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Dear Ezra: Month Forty-five

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Dear Ezra,

This month you got your second bloody nose and your first major cut to the chin. The former made you hysterical until Dada remembered (ahem, created on the spot) a VERY IMPORTANT RULE: If your nose is bloody, you get ice cream. There. Solved it. You were very calm about your chin, and came back from your trip to urgent care yelling “I got all stickered up!”

You asked your Dada “why is the sky blue” and you asked me “how does the baby get out of the mommy’s tummy,” and besides hitting on the two most important questions in the world, you totally picked the correct parent for the correct question, so, well done.

This month you have developed an obsession with instructional videos on DIY.org, especially since they have an entire section on making your own instruments. The other night, you handed us a plumbing tube we’d drilled some holes in to make you a pretend woodwind and declared that it needed another hole on the back, because “that’s how the man does it when he makes a carrot into a clarinet.” Well, of course he does.

You also now love the show How It’s Made, though, with your trademarked commitment to repetition, only episode 7: Kayaks and Safety Boots. “I have a good idea,” you tell us with your sweetest smile. “How about we…watch…something…about…Boots and Kayaks!” You have probably watched it 20 times. The other day you asked if I had a hide so we could make boots.

Perhaps the boots were your inspiration the other day when you declared yourself a cowboy, by putting on your dress shoes (“cow boots”) and a straw hat (“cow hat”). We sewed a tote bag for you to take to the park and you slung it bandolero style over your chest. John Wayne.

Your hardest struggle — and, really, isn’t this everyone’s hardest struggle? — is that sometimes reality doesn’t quite match up to your dreams. The brass quintet won’t let you actually play their instruments, just touch them. You can just watch the man flying the kite, not actually fly it yourself. Sometimes the play ends, the music stops, we have to go home, the polar bear is sleeping, there isn’t any chocolate in the easter egg. These things kill you right now. At the brass quintet concert, I brought you over to try to get you to touch the instruments, even though you were too disappointed to do it. I know I looked like the worst helicopter mom, dragging a miserable crying kid over and crowing, “My son just LOVES instruments! See?” But I’ve learned that you are always watching and learning, even through those tears of disappointment. Weeks later, and you are still amazing me with the clarity of your recall of facts about those instruments.

By the time I write you another one of these letters, you’ll have finally gotten your one true wish: we are starting fiddle classes (a violin! with a bow!) in a few weeks. Let’s close out your fourth year with joyous screeching music.

Much love,
Mama

1 Comments

Gram Amy

Apr 7 / 23:34
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