The Whole Point

Ezra points at things now. He points at his reflection in the mirror, at me, at the bowl of chopped-up meatballs that I am not doling out fast enough, dammit. Jason walks into the room and point! Pointpointpoint! Today I asked him if he wanted a nap or to go downstairs and play, pointing at each option (perhaps pointing EXTRA JAZZHANDS EMPHATICALLY at his crib), and after pondering his choices he pointed at option C, a teetering pile of empty diaper boxes.

Noah...didn't point at things. He didn't use many gestures at all, for a long time, and when the words never came and our doctor recommended sign language to get us over the communication hurdle, I was doubtful. When he picked up dozens of signs practically overnight, I was shocked. And mortified, because my preconceived ideas about baby sign language (i.e., only for the crazy overachieving competimommies, probably bullshit, why would he talk if he can just siiiiign, etc.) had denied him something important. It was a tremendously humbling moment, the first of many.

I hate that I do this, by the way, the framing everything Ezra does in the context of Noah. It's so mercilessly unfair to them both, comparing and contrasting everything from eating habits (point goes to Ez) to attention span (point goes to Noah). Noah danced earlier, cuddled more, was more intensely focused on figuring out how things worked rather than just what sounds things make when you bang them together. Ezra is more adventurous, so very independent, will absolutely not sit still and play with toys...but hmmm, I don't remember Noah ever enjoying those touch-and-feel texture books so much. Ezra has a soft cuddly lovey that was love at first sight; Noah's affections for toys border on obsession but burn fast and bright and end abruptly and Pinky becomes the Piston Cup and then a toy school bus and then a plastic suitcase and currently it's a silver sleigh bell that looks like the one from The Polar Express.

(I got it for him at a craft store, and agonized for far too long over just the right shade of brown leather to use for the tie, wishing I'd brought the book with me. We wrote our first letter to Santa asking for a bell from his sleigh, and magically it arrived the very next day, even though it wasn't Christmas, can you freaking believe it.)

(The bell was actually a replacement for one of my more boneheaded fuck-ups, when I remembered we had a silver sleigh bell tree ornament and dug it out of storage and gave it to Noah without noticing that 1) it didn't actually ring [thus leading him to stand in the kitchen and say "I believe. I believe!" over and over again before shaking it again] and 2) it didn't ring because it was made of PORCELAIN, not silver, and shattered into a million pieces the next day, taking his poor little heart with it.)

(Noah occasionally hands me the new and improved bell with great ceremony. "And remember," he says, "the true spirit of Christmas is in your heart.")

Huh.

This entry started out as one thing and has ended up as another. I've lost my original point. Or at least figured out that it wasn't a point worth making.

(Top suggestions for saving a blog post gone awry from Twitter: ninjas and kitchen fire cliffhangers.)

They are different. Duh. Ridiculous amounts of duh with a side of no shit and a dollop of why are you still talking?

I don't know why. I will never stop worrying about either of them. I will never stop being their biggest cheerleader, either.

*types and deletes about four hundred different sentences in search of a point or closure or something that doesn't make me want to mompunch my momself in my momface.*

*gives up*

God, I love these kids.