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