Eugenious

Dear Sylvan:

To celebrate your 25-month birthday, all-around inspiring figure (sailor, gardener, pilot, motorcyclist, educator, comedian, sweetheart) Tom Bettman invited us to go canoeing this morning. It was your first canoe trip, and Daddy prepared you by showing you the canoe pages in Jamberry. We met Tom near Autzen Stadium, and we canoed on the aptly named Canoe Canal in Alton Baker Park. You were suitably impressed by the black dog splashing into the water after the tennis ball, as well as by the mallards, geese, wood ducks, and wigeons with their shorebird-like calls. After we heard a red-winged blackbird and you heard Tom and me discussing it, you repeatedly asked where it was. Hiding in the cattails, far away from toddler, was the answer. You fed the well-trained ducks some stale bread, and they complained about its location on par with gypsum on the Mohs scale. But it softened up with a good soaking.

You sat on your cushion in the bow the whole time, facing me for most of it. Then you figured out you could turn around, so you sort of lay down and leaned on the bow, a lovely little runny-nosed, tousle-haired bowsprit, projecting only your head over the water. You even put your hands in a waterfall spilling over a two-foot high dam. It was an exciting morning. I have to admit that I was concerned that I’d have a handful of wiggly, wet Sylvan screaminess on my hands, and I came prepared with Sylvan-approved snacks and a change of clothes; but we were out on the water for at least an hour, and you were fascinated and well-behaved the entire time. You enjoyed it so much that your good mood lasted. Afterward we sat and ate thawed blueberries, cheddar cheese, and pretzels near the canal, and you talked to me and snuggled in when I offered to warm you up. Then you chased me back to the bike trailer, thwacking your hands against the chest of your PFD the whole way, and we had a very civilized diaper change, an unlikely event these days. You asked me to pull down the sunshade on your trailer despite the clouds, and you were asleep before we rode over the Willamette four minutes later.

I missed your 2-year-old letter last month because I left for 12 days for a NOLS course, and then, a week and a half later, for 10 days of Alaskan respite with your Dad (You’ve started to call us “Dad” and “Mom,” dropping the second syllable, when you’re talking about us in the third person: “I need to go to the store with my Dad.” Are you eleven?). I do apologize for missing that letter; you’ve changed tremendously from two months ago.

The NOLS course was wonderful for me, by the way; although it took a few days to get back into the swing of things, I was busy and challenged and heartened to be in a beautiful place (the Pasayten Wilderness east of the North Cascades) using my relatively underutilized brain. As for our Alaska trip, I think your Dad and I realized that a seven-day vacation without you would have been preferable to a 10-day one. We missed you, but you had a stellar time with Gramma Mia.

You did have some difficulties right before we left and then when we were away, and whether they arose from the difficulties of transitioning into a different classroom at your school, our absence, or your reaching a new developmental stage, I don’t know. You had difficulty when Gramma left you at school on the three mornings you went while we were gone. You sobbed and said you needed to go home with her. She knew she had to leave you, even though it broke her heart, and you were fine once she left. But you know that people go away now, and you’re sad to see them go.

On a related note, you “yub,” or “love,” everything these days. I opened Connor’s birthday invitation, and you said, “I yub Connor.” And you yub smoothies, your Spiderman shoes, Tephra, your new alphabet puzzle from Gramma, wind, sand, and stars.

I’ve instituted a new policy: when I become exasperated with you, I hug you and tell you I love you, even if I don’t mean “I love you” in the moment. I meant “I love you” yesterday when you laughed at the mallard butts flashing you as the ducks gleaned larvae from the bottom of the Millrace. “What are they doing?” you asked. That question means “Even though I know what they’re doing, probably because you told me in the last two minutes, tell me again because it’ll make me laugh.” I’ll mean “I love you” the next time you call Snoopy “Noofy.” So, while I don’t mean “I love you” when I’m struggling to dress you and you’re pulling off a fantabulous greased pig imitation, I will mean it again, and I’m saying it as a calming device in the meantime. And it’s undoubtedly useful to get ahead on I love yous; even the best-loved among us may not hear “I love you” often enough.

Today, in a moment of frustration involving you needing to put on your diaper yourself and the snap ending up near your ear, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. You maneuvered into my personal space, looked into my face, and said, “Why are you sad, Mom?” What could I do but smile?

I have lots more to say, so I’ll write a little follow-up next week.

Love,
Mom

This entry was posted in the categories Sylvan by julie on Friday, 12 October 2007, 15:31. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.