Eugenious

When I left for rehearsal this evening (for The Honka House, referred to as The Honka Divorce by one dancer’s husband, for the amount of time we spend rehearsing instead of in bed with our loved ones), Sylvan was running down the sidewalk, Chris a few steps behind. Sylvan said, “Unnie moon.” Chris allowed that Sylvan could try to travel under the crescent moon, but he might end up pretty far away after that trip. A few minutes ago, I returned from rehearsal and homework time, and both boys are tucked in bed. Logic prevailed or Sylvan got sleepy.

The other night, when Sylvan awoke for his 2 a.m. fried eggs, I sat in a chair facing him, and he put his bare feet against my shins. “Yummy yeggs,” he said, and, since his Ls become Ys, he meant my legs, not the eggs. He was right, actually; I had just shaved, and my legs were smooth and lovely. That comment made up for the mid-night snack.

Chris walked in from work the other evening and hugged me, Sylvan sitting in his high chair beside us. “Hug me!” he requested.

Last Thursday, Sylvan and I attended Eugene’s Public Works Day, where they let kids climb on big trucks and watch videos of snakes in the sewer. The video was lost on Sylvan, but, boy, did he appreciate “driving” the mowers, observing balloons flying from the cranes, and touching the tires on the firetrucks. We walked past a person in a frog costume, and Sylvan looked the frog up and down, pointed at its shoes, and said, “Rubbah dude,” because the frog was, in fact, wearing rubber-soled shoes. Then he continued into the shelter where the elementary kids were eating lunch. He climbed up into a chair next to one of the kids and said, “Nack.” Snacktime it was. Good thing I had peas in the car.

Dear Sylvan:

You’ve become quite a little boy — excuse me, big boy — in the last few months. This becomes especially apparent when we put you in a new situation and watch you dive right in. This past weekend, we went camping at the coast with friends, both new and old. Honeyman State Park, south of Florence, marks the northern end of Oregon’s treasure of sand dunes. You just loved the dunes! You asked politely to be removed from the backpack so you could walk by yourself: “Down Dilban. Down Dilban.” You climbed uphill, you scooted down the dunes on your bottom, you ran in circles, and you ended up with rather large amounts of sand in your diaper. Sand challenges adults who walk through it, and you just kept motoring, breathing hard when you reached the top, and making your steps smaller so that you wouldn’t tumble on the way down. Watching you hike made me think that we’ll be able to take you on short backpacking trips very soon; we’ll take a kid carrier, but you’ll be able to walk on your own. Our friend Kari, whose son, Cole, is a couple of months older than you, was surprised by your hiking ability. It’s true, you amaze me, but your ability and desire to walk comes with a price: wanderlust. While Cole and Wynona, the other toddler camping with us this weekend, snuggled with their parents around the campfire, you wandered off into the woods or down the road, looking for the next thing.

Songs continue to be one of the few things that will calm you; I often wipe your bottom while singing about little ducks. Your new favorite is “Wiggy, wiggy, wump, wump,” which is very fun for us to sing in public, since I sing the whole silly, nonsense song by myself, complete with hand motions, while you wait to jump in with your punchline: “Nobody home!”

While this next behavior isn’t new, I don’t want to forget that, when you’re in Daddy’s arms and you ask him to run, you tuck your arms behind your back. To make yourself more aerodynamic, of course.

It’s official: your memory is better than mine. When we walked past a very specific azalea a block down from the library, you told me, “Doggie was.” I looked around, not seeing a dog but thinking you’d said something about a dog. You repeated yourself, “Doggie was.” Oh, right, that’s where the little white dog was sniffing the bushes a week ago. You even managed to use the correct verb tense.

I also really appreciate that I’m a dancer to you. You notice when I’m wearing dance clothes, ready to go to rehearsal. You laugh when I practice in the kitchen. And you say “Bye, Mommy” repeatedly as I walk out the door, ready to dance the evening away — away from you. That’s okay, though; I know you’ll be dancing, too.

Love-
Mommy