Dear Eliza, 41 Months Old

Dear Eliza,

A couple of weeks ago, you randomly told me that Greta was going to doggy heaven.

I’m not sure where you learned about the inevitability. You told me, so matter-of-fact, that when Greta goes to doggy heaven she’ll be really happy because there will be a lot of frisbees. You told me that I’ll be sad but it’s all OK because when she dies you’ll be older, I’ll be older, and Greta will be really old. This is, of course, all true.

I was taken back by your wisdom and felt flooded with emotion because your Mom and I already had to send a dog to doggy heaven. Gianna was the first “child” your Mom and I had before you came along. We adopted her by chance, walking our bikes across the University of Puget Sound campus — a dog heaven on earth — during an adoption drive. Gianna was a middle-aged dog and took to us very quickly and enjoyed our many pre-children adventures. She had some wild streaks and was terrible on leash. She developed seizures after a couple of years that greatly declined her quality of life, and she couldn’t break out of the final seizure that ended her life.

I have never cried so hard as I did the day that she died. Those final months were difficult with her. I felt remorseful that we couldn’t do anything else to save her. I felt overwhelmed because we were unsure at the time that you would ever come along. I felt sad that she wouldn’t be in the picture if you did.

We’ve got a painting on the wall in the dining room. It’s a picture a border collie looking off into the sunset with a tennis ball nearby. Doggy heaven is filled with tennis balls, too.

Speaking of painting, you’ve been a working artist lately. You produced your first canvas the other day, graduating up from construction paper. Your technique and details are fast improving. Last month, you were in “stick figure mode” when painting people and princesses. Now you’re adding face features like eyes, eyelashes, angled noses, hair, eyebrows and, of course, crowns. On a nice day two weeks ago I yanked you off the dining table to go outside. You refused. I offered the compromise that you could paint outside. You were so content sitting in the middle of our walkway, painting the leaves that you saw on the ground. I could picture you being a young lady under a tree at a park with watercolors interpreting your observations. It’s all very romantic.

The world needs artists. It’s a bland world without them. Maybe it’s a phase or maybe it’s a calling, but something tells me you’re going to be an artsy kind of person. Maybe painting will be your medium, or music, or something else. The world needs artists like you to inspire and touch people. Even the bittersweet parts of life, like doggy heaven, have a place on the wall.

Love, Dad

Dear Matteo, 20 Months Old

Your personality is exploding with energy and excitement. Your vocabulary is almost keeping pace, and you’re starting to string words together to express all of the thoughts running through your head.

The following is what occurs in a given hour of your busy life.

• Play soccer, left foot only

• Eat 1-2 cups of yogurt

• Squeal at Greta to get her riled up and running circles

• Ask to play upstairs, pout when denied

• Point to top of fridge and ask to eat vitamins

• Escape outside barefoot and run a lap around to the back door

• Grab the face of a parent to get them to pay attention to your words

• Open the fridge to find more yogurt or grapes

• Take off all of your clothes and diaper to talk about your “peepee”

• Read the same picture book a few times

• Complain when Eliza took a toy out of your hands

• Grab a parent by the hand to guide them to whatever you think is interesting

• Climb on the toilet to play in our bathroom sink; eat 1-2 tablespoons of toothpaste

• Snuggle your Mom or Eliza on the couch or our bed

• Climb up a parent to hang upside-down

• Ask Echo to play the Frozen soundtrack or “Elmo Slide” to dance some sequenced moves

• Pretend to be a frog and hop around saying “wigget”

• Scream “bird!” upon seeing a bird out the window

• Ask where Froggy (your pacifier) and Rocky (your stuffed raccoon) are as a signal you’re ready to nap

I often stop to reflect on just how fun and interesting you are. You have so much ambition and confidence. You also got your first haircut this past month and I’m not the only one to stop and say how handsome you are. You, like me, noticeably improve with a good haircut.

Swagger, smarts, charm and looks are a good combination to get more ladies than your Mom to pay attention to you. Keep it up.

Love, Dad

Dear Eliza, 40 Months Old

I’ll start this letter with an anecdote: A couple weeks ago, I watched you walk up to your brother and kick him squarely in the groin.

He didn’t solicit the violence by any of his usual annoyances. You simply felt obliged to put him down on his knees. Fortunately, Matteo is still in a thick-diaper stage and probably had a little liquid padding so he seemed unfazed by the kick. I felt a split-decision in the moment to scold you or encourage you. Obviously it’s unkind to attack your brother and without apparent cause, but I am also thrilled how you’ve learned an important tactic in self-defense.

So I chose not to react at all.

The anecdote is also representative of some of your recent behaviors. You’ve been quick to yell, kick and scream in otherwise calm situations. Especially in cases you don’t like something, you let us know firmly. A simple question at the dinner table like, “Would you like some rice?” results in a high pitched, high volume “No!” or even an immediate tantrum.

Before any backcountry skiing tours I check an avalanche report to check the stability of the snow pack. I wish there was the same service for toddler stability. On a related note, we are coming off of an ALL-TIME snowstorm and have been sledding and playing in the snow non-stop. These are some of the best days to be a child, or adult with childlike wonder.

I attribute the emotional flares to growing up fast. You’re not a tall kid, but I see the height spurts and waves of intellectual growth. You are achieving a lot of simple math and focus on memorizing how to spell and write family names. You channel most of your energy positively creatively, which is fantastic. You are a prolific artist, creating several pages per hour of drawings, sticker art, and treasure map production.

I keep waiting for the art that expresses the origin of why you kicked Matteo in the balls that day, but some parts of life are probably best left unexplained.

Love, Dad

Dear Matteo, 19 Months Old

It’s a snow day in Tacoma!

I remember being a kid this time of year and watching with excitement the local news broadcasts forecasting snow. It didn’t happen often, but it dominated the programming when it did. I remember a lot of Steve Pool and Rich Marriott segments in those years. I could hardly sleep and would constantly get up through the night to look out the window and see if the snow fell yet. Sometimes it did, sometimes it never did. It’s a tough job accurately predicting Pacific Northwest winter weather and snow levels. Sometimes without any previous news hype I would wake up to a snow day. That surprise was best of all and seemed to result in the best snow. That’s what this morning felt like.

We only had a few inches on the ground but that was plenty for you and Eliza to sled, build snowmen and fall backward into snow angels. You had such a blast shuffling across the yard. We took a walk to Bluebeard where you dropped me off for a remote workday. The wind was blowing so the conditions felt a little more arctic than ideal, but it was nothing a donut and hot chocolate couldn’t solve.

On your way back home you waved “Bye Daddy!” — one of the many phrases coming into your vocabulary. You can say everyone’s name now, especially “Liza!” You can say many food words (because you constantly want to eat). You spend a little time each day reading books out loud to yourself, which is heart-melting to watch. Cooling that heart, you scream as loud as possible when you’re frustrated or we misunderstand your words. We need to work on a little patience there. In between those outbursts you are a sweet kid and love to especially cuddle your mom and hold hands.

On non-snow days, your motto is “Ball is life” as you constantly have a ball in your hand or at your feet. Your favorite game right now, indoors and outdoors, is holding a ball high above your head and then throwing it forward to run at it and take a swing with that big left foot. Most of the time you gracefully connect the strike. It’s purely athletic and a perfect combination of your Mom’s throwing arm and your Dad’s footwork. And sometimes you take a big whiff and fall solidly on your butt without embarrassment and the immediate willingness to get up and try again. That’s the best of both of us, which is basically… you.

We’ve got more winter ahead and we’ll get more days in at home to play (ball) in the snow and try to get you up on skis in the mountains, if only for the photos. After that, spring is upon us and we’ll get you in some toddler soccer league. Something tells me you’ll be a multi-sport threat. Although skiing is my new favorite sport, soccer was my first. Ball is life.

Love always,

Dad

Dear Eliza, 39 Months Old

Last night we hunted for treasure. I didn’t know what the treasure was, but was along for the ride to find out. Your Mom drew up a map that included climbing a tree, swimming across a pond, jumping over rocks and building a house — all within the confines of our small living room.

We imagined and acted our way through all of those tasks within minutes. The treasure was an imaginary photo of you and Matteo, you told me. We pretended to hang the photos on the wall nearby.

The night prior we pretended to be elephants. We crawled around the upstairs playroom looking for food. Matteo occasionally rode my back like embarking on an Indian safari. Your elephant name was “Ooo Ooo,” and you pretended to be an infant elephant. Whenever I would “trumpet” loudly, you would let out a higher-pitched, quieter squeal to match. You pretended that I had elephant milk and wanted to nurse, which was a little over-the-top because, you know, I don’t have that kind of equipment.

This kind of imaginative play has been off the charts. You almost constantly imagine something happening around us and tell us so. Your Mom and I rarely get a word in because you’re talking so much, providing so much detail and describing the action happening we can’t see.

You do dip back into the real world occasionally. I dropped you off at pre-school this morning — a treat for me — and confidently walked into the classroom, greeted your friends and started crafting. You didn’t bother to say goodbye when I dropped you off. As you know, grown-ups come back. I picked you up a few hours later. After some polite chit-chat about our respective school and work days, you jumped right back into telling me about how your imaginary baby needed to put on her seat belt in the car.

Keep thinking big and dreaming big. That’s what’s it’s all about. Fasten your seat belt, and hers.

Love, Dad