Eugenious

Dear Elena,

My little spitfire. I definitely wonder how Kindergarten will treat you, my little free-spirited wood sprite. You’re observant and a quick learner, and you love to be a good role model. Those qualities will treat you well as you enter school. You’re also a chatterbox and stubborn as that gluey residue left over from masking tape that’s been through the dishwasher. Kindergarten will be tough when you’re asked to zip your adorable lips.

It’s birthday party season, and at a party this past weekend, I was chatting with a mom about schools, because that’s all we can discuss when our babies are turning 5 and we want what’s best for them. I told this mom that you’d recently said you’d draw and paint all day, if given the opportunity. She said, “Yes, until college, and then she has to major in something that will make money.”

My expression must have illustrated my discomfort. Elena, you can go to college if you want. And, if you choose to go, you can major in art if you want. Or dance. Or theater. Or photography. Or religion. Or physics. Or chemistry. Or astronomy. But this you’ll never hear from me: “Consider pre-med. Doctors make more money than artists.” First of all, life’s too short to do something you think will make you money rather than something that will make you happy. Secondly, some artists actually make more money than doctors. And thirdly, it’s your life. You have this fantastic opportunity to make your own decisions. You will realize that some of them turn out to be ones you wouldn’t make again.

One of the biggest gifts my parents gave me was complete support. I was never made to feel like I wasn’t making the right decisions; they were my decisions, and I knew I was loved and that my family had my back. I should have asked for more advice, though. I still should. Like me, you are independent to a fault. You don’t have to take other people’s advice, but sometimes it’s good to hear it.

The first of two years of $5 annual ski passes at Willamette Pass. It’s good to be 4!

Right now, you love: pink, purple (you say it’s your favorite now), glitter, anything shiny (maybe you’re a magpie), playing with letters, drawing, collecting tiny objects (again, magpie), swinging, helping, running, dance class, saving food for later (sometimes later doesn’t come), cheek kisses, and amazing us with how big you are.

While we were sorting socks the other day, you said, “Yuck, this sock smells like rice. Italian rice.” Better get over that one, lady, because risotto’s delicioso!

I love you,
Mom

Pale not only because we’re Oregonians. Jumping waves with a fever. Yeah, I’m a good parent.

Wait, what lava? We’re making silly faces.

You started the day with princess face paint...

...and you ended it with an impressive fat lip. Your mouth bled for two nights afterward, as you slept. And your nose is now bruised. It was some bar fight.

Dear Elena,

You are a tough little chickie. While your latest big injury—your fat lip, bleeding gum, bloody nose, and subsequent bruised nose—did leave you weepy for the rest of that evening, you never needed any pain medication, and your didn’t have any trouble eating the following day. We coached you to tell grown-ups that you’d been in a bar fight, which was more amusing than the I-fell-off-the-bathroom-stool-and-hit-my-face-on-the-sink explanation.

If you knew my Gramma Jo, you may have seen her in glasses like these—they probably would have been black, or maybe red, but she'd have appreciated the panache of the pink ones..

You have a very respectful sense of nighttime and morning. While you do wake us (read: Daddy) up in the middle of the night because you need water or you can’t find Bunny, when it’s nearly morning but still dark, you hole up in your room and talk to your various dolls and stuffed critters. Sometimes you sing, and sometimes you fall back to sleep. Then, when you notice light, you fling open your door and holler enthusiastically, “It’s morning!”

Elena and Grampa Tom with their Stuart Little-sized snowmen

You are currently an interesting and contradictory collection of characteristics and behaviors. Since you were born, you’ve been happy and smiling, and you still are. Life is exciting, and you sing your way through it. And you’re also very much THREE! Three is an age of strong opinions and hardheadedness, at least for children who live in this house. You feel your emotions so strongly, and sometimes you just lash out with your negative ones and they manifest as ear-piercing screaming, fake crying, real crying, hitting. or, excitingly, biting!

In the past couple of months, you’ve started doing some representational drawing, encouraged by your calm and inspirational teacher, Jen, at school. Largely you’ve been drawing people, but I’ve seen some animals too. You can now cut with scissors on a line very well—better than some adults I know, in fact. You often ask me to draw hearts, which you trace with marker, cut out, and decorate with shiny things. You like to paint, and you’ve recently been painting a piggy bank, rocks, and probably the couch cushions.

You counted to 23 the other day, when you were counting stickers on your sticker chart. I was dumbfounded, as I’d never heard you count above 13. Yesterday, you added “eleventeen” after nineteen. I smiled; Sylvan corrected you, because you have to be right if you’re the big sibling.

These last couple of photos attest to your fearless nature. I won’t be at all surprised when you join the IceAxemen at South Eugene High School and tell me that you’re climbing Middle Sister in January. I just hope you don’t mind too much if I foil your plans to kiss that cute sophomore by joining the trip as a chaperone.

Elena, I really appreciate your hugs and kisses. You never fail to be aware of other people’s feelings, and you know when mine are low. You wrap yourself around me like a baby monkey and don’t let go. Thank you.

I love you, Miss Thing.

Love,
Mommy

5/21/12 P.S. I forgot to mention your singing habit, at least more than in passing. Especially when your big brother’s annoying you with loud noises or copying your every word, you have started to sing a happy song to keep yourself smiling. It usually goes something like this: “Princesses like hearts. And fairies like hearts. And unicorns like hearts.” Repeat. It’s difficult for me not to smile when you sing it, so I can only assume that it works for you, too.

"Go, Mommy, go!" Here's you cheering for me at the marathon, mile 8. You look really old in this photo, thin and tall.

Dear Elena,

I glimpsed my future today, and my knees trembled a bit. Daddy and I had a conference with your preschool teacher. I went in without any concerns; unlike some parents, I don’t expect you to learn all your letters or start long division in preschool. I do expect you to become better at sharing, expressing your feelings, and cooperating. Unfortunately, that’s not the way it’s progressing at the moment. You had to be removed from the lunch table today because you were trying to put an orange peel on your friend’s plate. When you were asked to stop, you refused.

We’ve noticed that stubborn streak at home, too. After I removed you from the couch for jumping on it the other day, you smiled sweetly at me and jumped on the couch again. Before you entered preschool, I joked that you were socially ready for Kindergarten: you shared well and played with others. Now, though, you’ve started hitting your friends if they’re in your space.

Elena in Grampa Dick's clothes. That makes this cute little tailored number about 65 years old!

Now, I’m not worried that you’ll keep hitting your friends. But I can see the social butterfly with a silly, stubborn streak causing a ruckus in Kindergarten—and an even bigger ruckus in 7th grade. Ruckus-maker, I’m not ready! I have to prepare.

It’s just that I think of you as easy: a pleasure to be with, easy to please, happy in the morning, with the ability to make everyone laugh. But you are three. Time to test out those parents and teachers, you say, and find out what they’re made of.

• You recognize a couple of letters now: E and S, for Elena and Sylvan. You enjoy playing with the magnetic letters, but you become frustrated if Sylvan tries to spell your name with lowercase letters. They’re not as easy for you to recognize.
• You are counting higher, often to ten with no mistakes.
• You like to say grace before every dinner. That means holding hands and thanking whomever cooked the meal.
• Like your brother, you like to run around naked, and you seem incapable of feeling the chill of a 62-degree house. The other day, I said, “Elena, you’re naked.” You responded, “Yes, but I have hair!”
• Although I don’t remember the context, you said, “It would be funny if you had blinky eyes.”
• You like to sing the ABCs and Hey, Diddle, Diddle before you go to sleep. I sing and you sing along.

I love you, Miss.

Love,
Mommy

Elena being gentle with her new cousin, King George. Or Dominic.