Eugenious

Dear Sylvan,

“Oh, no! I can’t find you! Oh, no! I can’t find you!” I sat up in bed and heard little feet running around downstairs. I called your name before I woke up, before I realized it would definitely wake up your sister, snoozing by my side. That panicky note in your voice broke my heart while my brain remained drowsy. I was, of course, where I always am before 7 a.m. — and often until 8. But Daddy was out running, and that threw you off. He’s usually your early morning buddy.

The reality is that you’re capable of changing out of your pajamas, using the potty, washing your hands, getting yourself some water, and playing all by yourself. Maybe we’ll put some snacks under your bed so that you can take care of everything in the morning and Daddy can sleep in! Oh, you’d be so lonely.

You recently received a new-to-you drum from Gramma Mia — a gift that was supposed to be a birthday gift, but since you were rolling in the presents already, we waited. In truth, the drumSTICKS are a bigger hit, since, boy howdy, do they make LOUD noises. You brought your drum to Dance Africa rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, and we had to ask you to play in the hallway, since you were so LOUD. You’ve got a good sense of rhythm, as your Gramma is very happy to point out, and your ability to play different tempos with each hand is remarkable. I took some African drumming after I had my little brain attack a couple of years ago, since making my right hand rub my tummy while my left pats my head has never come naturally, and the challenge of hand drumming had to be good therapy.

For the past month or so, you’ve really enjoyed your book about Apple Tree Farm. It’s a series of stories about Mrs, Boot, the farmer; her children, Poppy and Sam; and their dog, Rusty. You’ll be reading it soon, I expect, since you’re already reciting it. Mrs. Boot wears dresses with rubber boots, but I still managed to miss the Britishisms in this book. A couple of weeks ago, I pulled out the read-along CD. The reader has a British accent, and the sound effects, especially the chainsaw, are very exciting; you immediately loved it and asked me to shut my mouth and turn the pages (no, you never asked me to shut my mouth, since I’d tickle you breathless if you did). You’ve fallen asleep on many recent nights listening to the Apple Tree Farm stories.

While you express no real interest in drawing (you’ll draw if I prompt you, but you never ask to draw and you don’t want to trace letters or shapes), you’ve been taking out your clay and play dough and creating sculptures. And you still love to cut anything we’ll allow between your scissors (your pinking shears are “alligator scissors,” and your plain green kid scissors are called your “chainsaw”).

I love you,
Mommy

Dear Sylvan,

“Mommy, why do fires sometimes burn?” you asked as I pried my eyes open from sleep this morning. I could almost focus on your little bowl-haircut head above my mattress as I mumbled “fuel and oxygen.” (sorry to the scientists; I know now that I missed “ignition”) Your mind whirs along, considering possibilities and pondering which questions you’ll spring on me. Do your Mom a favor, huh? Wait until I’m awake.

We hiked at Waldo Lake last week on a foggy, rainy, chilly fall day. You ran down the trail, blazing the way. You stopped at a bridge over a dry streambed. “That’s a stream.” Daddy asked how you knew that, since there was no water in it. If I recall, you looked at him a little funny; I mean, there was a bridge over it, after all. Then Daddy asked why there was no water in it. “Because it hasn’t been raining,” you replied. And now my three-year-old will lead us in a discussion about intermittent streams. Thank you, thank you, thank you for expressing interest in what interests me.

You are quite interested in Elena’s breastfeeding — getting Mommy milk, in our parlance. I’ll admit, it does seem like magic; I eat waffles, and Elena gets milk. You always want to know whether Elena’s eyes are open when she’s eating. It’s something I’ve noticed, too: how intense babies look when they breastfeed with their eyes open. Yesterday, you started breastfeeding your baby, a frightfully red bear in a green bunny suit. You let me know when his eyes were open, too.

Today, I went downstairs to find your Curious George stories, and I left you and Elena in your room. “You entertain Elena, and I’ll run down to find your book,” I said as I left. When I returned, you were sitting in front of Elena, playing your ukulele (which you’re calling a mandolin this week) like a stand-up bass and singing Skip to My Lou. Charmer. Of course, the charm wore off when you bebopped out of your room no fewer than 78 times at bedtime…

I’ve always been impressed by your verbal capacity, and our readers are undoubtedly tired of my high praise, but there are a couple of things you’re now doing with words that are really neat. Daddy asked whether you were going to teach Elena all the words you know. You started reeling off words that rhyme with “ock:” clock, chalk, block, knock, etc. It’s as if you already had a lesson plan for teaching Elena: “Today, class, we’ll start with words that rhyme with ‘rock.’” Another thing that makes me think writing poetry will come naturally is your ability to take a word and make a decision to use it as a different part of speech. Jesse James “robbed the Glendale train,” as Bruce Springsteen made us aware in a song you like to listen to. You smushed a stuffed animal into a small space the other day and told me that you’d “glendaled” it.

You started preschool three weeks ago. I dropped you off that first day, and, while you’re in the same building you’ve been in since you started “school” when you were fifteen months old, this was the first day of being with kids who really are a lot bigger and further along developmentally than you are. I had to admit I was a little surprised when I dropped you off and saw the 5-year-old “toughs” on the playground: “But my baby…” The verdict? You love it. You use scissors all the time. And a stapler!

When I was making dinner the other day, you were cutting away in the other room, showing me your paper pieces, both cut and ripped. “Mommy, this is the bottom of a tree,” you said, holding it up to me. “The trunk?” I asked. You were silent for a moment. “No, it’s the big part that you hug.” Ah, my little tree-hugging Eugenious.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Sylvan,

You’re three! Here are some photos from your four Septembers:

Sylvan at twelve days old

Sylvan at his first birthday party. Mommy made three carrot sheetcakes (enough to feed approximately 823 people)

Sylvan at his second birthday party. Mommy made really yummy cream cheese centered chocolate cupcakes. We only had about two dozen left over.

Sylvan on his third birthday (thanks for the awesome crown, Aunt Stephanie!). For his kid birthday party, Mommy bought Market of Choice cupcakes. For this adult celebration in the park (Gramma Mia, Daddy, and Mommy), Gramma bought Sweet Life cake. Good choice.

When you were born, I fell even more deeply in love with your Dad, who was obviously created to parent — and to write and be married to a woman who occasionally (okay, often) needs her self-esteem fires stoked. After your birth, your Dad arose with you throughout the night, changing your diaper, swaddling you, shushing you, and handing you to me to feed you. He never lost his patience with your, let’s face it, incessant crying. Your crying reduced me to tears many times. I felt like I couldn’t help you, and it made me sad and angry. Problem solver that he is, your exhausted Dad knew he could deal with an eight-pound crying machine. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have decided to share my life with such a competent, uncomplaining, loving father.

Since Elena was born nearly a month ago, I’ve been reaching another level in my love for you. You have been nothing but gentle and sweet when it comes to your little sister. You pet her, kiss her head, talk to her in a little voice and tell her how soft she is, sing her the Tiny Tim turtle song when she cries, and bring her vehicles or stuffed animals, depending on your mood — and hers, probably. Today you told me that “Elena likes diggers, and I like dumpers” as you put a tractor with a front-loader attachment next to her little ear.

There’s no doubt that you’ve recently been acting out against your parents and grandparents, but, honestly, you’ve had more change in your little life in the past month than most people have in years: getting a new baby sister who is physically attached to Mommy for many hours a day and who has the privilege of sleeping in Mommy and Daddy’s bed; moving into yet another transitional home while we await the end of our house renovations (Next week? The week after? Christmas?); visiting our scaredy-cat, being fostered by Chandra and Eric, who was just starting to allow you to touch her when we were in the summer home and who has now only emerged from her closet hiding place to eat and use the litter box; having three grandparents and an auntie visit, which is super-exciting (and helpful!) but also routine-altering.

Anyway, the bottom line is that you’re handling all this superbly. I find myself just looking at you and smiling. You’re still crazy about trains and excited about singing. You still stop in your tracks when you hear a siren: “Where is it?” You still want to go to the library to hear Jeff play his auto-harp. You could play in the dirt for hours with your bulldozers and frontloaders. Thank you for being so flexible and understanding.

Additionally, this month you’ve developed quite an adorable story-telling style that involves putting your flattened hand either up against your face like you’re telling a secret or a few inches off your cheek as if you’re making a serious point. You change your voice, too, giving your words a sotto voce, dramatic flair. (Taking after Daddy, huh? I can’t believe you even allow me to tell you stories after hearing how creative and fascinating Daddy’s are.) I won’t lie: your storytelling style is so silly I sometimes wonder if you’ve had one too many gin and tonics.

Love,
Mommy