Lion and Magic Boy

Dear Eric,

You. Yes, you! I’m talking to you! I know you totally hear me, but even at three years old your powers of selective hearing are amazing. You are just pretending to be completely entranced by those blocks, aren’t you? Because we both know what blocks are really for. That’s right, throwing. And the more noise they make, the better. Which is why you like to position yourself in the foyer (wood floor) and throw them against the door (closed) that goes down to the basement (where you have never been and you likely never will until you’re at least twelve, that is, if we’re still incarcerated in this godforsaken stupid state by then, which if your father has anything to do with it we will, just out of sheer poopiness), where they bounce right back to you so you can do it again. And again. And again.

Other times you roam the house looking for things to throw, making periodic sounds that are really cute right now but if you’re still making them in 30 years they will remind people of Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade. Not that I’m suggesting that you stop making those sounds or even that you would be likely to do so based on my lame suggestion, after all, who am I? Just the person to whom you go to when you want a pancake, who warms the pancake and presents it lovingly atop a white-and-blue Corelle saucer, one of the least breakable dishes in the house despite the fact that only last week you shattered one by tossing it casually at the marble-like fireplace hearth and we were forever thankful that the plate did not instead hit the glass fireplace enclosure. You regard the pancake with evident loathing, even though seconds before you had cheerfully assured me that this was what you wanted more than anything else in the universe, and you tell me now that instead you’d much rather have applesauce. You glance up at me with a look that is at once sly and endearing, making the sign for “applesauce” against your soft cheek repeatedly and hopefully. Which I am helplessly unable to resist.

Mornings appear to be favorite times for you, unless you are sick, in which case you appear resentful as to the sudden and completely unfair appearance of the sun, and by the way, what’s this in your nose and why do you feel that way? Who invented this “sick” thing, anyway? But most days you awaken with joy and wonder, and I think I could take a lesson from that. One day last week you sang a long long song to the cats, who were still lying abed watching my every move in their empty-bowled hopefulness. I am not sure as to their level of appreciation for your song, which to them likely sounded a lot like “daaaa! daa, daaaaaa! daa, daa. Daaaaaaah!”, but you and I know what music truly is and we have an appreciation for those finer things in life.

Your diapered state typically doesn’t concern you much, unless of course we are in the process of changing your diaper. It’s lots of fun to twist and turn and avoid the procedure as much as possible, the way you do when being dressed or undressed. Frankly, I don’t blame you much, as I would in many cases not want these same procedures performed on me. Thankfully, when there is poop involved you mostly come to me and announce the fact (despite the fact that the announcement is generally preceded by an aura and a general, shall we say, “air” about you), gleefully pointing to your crotchal region while saying “poop”, as if this one, this one, was your masterpiece.

Your vocabulary is increasing dramatically, and I’m only sorry that I still haven’t translated many of your words into English. But you know what you’re saying, and that’s what counts. You had your first “real” phone conversation not long ago with your grandma, very endearing to witness, and you took turns gesticulating and stating things emphatically. Last night you even said “bye” when you were done with your pretend phone call, and you handed the phone back to me. This is quite a change from when you’d gleefully crawl in the opposite direction, clutching the phone and attempting to keep it from me as long as possible.

Of course, now you barely ever crawl at all, preferring instead your still-a-little unsteady gait, teetering a bit on your tiny feet as you pivot successfully around corners and avoid obstacles on the floor. I have to admit I’m still surprised once in awhile at your verticaltudiness, and it has brought you uncomfortably closer to the stove knobs and other exciting and forbidden items, but all in all I would say I am pleased at your amazing progress.

Which pretty much sums up everything I feel about you.

Love,
Mama

[tags]Eric, down syndrome, boys, children[/tags]