Eugenious

Dear Sylvan,

Due to the fact that I’m already six days late with your birthday letter and that I feel like I was run over by a train (or should be run over by a train), this post will be heavy on the photos, light on the “this is what you can do this month” text.

Nonetheless, you are a cool little dude. Here are some highlights from the last month:

1. You understand that all you have to do is lean your head back not to get shampoo in your eyes. “That’s what big boys do,” you said. It’s too early to recognize this as a truly learned behavior, but it is a big step forward from your amazing aptitude for scaling one of your parents while you’re wet and soapy.
2. You have started to create music bands. Daddy plays the kazoo and you play the drum set, for instance. Your drum set consists of a toaster-oven box, plastic kids’ drum, and two tambourines, all of which you play with a plastic drumstick and a wooden dowel.
3. You have a couple of favorite videos on youtube, animated shorts about Simon’s cat. One details what Simon’s cat — and all cats, undoubtedly — goes through to wake Simon up in the morning, and the other illustrates how Simon’s cat asks to be let in. The first dozen or so times we watched “Let Me In,” the crashing sounds cracked you up every time. I recommend these videos for anyone who has ever had a cat, loved a cat, or hated a cat; each is under two minutes long.
4. Somehow, you’ve started to think concretely rather than theoretically about the little human in my tummy. Perhaps this amazes me because I’m still in theoretical mode about your little brother or sister. Sure, my tummy’s enormous, but maybe it’s just a melon. When Daddy told you that your frog towel was too small, you said, “My little brother can use it.” You have also pointed to the other seats in two shopping carts as places where your little brother can ride. I hope you’re not disappointed if, in fact, it’s a sister.

You’ve really thinned down and sprouted up in the past month. You’re outgrowing trousers because they’re too short (something that has never, ever happened to me in my life, hence the emphasis). This photo also shows your newly-clippered hair and that I’m-up-to-no-good clenched-tooth grimace, undoubtedly inherited from me.

A week and a half ago, we went to the coast with your friend, Cole, and his parents, the adventurous and super Kari and Nic. We had a blast, and we even slept on beds rather than on the ground. We started off at the aquarium in Newport, where you and Cole read the rules, although I’m not sure you completely understood them:

The sea lions and seals share a tank, where they swim laps, sometimes closing their eyes and floating upside down with, I kid you not, smiles on their faces, like furry, aquatic Buddhas. Occasionally one will come right up to the glass to offer greetings, like this harbor seal:

You really liked the tunnel where the sharks and rays swam overhead. Here you are looking like an 8-year-old:

We found out how much you enjoy flying kites. Climbing while kite-flying? Sure:

You and Cole enjoyed moving the beach in Yachats two inches to the left:

While you weren’t as quick as Cole to dive right into streamplay at the beach, you eventually started stomping around in the water. And your initial reticence was well-founded; while I took this photo, Cole was up in the room changing his clothes after a header into a pool that was deeper than the riffles he’d skipped across earlier:

This is fun, but, whew, it’s cold. Do people really surf in the Pacific year-round?

I love you,

Mommy

Dear Sylvan,

Mommy asked me to write your birthday note this month. It’s a bit late, but you can’t read yet, so I hope you won’t notice.

I wrote down a list of the things you did this month, and it’s long. I find it hard to believe it’s only a month.

You took a big trip on many airplanes in December, ending up at Gramma Mia and Grandpa Dick’s house. You got to make a gingerbread train with Gramma Mia,

read books with Grandpa Dick,

and, best of all, sleep in Gramma’s bed with fifty stuffed animals every night. You loved it.

You even made up songs about it, accompanying yourself on the guitar. One of these days, your parents will get on the ball and post these things on Youtube so that everyone else can see you when they are too far away from you for their own good.

You got to open lots of Christmas presents. You got really good at it — so good that you were able to help the rest of us open our presents too. You had less trouble than I thought you would with the idea that not every present is for you.

You got to see Courtney, your favorite person in the whole world. Did we take a picture? Of course not. Next time.

You were a delight on our two long airplane trips (Eugene to Hartford, Charlottesville to Eugene) and our long car trip (Dover Plains to Philadelphia to Charlottesville in one go). You enjoyed saying Manayunk. So did I.

You got to visit Grandma Diana, Grandpa Tom, and Great-Grandma Kay in Virginia, where you decided it was time for you to start going up and down stairs, by yourself, with no hand-holding, and without falling. It’s my job to worry, and apparently it’s your job to stay upright while goofing around on wood stairs.

You painted with Grandma Diana and read books with Grandpa Tom, who taught you to count things (as opposed to counting to ten by rote, which you’ve been doing for about four months). When you focus and aren’t feeling too rambunctious (read: hardly ever), you can count things by pointing at them. One, Doo, Fee, Boor, Bive, Dix, Deben, Eight, Nine, DEN!

You appreciated the New Year’s Eve fireworks, even though it was past your bedtime and they were way too loud.

When we got home to Eugene, you had some epic jet lag, waking up at 4:30 or 5 for almost a week. Ugh. Work on that one next time. It’s dark for a long time on those early January mornings.

You have always appreciated music, paid attention to the lyrics, and enjoyed singing loudly and tunelessly. One early morning, we were playing in the living room, and you decided to play your piano. You accompanied yourself to a number of tunes at high volume, including an edited version of Old MacDonald. Mommy tried in vain to sleep through it, despite its incomparable beauty. In the evening, you serenaded us with a full, piano-accompanied version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It was the first time I had ever heard you sing a whole song all the way through.

When we got home, you and Mommy slept (well, more or less) under the Christmas tree one night. As she was putting you to sleep, she stepped out into the kitchen to get something. We heard singing. When she came back, you informed her that you had been singing Jingle Bells.

The other big news in your life this month has been … wait for it … Underwear! Oh boy, we like doing laundry. Mommy and I decided to go cold turkey with potty training after three solid weeks of nothing but disposable diapers. We even cancelled your cloth diaper service as a way of committing ourselves to the task. It wasn’t the best transition scenario, but it’s working pretty well. You’re doing remarkably well, especially since it’s been just two weeks.

There’s so much more, but I have to save something for next month.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Sylvan,

Celebrating that cliché of parenthood, I can’t really believe how quickly you’re growing and becoming your own person. When you and Gramma Mia took your holiday together in September, she said, “Here I was, sitting on the porch swing, having a conversation with a two-year-old.” And you really do hold up your end of the conversation.

I remember hearing the woes of the mother of a two-year-old who was tall for his age. She said that strangers expected him to act like a four-year-old — to, for instance, listen to her, not throw tantrums, say please and thank you. I fall into that trap with you, since you’re such a skilled communicator. I expect more from you than I would if you couldn’t talk to me like you do, and, usually, you give me what I expect. I do apologize for getting frustrated with you when you act, well, your age. I’m working on acting my age instead of yours when those times arise.

I showed you this photo of my Dad a few weeks ago, asking you who it was. You responded, “He walks with me.” Not only would that make a great title for my memoir, but you nailed it. I took this photo on a hike in Macedonia State Park when we were visiting Dover last Christmas. Your first real hike, of about a quarter of a mile out of the backpack, occurred a few days later, with your father, my Dad, and me. You stayed on the vague trail and shocked us with the endurance in those legs that had only been walking for three months.

Here’s the photo in its entirety, but this isn’t what I originally showed you:

Speaking of fantastic grandfathers, you’ve picked up a third grandfather here in Eugene, one who’s a remarkable father and grandfather to his own nearby and far-flung flock. Tom, with whom we canoed in October, came by on Sunday to drop off your Christmas gift, a hand-carved canoe paddle just your size and inscribed with your name. While I sat there dumbfounded by the generosity of this gift, you took it, flashed a big smile, said thank you, and proceeded to walk around with it like a staff. Good on ya.

In the last few months, you’ve really moved into the realm of your imagination. You made a chocolate ice cream cone for me at the playground today. (Aside: I had a great time with you at the playground today. You chased me around, under and through the playground structure, and you’re too little to understand that you’re supposed to get me when you chase me, so it’s nice and pleasant and low-pressure.) I walked into your classroom one afternoon to find you making “cappeine,” or “caffeine,” in the play kitchen — disclosing Mommy’s vices, free of charge.

Your inspiring teacher, Lisa, sometimes draws with your class, demonstrating how you can represent items from your world in your art. You like to paint cougar cats now — or to have me paint them. You’ve really changed quite a bit as an artist. Instead of simply experimenting with the medium, you’ve started to demonstrate design. I picked up some papier mache ornaments for you to paint for said inspiring teacher, among others, and you noticed that the ornaments were stars. You wanted to put paint on the points, rather than just smearing the paint around any which way. I can’t honestly say that it looks like you made design choices when you painted the stars, but, as with many things, the method reveals more than the result.

This morning, we sat together, you in your high chair, me in Gramma Gertrude’s yellow pantry chair, your feet resting on my knees, drinking smoothies. Cold, fruity, tangy goodness made from tangerines, last summer’s frozen strawberries, milk, and yogurt. As you enjoyed yours, I said, “You know who likes smoothies? Tephra.” You looked at me, looked down at your pink smoothie, and said “noooooo” quite vigorously. Of course you thought I was kidding. What kind of cat would climb up pant legs for a smoothie? Tephra rarely eats people food – especially after Aunt Jenny tried to give her that salt and vinegar potato chip – but she harbors a weakness for strawberries. Dried strawberries, strawberry pop tarts, Twizzlers, and strawberry smoothies. We kept drinking. You finally smiled and said, “Also, Tephra likes big antlers!”

A story from your Dad: You were putting together your alphabet puzzle, where the letter G is illustrated with a gorilla. Daddy told you that the gorilla lives in the jungle. You looked at him and said, “The quiet jungle.” For anyone not paying as much attention as you do, Sylvan, those are lyrics from “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

I love you,

Mommy

To satisfy your curiosity, this is what Sylvan’s been up to.

Wrestling with Aunt Jenny. She forgivingly took a few elbows in the ear.

Raking leaves:

Well, Mommy didn’t carve it, so I had to do something with it: