Eugenious

Some of Mommy’s Favorite Sylvan Pronunciations:

guy-ba-duck = garbage truck

yaw-noah = lawn mower

Beet Yife = Sweet Life, the best bakery in town

oak dokie = okie dokie

Like any toddler worth his diapers, Sylvan is fond of running around without his clothes. I shouldn’t expect any less from the grandson of my Mom, who sometimes vacuums in her underwear (who doesn’t, though?). He’s going to love summer in Eugene. In the middle of a diaper change, Sylvan will sometimes ask for some bare-bottom play time by saying, “Nakeh boy!” [sic]

Sylvan is in the middle of a language explosion. Long-time readers will remember our post about Sylvan’s 91 words. That was almost three months ago. Since then, he has picked up about 2-3 new words per day, probably more. There is no way that we could count all of his words now, but he must have three or four hundred. Almost every day, he says a word that I know I didn’t teach him.

He is now putting together two- and three-word phrases — Mommy shoes, Mommy chair, shoes on, on on on on on! — and saying four-syllable words — motorcycle, peanut butter, smoke detector. OK, those aren’t all words, but you get the idea.

He and I just got back from a quick walk to the store with Wendy. It’s about four blocks to the store. Our trip was about twenty minutes long. I didn’t have a voice recorder and didn’t think to take notes, but these were just some of the words he used to describe his surroundings during the trip:

around, ball, berry, bike, bin, bird, boots, brown shoes, car, cat, Chloe, computer, cow milk, dog, down, fan, flower, food, grass, hand, handle, home, oatmeal, socks, store, sun, touch, trailer, truck, up, water, Wendy, yogurt

And that’s just one twenty-minute trip.

It gets more amazing every day. And everyone tells me that it doesn’t stop. I don’t know if my brain’s amazement center can take it.

Dear Sylvan-

You’ve learned how to push my buttons. I’m assuming it just means you’re precocious that you learned how to do that three years before I think you should be able to and eleven years before you’ll be remarkably skilled at it. And, although you made me want to shoot myself, as I so eloquently stated in my frustrated huff at the library, I also needed to put my face up against yours afterward, to feel your soft cheek.

It started even before storytime, when you escaped from the room three times, each time turning around to see if I was watching. “No, I will not sit and read. Yes, I will point out the music to you, Mom (Vivaldi, it turns out; good taste), by saying ‘meegan,’ and I will even dance, but I won’t focus for more than 11 seconds. Yes, you can try to ply me with Cheerios, but it won’t work, at least not for long. I’m taking off!”

While the group singing fascinated you and held your attention for seven entire minutes, your communication then degenerated into yelling, “MELK! MELK!” while climbing on me. When I reminded you that there is no more milk and asked if you wanted yogurt, you screamed “YOGIT! YOGIT!” every three seconds until we reached the front of the line, which only took an endless three minutes and 46 seconds. Then you clammed up, not telling the nice barista what you so desperately needed so that you wouldn’t faint dead away from starvation. After the yogurt, two orders of fish and chips, a side of beef, four pears, and a whole angel food strawberry torte later, you walked up to the four-year-old boys eating their turkey sandwiches: “Excuse me,” you said, “but my Mum doesn’t feed me. Could I please have a bite?” Oh, and then there was the refusal to get in your backpack. Ah, and jumping in your carseat, refusing to sit down but crouching down charmingly: “Look, my bottom almost touches the seat.” We feed off each other, you and me. My imposed limits beget your iron will begets my frustration, which leads to, you got it, more stubbornness. I am 32 years older than you; I should know better than to get frustrated.

Then you fell asleep in the carseat. And you were beautiful.

The only milk you now drink is cow milk. Your almost endlessly energetic Dad looked tired when I returned from four days in Arizona last month, a trip I took largely to wean you. You didn’t ask for milk when I was gone, but you did turn into a “terrible two,” insistent and loud and hilarious. You made me laugh so hard the other day that I fell over on the ground. You were just giggling in the closet, SOOOOOO excited that you could wend your way through my shiny (“yiney”) costume skirts and cowboy shirts.

You seem to be somewhat unique among one-year-olds in your eating habits and abilities. At school, Birth to Three, and when other parents see you eat, the response is, “He’s such a good eater,” which means, “Whoa, he sure can put it away.” You regularly finish your peas, bananas, crackers, Cheerios, or cheese and look up at the purveyor of snacks expectantly. “Please, Sir,” you plead in your little British accent, “can I have some more?” Often, when I peek in on you at Birth to Three, the other tots are done with their snacks and are off rolling balls or pushing toy vacuums while you sit at the table, looking up and requesting, “Cracker.” You’re a bit of a bottomless pit, undoubtedly because you burn off 23,412 calories with your daily running, bouncing, dancing, running, spinning, bouncing, and running activities.

Keep running, but work on running in a straight line. We’re going to enter you in the All-Comers meets this July. Ah, Oregon, where you only have to be one and a half to enter your first running race.

Love-
Mom

Please click on photos for full effect (especially with the first one).

Chris completed his thesis last month, so Sylvan celebrated having Daddy back! I think he’s rather dapper wearing nothing but a rolled-up ladies’ vest.

Memory

On Saturday, the three of us (yippee, Chris is back!) ordered burritos, played in the park, went to a birthday party, and donated some items to a non-profit thrift store that assists homeless cats. They adopt out spayed and neutered cats with all of their shots from the store. The cats lounge on top of bookcases and hide under racks of jeans. On Saturday, over forty cats prowled the store, no small feat for any place, especially one this small. Contrary to what you might expect, the store does not smell like a litter box; they’ve rigged some good ventilation. Anyway, Sylvan’s been there once before, probably two months ago. As you might expect, he loves the place – lots of cats, most of whom are just dying to be touched, unlike our shy, prima donna cat. I drove up to the store on Saturday, parking directly in front of it. Sylvan looked out the window and immediately said, “Tdat,” which means “cat.” That’s right, Mr. Memory, this is where the cats live. So much for thinking toddlers don’t remember anything.

Yesterday, to celebrate his 18 month and 22 day birthday, Sylvan was diagnosed with the dreaded PINKEYE along with ear infections in both ears. “Moderate to severe,” said Dr. Diehl, whom we met for the first time but who lives exactly one block from us. When the doctor slid the end of the otoscope into Sylvan’s ear, Sylvan said, “buhd,” which, translated, means “bird.” Just as Sylvan spoke, Dr. Diehl starting to whistle, which is just what Sylvan’s regular doc does when she’s introducing the otoscope: “Listen for the birdies.” Sylvan remembered, and he was ready.

This is our friend Connor and his date, Yael. I think Connor and Sylvan resemble each other, especially from the noses up, so, of course, I think Connor’s adorable. We see Connor once a week if we’re lucky, usually along with a load of other toddlers and adults at Birth to Three. I’ve always considered Sylvan to be relatively internally focused at big gatherings, moving from toy to toy while ignoring the people. However, I showed Sylvan this photo, and he said, “Connor.” Yup, that’s your friend Connor, Mr. Smarty.

Language

Sylvan loves vehicles and heavy machinery. Trucks, backhoes, helicopters, and airplanes are a few of his favorite things. A recent addition to that list is “moga-dycles,” which makes me smile. I think that’s his first four syllable word.
My mum was here when Chris traveled to Savanna two weeks ago. She became “Gamba.” After she bathed Sylvan one evening, he really wanted to wear his frog towel from my cousins Jeff and Kath. “Wrap, wrap, bug” he insisted (Oh, come on, he’s close. It could be a bug). This has become an after-bath ritual now. Chris wrapped him up the other night and said, “You’re a frog.” Sylvan looked at him and replied, “Wibbit.”

My “first” grandmother, Sarah, who lived downstairs when we lived in Memphis before I was two, will really appreciate Sylvan’s latest pronunciation. He has used the word “down” for a while, pronouncing it with Chris’s and my broadcast news non-accent. But, in the past few days, he’s started saying “daa-uhn,” two syllables and all. I’m encouraging it.