bubbling fountains meant to wash off sand before you toddle into the pool; jump off the pool side into our arms, unafraid of going under; and really dig the big blue slide. I love going there with you, both because you enjoy it so much and, let’s face it, because I can read ENTIRE magazine articles while you move sand around.

This morning, at the park, another father asked, “So, does Sylvan have any big brothers or sisters?” When I said, “No,” he said he didn’t think so. You tolerate so much shoving aside, grabbing of sand shovels, and bubbles in your eyes from careless bubble flingers. I was hoping that was just because you have such a sweet disposition, but I guess it might be because you don’t have to defend yourself from the onslaught of an older sibling (I’m sorry, Aunt Jenny. I really am.). Well, it might be both. We do have toddler friends who are only children who regularly push and say “mine.” You seem to always figure that there’s another toy out there that’s even better, so you’ll just walk off to find it.

You’ve started to sing a lot recently, both with prompting and without. “Skip to my Lou,” “This old man,” and “I’ve been working on the railroad” are all favorites, since you really enjoy songs with nonsense words. Your songs sound like this:

Lou Lou Skip (accompanied by a vigorous imitation of skipping)

Knick-knack pad-whack bone

Dee die diddy eye oh!

And speaking of nonsense words, you’ve said “wacky dacky” for months. You infuse this phrase with your own special sauce: Tabasco, mostly — nice, spicy Tabasco. Today, Nicole, who works in your classroom at school, came over while Daddy and I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix . You and she are going to spend a couple of days together in the next couple of weeks, so this was her chance to get acquainted with the house and your routines. After Daddy returned home, you said “wacky dacky” while you were all outside, and Daddy told Nicole that you say that a lot, but we don’t know what it means. Well, Nicole knew. Your classmate Jackie is a fragile soul who cries, well, every time Chris drops you off and every time I pick you up — and probably during the four hours in-between. Your teachers say things like, “There’s that wacky Jackie, crying again.” Wacky dacky.

When we spent a week with your cousin Hanna last June, we noticed how agreeable she is, how willing she is to nod and smile. We asked her all sorts of silly things just to see her nod and smile. You are starting to do something similar, which is either nodding or saying “Yiss,” when we ask you if there’s a rhinoceros in your diaper or if you went to Hogwarts after your nap. And you’ve taken it a step further, which is making up stories: “Dog over dere.” Nod, nod, nod, point to the other side of the kitchen. “What’s the dog doing, Sylvan?” Equipped to tell tales, you pant like a puppy.

You are a very contemplative responder to questions. You take your time, considering your answers. When Daddy puts you to bed, he asks about your day. Sometimes, you make things up; they are usually things that you’ve done in the past, so what difference does it make if you went to storytime today or last week? Often, you think hard and tell Daddy the details that we adults tend to overlook: the white dog smelling the bushes near the library, the brown creeper on the ponderosa trunk. Because of your thoughtfulness and attention to detail, many adults ask you questions and then either talk on top of your answer or repeat their question before you can respond. You just need a little time to formulate. I understand. You haven’t even been outside my body for 24 months and already you’re being asked to form complex sentences.

This next month before your second birthday you’ll have the opportunity to display your undeniable skill as a flexible, happy toddler. I will be gone for three weeks of the next four. First, I’m leaving for a week and a half to instruct a NOLS course, something I haven’t done since I became pregnant with you. Then, Daddy and I are heading to Alaska, sans Sylvan, to sea kayak, hike, and act as if we’re not grizzly bait. I won’t pretend I won’t miss you, but I’m VERY excited to play outside for three weeks without worrying about getting you home in time for your nap or wondering if we have enough Cheerios in your lunchbox.

I love you-

Mom

Yesterday, Sylvan fell asleep on the bathroom floor, bare butt to the sky. I took him upstairs to his bed, where he nestled into his blankets.

After his nap, I didn’t hear any calls of “Mommy!”, only furniture-moving and book-dropping. When I entered his room, I was greeted with this image, ears and all.

I’m going through notes that I made for myself over the last few months, and I found a note that says “the plane we saw.” There’s a link to an article in the Eugene Register-Guard, our local paper.

Sylvan and I were weeding the garden or mowing the lawn in mid-May when a plane flew over. Sylvan looked up, found it, and let me know that a plane was flying over. He does that. “ehya-pane.”

I looked up and saw that this was no ordinary plane. Slow and lumbering, large and silver, four large propellers. “That looks like a B-17 bomber or something,” I thought, but what do I know. For a few seconds, I wondered what might be going on, but the grass was long and Sylvan needed attention, so I quickly taxied the plane to the back of my brain.

Later that weekend, I found an article in the paper explaining that sure enough, a B-17 bomber, one of a dozen still able to fly, had been visiting the Eugene airport as part of a tour to promote preservation and awareness of these historic planes. The plane was available for tours and flights. You can see pictures of the plane we saw on the Experimental Aircraft Association’s B-17 web site. Here’s a taste:

(Photo taken from b17.org. I hope they don’t mind free publicity.)

The stars lined up for Sylvan last week. Saturday, we walked past the fire station, and Sylvan pasted himself against the building’s glass garage door, pining for the big red firetrucks. Firefighter Lance noticed Sylvan, and mimed a question, “Would you like to come inside?” Oh, yes! Sylvan drove the firetruck – twice, after saying, “Again,” when we were on our way out – observed the “binkin’ yights” on the truck, and banged the clapper on the real bell mounted on the truck’s bumper. Thank you, Lance.

On Tuesday, we came across some roadwork while out for a drizzly walk. The steamroller passed back and forth over the asphalt, its yellow light flashing, vibrating the ground as it backed up. Sylvan stood, smitten, for 12-15 minutes. After an asphalt layer is laid and smoothed, it apparently has to cool before another is laid, so one of the guys asked Sylvan if he’d like to drive. Oh, yes! And he beeped the gloriously loud horn, too.

The following day, Sylvan and Daddy went to the City of Eugene’s Touch a Truck, an event packed with heavy machinery enthusiasts of all ages. I don’t know the extent of the excitement, but I do know that Sylvan drove a mixer truck and was inside a police car. We’re writing a thank you note to municipal service employees this week.

While I was away on Saturday night, Sylvan decided to start climbing out of his bed again. Julie, always on her toes, got on Craigslist and found a toddler bed for sale. We drove out to Crow and bought it on Sunday from a nice ex-toddler named Madison. Sylvan started sleeping in his new big boy bed on Sunday afternoon.

And when I say “sleeping,” I mean “waking up much more frequently than is absolutely necessary.” He woke up about five times the first night, twice the second night, and just once last night. I like the trend.

Dear Sylvan,

Yesterday, after you broke down at the pool, including the requisite 2-year-old thrashing and crying, 12 minutes after we’d gotten there, you said to me “Take a nap” as we climbed the steps to our back door. Oh, yes, my poor, sleepy boy. Next time, perhaps you could tell me that about half an hour earlier, maybe even BEFORE the changing into bathing suits and tantrum. I’ll try to read your signs better, too. It’s true that I was quite excited to go to the pool.

You and I have gone to the pool a handful of times, now that we’re finally in Eugene after all of our traveling. I actually brought a magazine on Tuesday and read the ENTIRE table of contents and “About our Authors,” since all you really want to do is shovel sand and dump it into the holes the big boys are digging. While you move earth, I sit and shade-bathe. I’m really excited when you move toward the water, as that’s where I’d like to spend my time when it’s 100 degrees. And when you say “yes” to the slide, yippee for Mommy! I enjoy that as much as you with your megawatt grin and deep dimples.

You’ve become quite the little honey, charming your Great Grampa John last week until he called you a “dear soul,” a characterization he surely gleaned by observing your idolization of your 7-year-old cousin, Elliot, your keen interest in fireflies and bunny rabbits, and your willingness to kiss everyone good night while kindly ignoring your tendency to disrupt dinner to run up and down the stairs.

Great Gramma Kay gave me a blanket last week, a soft, fleece-y one decorated with the American flag because she knows how much I enjoy going to America, also known as her home of Columbus, Ohio, for the 4th of July. They do it up right in Columbus, complete with neighborhood parades with impressive floats from different residential streets, yard parties aplenty, and 451 different fireworks displays. Anyway, your great grandmother didn’t even know how you’ve become a little blanket snuggler, amusing yourself for fifteen minutes at a time just getting comfy under some soft blankets. You wrapped right up in the blanket for the parade, to the delight of the parade-goers nearby.

Your musical interest and talent has blossomed in the last month. You’ve always enjoyed “rocking out” in your carseat, bobbing your head back and forth, but now, when you’re dancing, you might throw in some different steps, or even a twirl or hand gesture or chasing your tail, silly boy. And your SINGING, well, let’s just say you’re beginning to rival Mommy with her phonetic singing (Who knew that Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” wasn’t really “Oreo?” And in Scandal’s “The Warrior,” isn’t it “a splash up takes another bite?” What do you mean that doesn’t make sense?). You especially love songs with nonsense words and phrases: knick-knack-paddy-whack, E-I-E-I-O, fee-fi-fiddly-i-o, choo-choo-cha-boogie.

I know our weblog readers are probably tiring of our awe with your spoken word, but these are a few of my favorite new expressions or one-time goodies:

“Mommy & Daddy” — Rather than crying from your crib in the morning, you’re likely to call out one of our names or your new favorite, “Mommy and Daddy,” which you imbue with a pretty singsong. You also use this phrase when you want it all, when you want both parents to join you on your next adventure.

“Maybe Baby” — You’re starting to appreciate rhyming, sometimes telling me a word you know that rhymes with something I just said. When I called you “baby” the other day, you responded with “maybe baby.”

“Sweeping fire” — You swept the dirt path inside our back gate, and that produced puffs of dust. You nodded and said you were “sweeping fire” when I asked what you were doing.

“Beeping up” — Of course it’s called “beeping up” when a truck backs up and beeps on the way.

I love you.
—Mommy