Eugenious

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

Dear Sylvan,

“Mommy, why do fires sometimes burn?” you asked as I pried my eyes open from sleep this morning. I could almost focus on your little bowl-haircut head above my mattress as I mumbled “fuel and oxygen.” (sorry to the scientists; I know now that I missed “ignition”) Your mind whirs along, considering possibilities and pondering which questions you’ll spring on me. Do your Mom a favor, huh? Wait until I’m awake.

We hiked at Waldo Lake last week on a foggy, rainy, chilly fall day. You ran down the trail, blazing the way. You stopped at a bridge over a dry streambed. “That’s a stream.” Daddy asked how you knew that, since there was no water in it. If I recall, you looked at him a little funny; I mean, there was a bridge over it, after all. Then Daddy asked why there was no water in it. “Because it hasn’t been raining,” you replied. And now my three-year-old will lead us in a discussion about intermittent streams. Thank you, thank you, thank you for expressing interest in what interests me.

You are quite interested in Elena’s breastfeeding — getting Mommy milk, in our parlance. I’ll admit, it does seem like magic; I eat waffles, and Elena gets milk. You always want to know whether Elena’s eyes are open when she’s eating. It’s something I’ve noticed, too: how intense babies look when they breastfeed with their eyes open. Yesterday, you started breastfeeding your baby, a frightfully red bear in a green bunny suit. You let me know when his eyes were open, too.

Today, I went downstairs to find your Curious George stories, and I left you and Elena in your room. “You entertain Elena, and I’ll run down to find your book,” I said as I left. When I returned, you were sitting in front of Elena, playing your ukulele (which you’re calling a mandolin this week) like a stand-up bass and singing Skip to My Lou. Charmer. Of course, the charm wore off when you bebopped out of your room no fewer than 78 times at bedtime…

I’ve always been impressed by your verbal capacity, and our readers are undoubtedly tired of my high praise, but there are a couple of things you’re now doing with words that are really neat. Daddy asked whether you were going to teach Elena all the words you know. You started reeling off words that rhyme with “ock:” clock, chalk, block, knock, etc. It’s as if you already had a lesson plan for teaching Elena: “Today, class, we’ll start with words that rhyme with ‘rock.’” Another thing that makes me think writing poetry will come naturally is your ability to take a word and make a decision to use it as a different part of speech. Jesse James “robbed the Glendale train,” as Bruce Springsteen made us aware in a song you like to listen to. You smushed a stuffed animal into a small space the other day and told me that you’d “glendaled” it.

You started preschool three weeks ago. I dropped you off that first day, and, while you’re in the same building you’ve been in since you started “school” when you were fifteen months old, this was the first day of being with kids who really are a lot bigger and further along developmentally than you are. I had to admit I was a little surprised when I dropped you off and saw the 5-year-old “toughs” on the playground: “But my baby…” The verdict? You love it. You use scissors all the time. And a stapler!

When I was making dinner the other day, you were cutting away in the other room, showing me your paper pieces, both cut and ripped. “Mommy, this is the bottom of a tree,” you said, holding it up to me. “The trunk?” I asked. You were silent for a moment. “No, it’s the big part that you hug.” Ah, my little tree-hugging Eugenious.

Love,
Mommy