Eugenious

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