June 04, 2010
I'm finding it hard to write about Ezra.
He is just so...much. And fast. And much. And Ezra.
He is 23 pounds -- small for his age, barely hanging on to the 10th percentile on the weight chart, though he seems plenty chubby enough to me -- but everything else about him is big and oversized and miles ahead of where you expect him to be. I don't know how that much personality fits into that little body, so I guess it makes sense that it oozes out and radiates from across the room all the time.
He has a temper. "MINE! MIIIINE!" he shrieks when Noah tries to commandeer one of his toys, or when his attempts to push his doll stroller through a doorway are blocked by an obstacle. He'll throw things, collapse in a woeful heap, kick the floor, and hit inanimate objects with a mouthy pout. "EH!" he says. "So there," he means.
We're trying to teach him to say "please" instead when he gets frustrated. He'll roar at his stuck stroller for a moment before turning to me. He cocks his head to the side and says "Peas?" He nods furiously. "Peas?" I free the stroller from Noah's bike and Ezra gives me a quick, barely noticeable chin-touch for "thank you" before barreling off to the next entanglement, where it will start all over again.
He talks constantly. Shoes. Bye. Car. Peas. Bye. Yes. No. Oh no. Hot. Doggie. Bubbas. Daddy. Nona. Kitty. Backpack. Bus. Truck. Bye. Beep beep. Ball. Baybee. Shoes. Bye. Bye. Car. Yes.
Constantly! With the Bye and Car and Go. Let's go! Outside! Places! In the car! Let's not stay here! Staying here is for suckers.
This morning he wept with jealousy when Nona got on the school bus with his backpack. He could only be consoled by being allowed to take over his brother's seat at the breakfast table.
He doesn't want to sit in a high chair anymore. He doesn't want to eat with his fingers. He will cast aside his sippy cup if he sees you drinking from a real one. He tries to climb on Nona's two-wheeler. There is nothing on the playground that he fears or won't attempt.
In fact, the only thing he seems to fear are people getting hurt on the television. If anyone -- cartoon or otherwise -- falls or cries or even just gets really dirty, he wails. (I can't even imagine letting Noah graduate to Spongebob and Looney Tunes when his poor brother can barely handle Sesame Street.) He covers his eyes and comes running for a hug and reassurance.
At the doctor's office this week, he heard a child crying in the room next door and frantically tried to open the door. He looked at me and pointed. "Peas? Peas?" He didn't seem scared, but just confused. Didn't I hear that? We have to go help! Go see! Come on, woman! Peas!
He's not really a cuddler, unlike his brother. I can rarely convince him to let me carry him or snuggle with me on the couch. I can, usually, get him to give me a kiss before he wriggles away, which he obliges, with tongue and the sweetest little "MA!" sound I have ever heard and cannot adequately describe.
I take pictures of the happy scrunchie face he makes -- but they're missing the expressions he makes just before and after, and look so flat compared to the real thing. I take video of him picking up his toys while singing the clean-up song ("keee bup! keee bup!") -- but it's not quite the same as watching him deliberately empty a drawer of measuring spoons just so he can joyfully clean them up immediately after. I try to write about his insistence on waving and saying hi to every. single. person. he sees. -- but you'd probably just think I was making up the part about how every. single. person. takes one look at him and melts into a smile, from cashiers to truck drivers to sullen teenagers.
I could write hundreds of blog posts about how much I love this little guy, how thrilled we are to have him in our lives, how absolutely delightful I find absolutely everything about him to be -- but it wouldn't even come close to being enough.