It's not fair, this past year. It whizzed by in crazy-fast-forward mode. Blink, three months. Blink, six months. Blink blink, 10 months. And now here we are. 12 months. One year. On the cusp of toddlerhood, with his true babyhood vanishing into the few fat rolls he still has on his legs.
His delicious, crazy little legs -- he's so ready to walk but can't quite get that last bit of balance going, though he's down to needing a single solitary finger against the wall or furniture or hooked around mine.
He can suddenly do so many things, and I have no idea when he started doing them. He signs what he wants, he plays pattycake and soooo big and waves hello and goodbye to everyone he sees, he dances, he sticks his tongue out and furrows his brow while concentrating on his set of nesting cups, he mimics sounds and can point out Mama and Dada and Noah, he picks up a comb and immediately tries to attack his brother's hair with it. It's ridiculous, the little things that stun you, but there it is. He knows what a comb is for. Wow.
Of course I miss the baby. The newborn, even. I look at these year-old videos and oh, that squooshy little alien face, with his bleats and baahhs at all times of night. But...now he knows what a comb is for. He knows who I am, beyond the keeper of the milks. I know who he is, beyond the blank canvas of he is my baby and I love him.
He is my baby. My son. My boy. My daredevil, my clown, my social butterfly, my smartypants spitfire.
My mighty, mighty Ez.
Happy birthday, buddy.
(PS, re: the video. I promise to occasionally put pants on you this year.)