Eugenious

Dear Sylvan,

Tonight, you told me that “Instead of blood, bones, and boogers, you should be filled with beads” (like Giraffe Spot Giraffe Giraffe, your baby, who’s filled with something like beads or beans).

You like to count, add, and subtract, and I think it’s neat how intuitive number-crunching seems to be for three-year-olds. What, Mom? Of course two more than three is five.

Now for some photos. Let’s face it, it’s December, and I have way too many holiday things I make myself do, so you don’t really need a long letter, right?

This wasn’t super-comfy, but like any red-blooded child or cat, you dig boxes!

So, I’m ready for Thanksgiving dinner. Are you guys gonna sit down sometime soon?

Elena clearly loves you, since you’re obviously the only one in the house who’s any fun. She smiles at you when you encapsulate her in her activity mat (Don’t encourage him, Elena.) and follows your every move when you bound around the house singing the alphabet song without your clothes on.

I love you,

Mommy

I’ve occasionally considered the question (wavering in and out, taking up valuable brain space) of when my son is going to seem less like a toddler and more like a boy. I’m not hoping he’ll just grow up, you understand. I’m not trying to push him along. I really can, at least once every day, appreciate his three-ness (although I just read on another blog, Mighty Junior, that a three-year-old has “all the fury of the two-year-old, only [he’s] smarter.” Yes.). But I sometimes wonder.

And, this past week, Sylvan has seemed like a boy. First, I took him to the dress rehearsal of an M.F.A. thesis dance performance last Thursday night. It started at bedtime, 8 p.m., so I knew I was embarking on a risky adventure. I told him, though, that if he was tired or if he just didn’t want to stay, we’d leave. I’d stacked the deck, of course. This was a show created for Sylvan’s dance interests, with modern dance that included African drumming and Carnivale costumes in the first half and a second half comprised of three hip-hop pieces. One of Sylvan’s three idols, Master’s student Chris Gorney, also known as Craze G, is a hip-hop and breakdancer with a sincere interest in preserving the history of breakdancing and hip-hop through contemporary hip-hop performance and competition. Whenever Sylvan’s around Chris, he breaks into a goofy grin, stands by Chris’s knees, and regales him with stories of yellow sneakers (or whatever else is on his mind. Sylvan’s remarkably undeterred, even if Chris simultaneously fields comments and questions from other adoring fans.).

So Sylvan sat through a dance performance that was an hour and forty minutes long! That’s more than his Dad can handle — to be fair, that’s longer than most adults can handle. When the show was over, Sylvan still didn’t want to leave: the stage crew was using a Genie to take down Craze G’s spraypaintings: graffiti signs introducing the dancers and DJ.

Then, on Sunday morning, I asked Sylvan if he’d like to ride his bike, a heavy little two-wheeler with training wheels that Chris (Daddy, not Craze G) serendipitously found on the side of the road with a “FREE” sign on it a couple years ago. Sylvan donned his helmet and didn’t look back. He’s been on this bike two or three times before, for a few minutes each time, but it’s been many months since he’s been on it. He fell over a few times, always when he was paying more attention to silliness than the sidewalk. A new four-year-old friend was riding HIS bike, too, so the two boys pedaled together, around the block and down the hills.

Finally, later on Sunday, Sylvan earned the 50th star on his star chart. He accrues stars for going to bed at bedtime, using the potty by himself, helping out, putting his toys away, and taking showers. Sylvan can choose what he would like — a toy, in this case, but I’m all for a trip to Sweet Life — when he reaches 50 stars. I’ll admit that I’m still of two minds about essentially using bribery to get my son to go to bed; I know that external motivators can backfire. Nevertheless, we’ve decided to try bribery, hoping to make these tasks habitual. And, after over a month, Sylvan got 5o stars. He doesn’t pay much attention to the chart, so I didn’t think it motivated him, but, after I counted 49 stars and told Sylvan he only needed one more, he immediately went in, used the toilet, washed his hands, and went to the back door to put on his shoes and wait for me to take him to the toy store. And he waited patiently. No whining, just excitement about going to Eugene Toy and Hobby, where he played with the train table, marveled at the plane models, and chose a little bulldozer, Byron, from the Thomas the Tank Engine series as what he’d like to take home with him.

He just seems big.

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