Dear Sylvan,
Last night, your Daddy sent me an e-mail: “If Sylvan is feeling creative tomorrow, he could make some little cards for everyone, and he and I could deliver them on Wednesday. . . I was thinking something pretty minimal, like a small red heart on which one of us writes ‘(heart), Sylvan’ and then Sylvan can decorate as he sees fit. Nothing too insane or time-consuming.” Despite the fact that he’s known me for fourteen years, your father apparently doesn’t know me at all, at least when it comes to art projects. First of all, cutting out 31 little red hearts would have given me agita. Second of all, “minimal?” Impossible. So you and I went shopping, spent too much money on a stamp pad, heart stamp, and stickers, and away we went. You were somewhat interested; let’s just say that it would have been fine if we’d only been making Valentines for the ten or so people in your classroom at any one time. You preferred putting your transparent little face stickers directly on top of the Chianti-red stamped hearts, giving you a disturbing disguise. Good thing you went to bed after stickering only eight cards.
You awoke in the middle of last night, saying, “I want to pee in the potty, Daddy!” This despite the fact that you were wearing a disposable diaper. Good job. Then, you said, “Daddy, you need to kiss me on my chin.” Daddy obliged. You need kisses when you hurt. And, although you don’t have a word for your throat yet, you had the same sore throat last night that your Daddy and I had. You wanted him to kiss your throat; your chin was pretty close, geographically.
This whole potty training thing has amazed me, frankly. I mean, kids just learn stuff. Who knew? What seems most miraculous is that we just started dressing you in big boy underwear: sink or swim, baby. It took two weeks, but you realized you didn’t like the feeling of warm, wet socks. By three weeks, you pretty much had it down: “Daddy come in the baffwoom! Close the doors!” In fact, you made it all the way from the east side of the mountains in one pair of dry underwear on Sunday. I could have used some Depends.
Today, you told me you wanted to go out the gate, a euphemism for going for a walk to see the world. It was time for a snack and some more Valentine-making (soon, you’ll be able to tell me where to stick my craft projects). You said, “Do you hear my words? It’s time to go out the gate.” I did hear your words, but it didn’t seem like it, did it? This evening, at 7:52, you asked Daddy whether he could hear your words, which were saying it was not, in fact, time for bed.
You’ve also picked up one phrase that you rarely use correctly: “in case.” I can’t think of one of your improper examples, but you never have a dependent clause. The funnier one is “sorry,” which you use correctly. Almost. Last night, Daddy was going to take you to bed, which would have given me 45 minutes of uninterrupted Julie-time; but I didn’t tell you that, I swear. You said, “Sorry, you’re going to take me to bed, Mommy.”
We spent the weekend on the sunny side of the mountains, staying in one of Lapine State Park’s “deluxe” cabins with Cole and his family, while your girlfriend, Josie, and her family rented another, and our littler friend Colton and his parents were in a third. On Saturday, we headed up to Foggy Bottom Sno-Park (a.k.a. Swampy Lakes), where we put on your brand-new cross-country skis in the parking lot. You didn’t take them off for another 45 minutes or so, and then only with a fight. After tracking through the parking lot to get used to the skis, we headed out on-trail, and you insisted on skiing for about a fifth of a mile. That won’t sound impressive when you’re eleven, but, let me tell you, you 
currently stand as tall as my hip socket. And you didn’t even have poles. Sure, you held one of our hands for most of the time, but, gosh, most adults aren’t nearly as good on skis their first time around. After your grumpy, sleepy breakdown, falling asleep in my arms as I sang “Froggy went a-courtin’,” a nap in a backpack, and lunch, you strapped the skis on again. You went downhill, bending your knees, as we suggested, so you wouldn’t fall. And you requested the hokey-pokey on skis, putting your “left foot in” with no problem. You even jumped on your skis, right off the ground, during the “that’s what it’s all about, WHOO!” section.
I don’t want to push you, but I’m going to tell you right now that I was so proud of you on those skis. You just loved it. I’m going to try to encourage you to enjoy backpacking, climbing, skiing, canoeing, and later, mountaineering, without driving you away from the pursuits I love so much. I won’t push. I hope. I asked your Dad the other day, “Do you know what I think about way too much?” And, after his de rigueur responses about body image, he conceded that it would be wise for him to stop guessing. I said, “At what age can I can take my kids mountaineering? Eleven?”
The tree frogs are peeping tonight. And my garlic is growing. Spring in Eugene, and it’s only February. We had six inches of snow two weeks ago!
I love you, Sweet Boy,
Mommy
