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Article published Nov 5, 2009 Letters to Ezra: Four years old and counting ...
Dear Ezra,
Well, son, you have your first car -- beating me by about 12 years.
Sure, it's a Fisher-Price Power Wheels, and yes, it only goes 3.5 mph. But I was 16 before I ever obtained a vehicle that moved under any other power than my feet. As a present for your fourth birthday, The Wife and I thought you might enjoy something cool like that, seeing as you're growing into an independent little guy and all.
"I'll do it by myself!" -- that's one of your new favorite sayings, whether it's opening the car door or putting on your clothes or anything else that might require a little adult assistance. The Wife, bless her, is more patient than I am. She points out how accomplished you feel when you finally figure out how the Velcro on your shoes work or how to button your jeans. I, on the other hand, feel my hands twitch, because (a) I can see you getting frustrated, which I don't like and (b) my own lack of patience wears thin after watching you try on a shirt three different ways before you finally get it on right. (Although it is amusing to watch you grunt and pull trying to squeeze your head through the arm-hole.)
It's hard to believe, buddy, that you're 4 years old. I've been writing these letters to you since before you were born, and the older you get, the more cognizant I become of just how much you'll want to take all of these writings, when you hit your teenage years, and bury them in a deep hole in the backyard. It's my hope, of course, that once you get older you'll come to appreciate them, dig them up and remember, long after I'm gone, how much your dad loved you.
Because I do -- so much it aches. The other night, hugging you tight, I realized just how much you fill out my arms more than you used to. Gone are the days when you would sit on my stomach, back resting against my knees, babbling and cooing and grabbing my fingers while I gently bounced you. If I tried that now, you'd be squirming to get down in five seconds.
Because you're always on the go. Your attention span still leaves something to be desired -- we took you to your first movie last month ("Where the Wild Things Are"), and while it wasn't until the film was done that I understood it was more a film about childhood than one for children ... well, you weren't impressed. The build-up was exciting -- sitting between me and your step-mom, asking with every commercial and preview trailer, "Is this the movie?" ... but 10 minutes into it, you leaned over and whispered, "I wanna go home." And after it was over, the only things you could recount from the story were that it involved a boy named Max, and that he ran a lot.
Perhaps a cartoon would have been a better choice, but even then, watching something for more than 30 minutes is difficult. (That's the great thing about DVDs -- broken up into episodes of "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" or "Fraggle Rock," they're about the right length for your viewing pleasure.) But even then, you're constantly on the go in that way that 4-year-old boys always are, shooting basketball for a few minutes or playing with Play Doh or riding your Smart Cycle just long enough for me to get settled into a project before you announce, "I'm done playing with my (insert toy here), Dada!"
Yes, you still call me "Dada." Although your little quirky, mischievous sense of humor asserts itself sometimes, especially when other family members use my given name -- the other night, you came up to me and said, "Hey, Steve!" I arched an eyebrow, and you just grinned before skipping into the dining room to find your grandfather to see if he "exploded." (Long story; suffice it to say you cause a lot of eyes to widen when you talk about how "Poppy exploded.")
For the most part, though, you still rely on me in a way that I hope never fully leaves you. Quirky little fears are popping up here and there, and it made my heart soar the other night when, talking about something or another in your room that until you saw it in the wrong light had been completely harmless up until that point, you said, "If it's scary, Dada will make it go away."
What scares you, though, is still baffling sometimes. Take your new ride, for instance -- sure, it's loud and the movements are jerky and it took The Wife 20 minutes to convince you that it wouldn't topple over or burst into flames or send you careening into traffic. Sure, it was something new and different, which isn't always something you handle well. But it's basically a giant hunk of plastic on a vacuum cleaner engine, and about as harmless as one as well.
I mean, you think nothing of throwing yourself into the middle of a tug-of-war match between the dogs -- one, a 90-pound Doberman and the other a 60-pound coon hound -- to say nothing of rolling in the floor while they leap and jump and play with you. Other kids your age see both dogs and scream in terror as if they're a couple of werewolves instead of big slobbering goofy pets, but you don't think twice about getting them riled up.
The truck however, is a different story. Now that you've realized it won't inexplicably accelerate or start roaring like a wildebeest, you seem to enjoy riding it around the backyard. So far, you're only comfortable driving in a big, meandering circle while Jack (the coon hound) leaps and dodges and gallops along-side and in front of and behind. (This amuses you, and me, greatly.)
So perhaps it's a good thing you're not old enough for the real thing. (I know it's definitely a good thing that you don't quite get the concept of currency. You ask for money, occasionally, when we're paying for a purchase, and I'll give you a couple of coins. When something else captures your attention, though, you hand it right back, like I've asked you to hold onto a piece of gravel.)
There's plenty of time to prepare you for a real truck, or car, or whatever else will pass for transportation in 2021. And there's plenty of time to work on your bravery -- as well as mine. Because as much as you take up occupancy in my heart, I have a feeling that when you get behind the wheel and peel out of the driveway while I stand there and watch, it'll be me who's terrified of what might happen.
Love,
Dad
Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.