Dear Silas,

I've been so accustomed to ignoring you, my independent, happy, quiet boy.

There was a time when you'd sit yourself down in the middle of a room and play quietly as the adults chatted away. Sometimes you'd walk around and get into things, but back then you were just emptying drawers and refilling boxes. Nothing too dangerous. Never did we consider you "danger mouse."

Yes. ... I can still hear the admonition from our guests back then ... "If he were my son I'd be in so much trouble ... he's so quiet you can practically forget he's here."

I'd laugh, and then agree.

Of course It never occurred to me to actually seek out the source of quiet as you got older and wiser (and more of a wiseacre) even though I know trouble looms in its presence.

As was the case yesterday, when your sister was busy helping your dad in the workshop, and you were happily ensconced in her room, playing - I thought - harmlessly.

I emptied the dishwasher and put away its contents (having to rewash some thanks to the new ecofriendly detergent with a name I can't pronounce, so I believe it roughly translates to DOESN'T REALLY CLEAN DISHES). I checked my e-mail. I swept the floor. I emptied the trash. I rechecked my e-mail.

Then I remembered: You had been VERY quiet. And, more urgently, I remembered: I think I left my coffee in Annabel's bedroom. So I went off to retrieve it check on you.

When I opened the door I didn't see you at first. The room was in its usual disarray, so I didn't even notice anything amiss.

It wasn't until you shrieked with delight at my arrival that I saw you sitting in the middle of the bed, a large dark coffee stain spreading across the sheets and fishfood sprinkled liberally around the pillows and quilts.

You'd also found a magic marker (which I will be checking with consumer groups to see if something can be done about that horribly, inaccurate name. ... It should be "The Bane of a Parents' Existence Pens") all over the walls above the head of her bed.

Thankfully, I managed to wrestle it out of your hands before you ran over to your sister's new dolly to give her a kiss:

"Bay!"

"Yes. That's a baby. But you are not. You are whirling dirvish."

I suppose it wouldn't have mattered. Later in the day your sister, with the help of a visiting friend, applied makeup to the face of her horse; the one that makes clippity-clop sounds when you squeeze its ear.

She said she was just trying to make her look pretty.

Just so you know, THIS is no longer the only reason we can't have nice things.


Love and soapy scrub brushs,

Mommy