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