The Baby Who

I dressed Ezra in a certain blue stripey fleece sleeper today, and had to step back from the changing table for a second, like, "whoa, which baby are you again?"

OH RIGHT, THE FAT ONE.

And of course, I mean that in the nicest, most delicious way possible.

 

You're also the baby who won't smile directly into the camera, which means a lot of ridiculous behavior on my part and blindly-snapped, blurry photos.

Every once in awhile, I catch you. Sort of.

You're the baby for whom that whole thing about a "regular, consistent bedtime routine" nonsense actually WORKS, and after months of us basically keeping you up until we went to bed, in hopes of delaying your buttcrack-of-dawn waking, we've finally figured you out, a little bit. A bath and a book with your big brother at 8:30 (plus a little boob while we read Dr. Seuss), a tight swaddle and in your crib by 9, and lo. You stay there, and you sleep. Until the buttcrack of dawn. When you wake up anyway. Eh. But then there's more boob and more sleep, off and on, until dawn has officially yanked her trampy low-rise pants up over her buttcrack and it's time for us to start our day.

You're the baby who doesn't demand much, besides our constant attention. You want to be held and nursed and held and nursed and talked to and tickled. You're the baby who LIKES my singing, who LIKES the back-and-forth of pretend conversation, where we coo and you coo and we say, "my goodness, and then what happened?" and you smile and try so hard to tell us what happened, who LIKES all the baby toys and loveys that your brother ignored.

You're the baby who HATES the swings that your brother loved, who is indifferent Brown Bear, Brown Bear, his most favorite book in the world, but who loves the books with the photos of baby faces, except for the pages where the baby is crying. Those pages make you sad.

You're the baby who will only take a bottle if I'm not around. And by "around" I mean "NOT IN THE HOUSE." You're my champion, my baby bird, the baby who righted the one small pang of regret I have from your brother's babyhood, and I'm so happy we can do this for each other.

You're the baby who patiently indulges your big brother's affections, whenever he randomly attacks you with a hug and a head pat and accidentally drops a metal car on your face. You're a mystery to him, I think, as he's sometimes not sure what a "baby brother" really is. He thinks All Babies are baby brothers, and I'm not sure he's aware that you will grow up and be a person he can talk to and play with and who will steal all his metal cars. He bit you once, not so much out of anger or meaness but curiosity. Would it hurt? (Yes.) Would you cry? (Yes.) Would you taste like an M&M? (More like a pork chop, I'd say, from experience.)

You're the baby who, just like your brother, takes my breath away on a regular basis, because you are so lovely and miraculous and mine. The baby who, despite being wanted and tried for over and over again for months and years, showed up when we least expected you, whose tiny, near-microscopic presence on an ultrasound felt like a complete surprise, whose presence now still feels like winning the lottery. Because oh, how we love the baby -- the son, the brother, the person -- you are.

(LOOK. YOU AM SQUIRREL. HAAAA.)