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Dear Ezra: Month Twenty-five

  • Tagged The letters
  • Commenters Claire Bidwell Smith, Elaine

Dear Ezra,

Well, you haven’t learned to poop in the potty yet. Eleven months left on that resolution. I did catch you mindlessly peeing in the bathtub a couple weeks ago, and when I pointed it out, you seemed more surprised than me, and you immediately stopped. I took advantage of the apparent intermission to quickly move you to the stool in front of the actual potty, whereupon you just stood there. Waiting. That train had already left the station. Maybe it’s time I read up on some techniques.

Twenty-five months. Do people still count months after two years? It’s been satisfying to be able to skip it and just say “two” when people ask how old you are. I’ll probably continue with that for a while, until I have to add “and a half.” I’ll stay away from specifying quarters and eighths until you force me to go there, which I’m sure you will.

You’re of course bigger than you’ve ever been, and next to Zella you look like a giant. You tumble over the edge of the changing pad, you weigh almost too much for me to throw you in the air with ease, and when you ride in the Ergo backpack you look like C3PO being carried on Chewy’s back, only with all your arms and legs in more or less the proper spots. But here’s what’s crazy: whenever we go to the park or a museum and hang out with other kids, you look TINY. It’s a good reminder to us that as mature as you are, you’re still a little pipsqueak, and we should enjoy it while it’s still true.

This month you survived a practice getaway to Wisconsin for two nights. I say practice because we’re about to do it again, but for two weeks. You were a great travel companion. You eased into sleeping in a foreign house without much trouble. That first night you woke up and asked to move into my bed, which I thought would be fun so I gave it a go. Big mistake. You just wanted to chat. Next night there was none of that, mostly because I slept on the couch. I’m optimistic about our big trip, and all the trips that will follow.

The word explosion continues. You know too many words for us to count anymore. You’ve settled on “Gammy” (sometimes “Gummy”) for Grandma Amy and “Papa Pete” for Grandpa Peter. You pick up new words every day, sometimes by our coaching, and sometimes from influences unknown. You’re also very much into nonsense. You express long, clearly very meaningful (to you) strings of babble, to which we’ll say “what?” — and you’ll say it all over again, syllable for syllable. The other day I said to you “time to go, yo”, which you immediately processed and turned around into “Happy yo-yo!” Which is such a great malapropism that I immediately entered it into the Weisz family lexicon.

We upgraded your bed again this month. You’d been sleeping in the new bed (“boo bay”) for a while now, but it was really just a mattress on the floor. We finally assembled your frame and moved you into it, along with a rail to keep you from rolling out. You’ve taken to it without complaint. You’re still able to get out of bed on your own, which has been evident by the times we’ve found you on the floor in the mornings, snuggled up with Herc the cuddly polar bear. This also bodes well for our trip.

All those advancements are respectable, though somewhat predictable. There’s one that took us by surprise. One day last week you said the word “monkey”. Up to now they’ve been called “hahas”, and as they’re only your favorite thing in the world, we didn’t expect that to change for a while. For you to suddenly mature to saying their proper name seems like a big deal. Like you’re saying “enough with these childish games, it’s time to call a monkey a monkey.”

Happy yo-yo, kid. You’re my favorite monkeyman.

-Dada

2 Comments

Elaine

Jul 28 / 15:22
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