Dear Evan:

Happy Father’s Day to me! It’s my second ever. Can you believe I had to think about that? It seems like so many more. This year we’ll be visiting your Lovey and Grumpy. Last night, you and your mom gave me a vintage-looking popcorn machine. I don’t have many vices any more, but one of them is microwave popcorn. Now we can get back to the real stuff. Soon, you’ll even be able to share.

You’re in two phases right now: asking questions about everything, and the Terrible Twos. Oh, and nature movies. On that last one, you’ve come up with a clear way to determine which scenes disturb you. If an animal has sharp teeth, it’s deemed scary and worth scampering behind my legs. We have long discussions about what counts as scary, mostly in the form of you asking, “Has sharp teeth? Has normal teeth?”

For the most part, the system works, with some exceptions: Your dogs clearly have sharp teeth but are friendly. So now animals have qualifiers: something can be FWENDLY, especially if it’s a TEENY-TINY BABY.

All of which leads us to your imagination. Every day, you tell us you’re a different animal. (Yesterday you were a sea turtle.) But inevitably, you qualify it with assuring us no matter what, you’re a FWENDLY BABY sea turtle or chameleon or camel.

I can’t wait to see what you are today.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

Before you were born, before I met your mother, before so many things, I spent insomnia time playing computer games. One of those games featured a little wizard who, when danger approached, sometimes querulously asked, “What’s that NOISE?”

I write this because I think I subconsciously picked up his whispered, almost scared delivery. (I know I did for another character, an elf who chirped “Re-FRESH-ing!” when healed.) As you grew and became more aware of the world around you, we played games where I would try to get you to recognize the environment. Sometimes, I would do it by asking, “What’s that noise?”

At maybe the year and a half mark, you took up the practice for your own, peering around after an unfamiliar sound and asking, “Dat NOIZE? Dat NOIZE, Dada?”

And now, just in the past month, you’ve been answering your own question: “Dat NOIZE? Dat noize da WASHink machine.” “Dat noize is Mimi coffink.”

My favorite is when my laptop heats up, triggering the fan: “Dat noize is jus’… jus’ da COMPYOODER.”

(I can’t decide whether you sound more like Arnold Schwarzenegger or an old Jewish man.)
I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

Sometime in the last six months, you learned to be afraid.

I think it coincided with the blossoming of your imagination. You’ve definitely gone from playing alongside me to actual imaginative play. Just the other day, your tiny plastic brachiosaur Fluffy was a firefighter, climing up and down the ladder of a red plastic fire truck.

The downside is that you now back away from the opening scene of “Finding Nemo” (with the menacing barracuda) and won’t watch “Monsters Inc.” at all any more. Worse is that toys and statues have become threatening. I noticed it at the library first, when you would no longer approach the life-size tiger pillow. And then over Thanksgiving, you wouldn’t go into your cousin’s room with its box of large stuffed dinosaurs. You learned the word “scary,” but I noticed you would call some of your toys (a plastic snake named Snakey, some spiders left over from Halloween) scary but not be actually scared.

When we returned over Christmas, I provided reassurance that would become a mantra: “It’s just a toy. Not scary. Just a toy.”

I said that over and over while touching each stuffed animal in turn, and encouraging you to touch each while saying it.

It’s not a foolproof system. During our zoo trip this past Saturday, you stopped in your tracks at the statue of a kangaroo alongside the trail.

“It’s okay,” I said, rapping it on the nose. “It’s just a statue. Not real. Not scary.”

“Jus’ a STA-choo,” you repeated, but would come no closer.

The system failed us that time, so we moved on, but I’ve heard you saying the mantra to yourself in other situations: “Not SKEERY. Jus’ a TOY.”

A lot in life isn’t really scary. It’s just toys. Not real. We’ll get you to that realization soon enough.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

“Elephants is playing! In HHHnow!”

We were at the Fort Worth Zoo this past weekend for Daddy-Evan Day (what I call it when the two of us spend a weekend day together, a regular event) and you were so active, so inquisitive, so excited. You’re in love with animals right now, fitting given that your room is decorated in elephants, tigers, giraffes, etc. The zoo has almost every animal you love with the exception of dinosaurs. (Those, by the way, are a more nebulous concept to you with the exception of T. rex, which you can pick out on sight, and Fluffy, your name for a tiny plastic Brachiosaur.)

More cute, you can’t quite pronounce the s if it’s followed by a consonant at the start of a word. Instead, you make a sound like a guttural H. For example, your toy snake is named “HHHnakey,” snow is “HHHnow,” etc.

“That’s not snow, honey,” I said. “That’s *sand.*”

One of the elephants walked out of the large viewing area, back toward a smaller section of the zoo.

“Elephant is going?” you asked.

I had to think for a moment of a concept that would translate. “He’s going to his home.” While you watched the elephant, I watched you. Your bright blue eyes got that focused look that doubled as a sort of “recording” indicator. After a few minutes, we walked over to the giraffes. On the way back out, we stopped again at the elephant enclosure.

A beat, and then: “Elephants playing in SAND!”

We both grinned.

I love you,

Daddy

Evan at the Fort Worth Zoo (Jan. 2013)

Dear Evan –

It’s true, I haven’t written lately, and just when I swore I would. I hope that isn’t too much a reflection on me. Life is more complicated than we’re sometimes able to handle, and I admit to a tendency, when faced with a problem, to let everything else fade into the background.

I wonder: Will you be the same? Will you be a focused man? You certainly focus when you’re playing, staring hard at the Duplos or puzzle, mouth open. Deep breaths. You’re definitely heading into your twos. (No surprise; your birthday was last weekend.) You talk constantly now; you get jealous when your mommy or I holds someone not you – yes, even if it’s one of the dogs; you want what you want and let us know when you don’t get it.

We haven’t yet celebrated your second birthday because you don’t quite get the concept yet. After all, getting presents is something that happens on a regular basis for you. Plus, I’m not quite ready to have a house full of strange toddlers.

I mentioned you talking all the time, and you do. “Yeah” has turned into a long “yyyAAAAASSSSS,” your newfound love of sibilants. “Okay” is still a staple of your vocabulary: “Okeeee.” Everything merits a hi and a bye, especially the moon, airplanes (you splutter on the l, which makes the word darling), helicopters. Oh! And spaceships. Your love for “Finding Nemo” has transferred to “Wall-E,” especially the spaceship sequences. In every scene, you point excitedly at the screen and shout “pia!” (which itself is slowly resolving into “spaceship”).

You’re still small, not yet 30 pounds, but two years ago you were just two pounds and almost a third. You’ll get bigger. Your feet are big, like a puppy’s outsized paws.

Oh, and you’re bilingual. Hands are manos – when you’re eating dinner and a hand gets sticky, you’ll hold it out, fingers splayed, and say “Mano! Mano!” Horses are caballos. Turtles are “tugas” (tortugas — working on that one). There’s much more that isn’t coming to mind right this second.

You still use some of the sign language, mostly “more” and “please,” but that’s falling by the wayside.

I can’t wait to take you trick-or-treating tonight. I wonder how you’ll react to the other children in costume. I sort of think you’ll edge toward me, hide halfway behind my leg, peer out and around. My heart swells when you do that. Then you look up, pull in your arms in a sort of shrug and say “Gummeeeeer.” (What I get for always saying “come ‘ere” when I pick you up.) Don’t worry, I’ll carry you.

Happy Halloween!

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

Believe it or not, there was once a time we thought you might not talk until much later in childhood, thanks to your premature birth. I’m happy to say that not only are you cognitively advanced (so your mommy and Mimi Jean tell me), you started talking early and rarely stop.

Without further ado, and in no particular order, a Glossary of Evan:

I-gah and Gee: The latter is pronounced with a hard g. These were your first not-really-words, mostly used to express unhappiness. Funny thing is, you’ve abandoned them, but your mommy and I still say them to each other.

Gah (Gus): Your first word was, of all things, the name of our gassy, cranky Golden Retriever. We were hoping it’d be something like Tree or Encyclopedia, but no, you pointed to Gus and said “Gah!” Still do.

Bit-bit: Or sometimes just Bit. Lil’ Bit is our other dog, a rat terrier. He’s your favorite, because he’s your size. Some days you’ll spend half an hour just chasing him, laughing your little head off while trying to give him a hug. When you miss your fur-brothers or otherwise refer to them collectively, it’s “Gah Bit.”

Dis!: This. When you point at something you don’t know, or want to call our attention to, you say “Dis!” It’s very cute, but even cuter when it’s, for example, a banana you want. Then it becomes drawn out and plaintive: “Diii-uh-iii-uh-iiis?”

Ugh-uh: Hug. Hugs are not just given; they’re also announced. And wow, do you love giving hugs. So we’ll hear “Ugh-uh!” and then you curl your little head into the crook of my neck.

Wow: Just what it sounds like. I say “wow” sarcastically a lot, and you picked it up, intonation and all. It’s pretty freakin’ funny.

Boobie: Yeah. Just what it sounds like, again. Long story short, your mommy was discussing her rapidly shrinking chest in the car, and from the back seat you started saying “boobie boobie boobie.” And yes, you know what they are, as well. Now we need to work on the concept of discretion.

Boo-ie: Berry. Some children don’t eat their fruit and veggies. You? That’s almost all you eat. Your favorite are blueberries, but “boo-ie” can also include grapes and strawberries (sometimes “daw-boo-ie”). For a long time, you also called any spherical object (like security cameras) boo-ies, but these days, those are mostly “Baw” (balls).

Badabee: Banana. Yeah, no idea. This started as “dib-a-dee,” but has evolved to something closer to the real word.

Bee: Any bug. A lot of children’s books feature friendly bees. Your favorite bees are ladybugs, but if a fly gets into the house, you’ll point it out and say “bee!” so we can smush it.

Da-doo: Tattoo. Before we were comfortable with you splashing around the bathtub, your mommy or I would hold you while we showered. (It’s efficient cleaning!) I have tattoos on my shoulders and arms, and you would point to one, say “da-doo,” swing your head around to peer at the other arm, point at another, say “da-doo,” lather rinse repeat. (Sometimes literally.)

Daw: Star. Your favorite shape, maybe because it’s unmistakable. Of course, any object with star-like arms can be called a star, as can the starfish in your favorite movie, Finding Nemo.

Mimi: Either of your grandmothers, though the title originally belonged to your mommy’s mommy, Mimi Jean.

Day-ger: Danger. If we warn you away from something, you’ll retreat to a safe distance, peer at it and whisper “day-ger” to yourself.

Iggon: Corn. Stick with me here: Our tree in the front yard drops lots of acorns, so “Iggon” really means acorn. Soon after learning that, you went on a corn kick that really hasn’t ended. Love the stuff. We can put it down at any meal and you’ll eat it, frozen or on the cob or cooked (but not popped yet). In your little brain, “corn” and “acorn” were the same, so you’ll ask for “Iggon.” We do make very sure you don’t try to eat the little fallen nuts outside.

More to come,

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

How long has it been since I wrote a letter to you? Months, at least. A year? Probably not. I could check, but I’m afraid to. No, I’m ashamed to.

You’ve grown so much just over the past few weeks, that it’s daunting to sum up everything since my last letter. Your vocabulary grows every day. Yesterday, you and I were reading some Cat in the Hat book about animals. You stood, toddled over to a toybox, pulled out a stuffed giraffe, said “Zhhhhaf. Ug!” and hugged it tight. Yes, there was a giraffe front and center on the page, and you had one you could hug.

And some of it is in Spanish! We try to limit your time spent on front of the television, but when it’s upwards of 90 degrees outside in April, inevitably we’ve got an hour or so not spent reading or playing blocks or plonking around on your piano or chasing the dogs from room to room. The solution is a limited selection of Spanish immersion DVDs and Blu-Rays of “Finding Nemo,” “The Muppets” and “Up,” all of which have dubbed Spanish tracks.

Right now, we can ask you to find the parts of your face in Spanish, and you get it right immediately. Amazing. So amazing to watch.

You climb constantly now, having only just mastered the skill. Couches, chairs, dogs, playground slides, the long wooden chest under our front windows – it’s all fair game. Sometimes you can only make it partway and are stranded, wiggling in place, unwilling to give up, until we stop laughing and give your bum a quick push. (Honestly, it’s the same move we use to get the dogs into the truck.)

So, enough about your resume. How’s life? Tense, right now. Your mommy is finishing her doctorate (just a week or so away at this point) and I’m working more hours than ever (on average 60 a week). We’re trying to balance work and school and life and your care, and sometimes it’s exhausting. The good part is, that’s temporary. Yes, you’re rocketing toward your Terrible Twos, but that’s temporary too. The light at the end of this particular tunnel is the glow from a whole new chapter in our story.

We’ll talk when we’re on the other side.

Love,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

More, more, more. You want more. We know you want more, because it’s your favorite sign.

Normal sign language for “more” is to hands made to look sort of like duck heads, fingers resting on thumbs, with the tips of the fingers moving to meet each other.

Somehow, you learned it as one hand (your right) in the normal position and the other flat vertical, like a duck head pecking at a wall. That’s okay. We know what you mean.

Well, mostly.

“More” began (as did “all done,” which you also know) so we knew when you were still hungry at meals. But now you sign more when we least expect it.

If I slow down in the middle of a tickling? More.

If, as last night, you see some animal on television that you feel a special affinity for? More.

If we finish a book and you’re not done reading? More.

And yes, when you’re still hungry. More.

Sometimes we just don’t know. Yesterday you toddled through the house to the open window, looked up at me and signed “more.” More outside? More walking, as you and your Mommy had done earlier? More of the kids playing outside? We have no idea.

We want you to learn other signs, and your Mommy tries her hardest to get them to catch on. It hasn’t happened yet. You’re expressive enough, though, pointing at whatever catches your interest and saying “this” or “that.” (“Dishhh” or “dat”)

And your words! You have actual words. More on that later.

Dear Evan:

Yesterday, I had to stop and ask your mommy what we did last Thanksgiving, when you were still in NICU. I have no memory of it at all. It’s a blank, one more skipped-over scene from what I hope was the worst moment of our lives.

She reminded me: We ate at my parents’ house, and then all went to the hospital. That would’ve been maybe a week, maybe more, before you came home. A month before you were even due to be born. And you know what? I’m glad I don’t remember. I hope you never do, other than through these few words. It was still too much of an iffy situation as to whether you’d see Christmas.

This year, we drove down to your Aunt Kiki’s house to spend Thanksgiving with your mommy’s family in Houston.

How to boil three days into a short letter? You played a lot. You laughed a lot. You cried sometimes, and were held by many people, and often gave me those wobbly “Who is this?” looks begging for reassurance as yet another relative took you up and cooed over you. Your mommy and I smiled and laughed and took you when you got too nervous and held you when the whirlwind of activity got too much.

You fell in love with Aunt Kiki and Uncle Ruffy’s cats and dog, grinning and petting them and (when they were still long enough) giving them your head-butt version of a hug.

As befits the holiday, you ate a lot. Most of that was organic Cheerios and vegetable puffs and the food your mommy brought along, but I’m pretty sure I caught people sneaking you small pieces of roll and turkey and whipped sweet potatos. I’m personally guilty of feeding you some refried beans (an old favorite of yours by now) and bits of tortilla. I’m surprised your PawPaw didn’t give you the ceremonial first taste of Dr Pepper. He will, soon.

And when we got home? You crawled — skittered might be a better word, because your crawl is almost as fast as an adult’s walk — from room to room, laughing at being back in familiar surroundings, laughing at your own dogs, laughing at your own toys.

This was a Thanksgiving to remember. Let your first be lost; I’d rather think back on this one.

I love you,

Daddy

Dear Evan:

You can walk! Not that we had any question, of course, though preemies often develop slowly. But still — you can walk!

You’d been heading that way ever since you learned to stand. You would hold onto the windowsills or the edges of our living-room furniture and side-step from place to place. Joyce, who takes care of you while your mommy teaches during the week, swore it wouldn’t be long.

She was right. A few days ago, you held your mommy’s hands and took a few steps. That’s exciting, but apparently doesn’t count because you were using support.

And then…

Yesterday, while your grandma and grandpa (my parents) were visiting, you stood up, laughing as always, and took two tentative, unsupported steps to your mommy’s leg.

Such a quick moment, but we were all lucky enough to have gathered around you, laughing with you as you stood, and so we all saw it.

Later, you tried a little more, shuffling a quick two steps at one point, and a quick three while playing in your bedroom.

It was a great point in your little life. After laughing our fool heads off, your mommy and I looked at each other: “Uh-oh.”

Because now you can walk.

Love,

Daddy