He loved fire trucks so much when he was younger that for his second birthday we threw him a “fire truck” themed party — without a real fire truck. The truth is that he loved them from afar, where they were less noisy, and less, well, scary.

When some good friends called to say they had arranged for a tour of the Miami Beach Fire Station this winter break, I told Finn that we should go. “I don’t want to ride on a fire truck,” he responded. “It’s too loud.” “You won’t have to ride on it,” I said. “We can just get a close look while it’s not moving.”

So when his friends Summer and Skye shot water out of the fire hose, Finn watched. When they rode around on the paramedic beach rescue buggy, he waved. When they tried on the oxygen mask, he left the room.

But he did check out the controls…

…and spin around the fire pole…

…and after much, much cajoling, get into the driver’s seat of a brand-new fire truck:

The fireman was so pleased to see Finn finally embracing what he assumed to be all-things-fire-truck that he shouted up, “Having fun, buddy?”

What did Finn scream back? “I’m inside a submersible!”

Oh, this boy of mine!

In watching Finn create holiday cards throughout the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed a relatively significant and somewhat sudden change in his artistic representations of things. Up until recently, he’s specialized in “abstract art,” such as in his early summer painting, which he entitled “Porcupines sleeping in their beds”…

…and in “The Ferris Wheel,” which he created after our July ride on the giant ferris wheel at Chicago’s Navy Pier:

And of course there were the late summer and early fall ocean scenes, filled with colorful, darting fish and blue water:

In October, as he turned three, he still preferred to depict the world — and universe — as chaotic and colorful, such as in this painting of our Solar System, with Earth in the upper right-hand corner, the sun at the bottom, and Mars and Neptune (as he rebelliously insisted) in between them:

In November, he added things like (giant) eyes to his ocean creatures…

Then when I suggested this month that he create holiday cards for his teachers, I was surprised to see his more realistic depiction of Ms. Mary, complete not only with appropriately placed facial features, but with details such as (three) fingers at the end of each arm, blue hair on top of the (somewhat large) head, an actual torso, and a couple of (less detailed) classmates:

What an incredible difference between Finn’s attempts to paint Ms. Mary in August, and then again this month, even though he was less than satisfied with the final results:

The next day he drew a picture on a card for his “practical life” teacher, Ms. Olga, whom he decided to place inside of a house:

…and then there was a cyclops next to a kite:

But my absolute favorite — the one I wouldn’t let him give away — was the picture he afterward held up and reflected upon, astutely exclaiming, “This guy eats unhealthy food every day!”

Although it’s likely that his Montessori school’s attention to fine motor skills and his exposure to the older students in his class have both influenced his artistic representations, I also understand that there are particular stages of brain development that take children from “scribbling” to more a more deliberate use of shape and form.

It’s SO FASCINATING to witness such a clear outward manifestation of the complex and mysterious changes going on inside my boy’s brain… and it’s so precious to hear him reflect upon and tell stories about his own creations.

and you wouldn’t crack a smile for that rare family photo:

But I was thankful for how delicious you looked in that tie…

…and you were quite thankful that I let you take it off soon enough:

And more than anything, I was thankful to just watch you play, tieless and free…

…and the next day, to watch you act silly in your pajamas until noon…

…and yet the next, to watch you contemplate the feeling of your crazy hair blowing in the wind:

Tomorrow you won’t don a tie, but a school uniform — and I’ll have to change out of my pajamas before the sun even comes up. But it’s been a sweet mini-vacation, hasn’t it, my Finch?

Although it stormed non-stop for the two days prior to Finn’s birthday and meteorologists threatened us with a 60% chance of rain the day of the party, not a drop fell. It was a good thing, because as you can see, it was an ocean-animal themed pool party. I dumped about fifty plastic sea-creatures into the water, provided a few water-squirting toys, and even though the pool was a bit cooler than the 90 degree temperatures it held all summer, the kids still went in.

We haphazardly set up a slip’n'slide, too, which was even more of a hit:

Finn and his leopard seal had a marvelous time:

And then came Finn’s personally requested vanilla & chocolate-chip beluga cake:

And oh, how he enjoyed it…

For our vegan guests, my sister Ili and her boyfriend Brian made beautiful and delicious sugar cookies in the shapes of dolphins, whales, sharks, angelfish, and sea horses:

After everyone reveled in cake, cookies, and chocolate ice cream, we gathered together to watch Finn’s 3-year video (well, it felt like it took three years to make!), and then some of the kids sat down to color and decorate fish at the arts and crafts table I had set up in case a torrential downpour ruined outdoor plans:

We hung them up on ocean banner paper, which actually provided an extended art activity for several days as Finn and I added more to it a bit at a time throughout the week:

After the swimming, sliding, eating, and crafting, a few of the older kids enjoyed operating our giant, remote-controlled clownfish balloon…

…while a few of the younger kids continued playing with Finn in his room. He had so, so, so much fun! But the day was long, long, long… and my boy was exhausted:

Still, he was upset when his two remaining guests finally left, attempting to take with them two colorful helium-filled balloons that, in the end, got away as well. As they drifted up into the sky, further away from us, Finn cried and cried, “I want the balloons to come back!” It was a new lesson in letting go for him, and I felt a little sad myself as I put him into the bath a few minutes later, my no-longer-two-year-old boy.

But I smiled in the dark at the foot of Finn’s bed when we quietly chatted about the good moments of the day. It was a conversation with a three-year-old, and it was, like the party, a delight.

I had no idea that by three you’d be so complicated, so full of complexity, so interested in what works, lurks, swims, spins outside and beyond you. You don’t just want to know and to label, but to animate, to interact, to link the unknown world to yours.

In recent months, you’ve become fascinated with the ocean and everything alive within it. You enact scenes in which your toy tiger shark tries to eat your toy squid, who then sprays ink at him. Or the squid may try to eat your triggerfish, or, as you call it (by its Hawaiian name), humuhumunukunukuapuaa – but then, due to some trick of camouflage, special “lotion,” a bad smell, or perhaps just conversational agreement, the two end up on friendly terms. Although you’re very interested in who eats what, you prefer that all ends well. In fact, you generally insist upon it.

This seems to be a new trend. Several days after you learned about the solar system and space, and asked if a black hole could suck up the table you were sitting at (of course we said no!), you drew a picture of some planets and a black hole. “This planet has special lotion on it that protects it from the black hole,” you explained. “The black hole can’t smell it.” You were not only applying your knowledge of both the clownfish’s protective slime and the parrotfish’s nightly “smell-proof” mucous cocoon to a new scenario; you were, I think, using what you already knew to make things better in your own way — to lessen your fears about the unknown.

Yet it’s interesting to me that two of your more recent interests, the ocean and space, are so deep and dark and mysterious. Mystery holds pull, doesn’t it? Why else would you lie awake at night asking questions like “are aliens nocturnal?” You have a newly heightened awareness that the universe is vast yet still connected, moving yet not always visible and tangible, and that’s making it scarier, my Finch. You have fears now that you never had before, all of them stemming from your own imagination. You pretended to run from wolves in the house with Daddy once  – laughing all the time — but then later lay awake asking me if there were wolves outside, and if not outside our house, then where? Could they come to Florida? On another occasion, you wouldn’t sleep until I pulled from the bookshelf and actually removed from your room a book with a lion character in it. You acknowledged that it was “only a book,” and “just pretend,” but you still felt its pull. Everything around you is so very much alive.

In three-year-old fashion, you animate the inanimate, too. I’ve watched you organize the simple cars and trucks you’ve always played with into a perfect little circle to “share some healthy fruits and vegetables,” and line them up to head to a movie or the symphony. On the way home, they may encounter difficulties — a shaky bridge, a flat tire — but they get the help they need and return home safely and happily. You see the value in comfort, safety, and happiness — and most importantly, you’re beginning to see that you can play a role in interacting with and shaping that kind of world. I see this in your constant pretending and role-playing… and also in real life. You’re now more willing to forge friendly conversations with people, more likely to ask someone who was sick if he or she is feeling better, even more interested in asking me questions about the life I lead outside of home. Recently, as I held your hand after lights were out, you sat up in bed in the dark, asking, “Mommy? Do YOU like practical life? What do YOU do?” You were trying to link your Montessori “practical life” lessons to my life — the part that isn’t visible to you. You were reaching out and connecting, bridging the known and the unknown.

Still, despite your increased eagerness to positively connect, your (inherited?) love for drama and disruption often takes over. Sometimes you just lose your temper, but sometimes — many times — I see that you like to disagree, to challenge, to test limits, to exert control. Yesterday morning at music class, while Ms. Ashlee sang the closing “sleepyhead” song in a sweet, soft voice and everyone else pretended to sleep, you ran in circles shouting, ”I’m nocturnal!” I secretly laughed, but still wondered why, when you love music and the act of musical collaboration so much, you tried to disrupt instead of connect.

I suppose it’s an exercise in testing those connections, in interacting with and playing some kind of role in the dynamic, complex world in which we live.

Don’t worry, you’ve definitely changed my universe — in only three years that feel like they’ve always been. Happy Birthday to my tester, explorer, inventor, creator. I love the world with you in it, complex as it is.

We were prepared for a tough transition. Finn is not introverted, but he’s highly sensitive, and dislikes change. Last year, Finn cried every day for over two months when I left him in the mornings and he had nightmares at night. It was hell. This year, we were not surprised when he covered his ears and pulled his hat over his face when we entered the new school. We were not even surprised when he initially tried to sabotage our intentions by informing the administrators, office staff, and teachers that he actually attends ANOTHER school. We expected stress at home, too, and watched and listened as he incorporated stories about real and imaginary classrooms into his conversation and play. But we did not ever think that by week’s end, he would only shed tears at the end of the day as we pulled into our own driveway. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “I want to go back to Apple Tree!” he cried. I was completely floored. He loves the school. He loves his teacher. He loves the other kids.

Is this for real?

You’ve had trips away from home before, Finch, but this one brought you many firsts:

You flew for the first time as a ticketed passenger on an airplane, belted into your own seat (in between me and Daddy), and although it was not your first flight, it was the first that you could remember.

You ran around under the green on our first visit to Millennium Park.

You had your first kinesthetic experience with a famous work of art, a shiny, silver “bean.”

You rode on your first ferris wheel and, unlike your mother, were brave enough to look down, down, down at the yellow, white, red lights so far below.

You watched fields and meadows and wildflowers on your first train ride, easy and comfortable, free of TSA and seatbelts.

You took off on our first Michigan country walk together, running ahead and tripping and falling flat onto the gravel road. “Whoa, impressive,” you said, and then cried later at your skinned knees and knuckle.

You picked your first Queen Anne’s Lace, spinning it around like a tiny umbrella.

You rode your first lake-swing, splashing your feet in the very same water I played in as a child.

You tried to catch your first minnows — and failed.

You had your first summer-vacation crushes, one after the other.

You picked and bit into your first banana pepper. “It’s too spicy,” you said.

You rode your first red radio flyer scooter, good for the driveway, but not the gravel road. “I want to ride it on the country road,” you said, frustrated that you couldn’t. “It’s too bumpy!”

You visited your first Michigan farm, where you rode on your first tractor and romped through heaps of corn kernels.

You went to sleep after spotting your first fireflies, the tiny, fading spots of light soft and surreal, and the next morning you watched your little cousins walk across a room for the first time, legs stiff but daring, arms reaching out toward whatever’s next.

On both counts, we’ve had great successes: Finn uses a diaper only at night, and can swim underwater for distances of up to about eight feet. The ocean was a bit rough for a beginning swimmer, but daily dips in our new pool have given him the confidence and practice he needs. By August, he may be quite the little fish!