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Dear Ezra,

We're one month into Year Two, and a lot has changed since I last wrote.

Your birthday was indeed a celebration, but although you received a wheelbarrow full of toys, you still seem most fascinated by the things you aren't supposed to have — shiny soda cans, leaves on the mat near the front door, wires, strings and anything else that catches your eye. For Christmas, we've joked about just making your presents out of stuff we find in the garage, since you seem just as content banging on plastic Tupperware containers as you are with all of the flashing, beeping, singing gadgetry that fills up your playpen.

Your personality emerges a little more every day, and while it may well cause you trouble in school and with authority figures, your stubborn, determined streak will ultimately serve you well, I think. When you set your little mind to something, nothing better stand in your way — you crawl over all obstacles, shove the dogs out of the way, babbling urgently until you obtain the object of your fancy (usually those things we try to keep from you because of the potential for an accident).

I don't think those who
read this can quite appreciate just how adorable you are when you're demanding
attention ... how you pull yourself up and peer over the lip of your playpen,
hollering and yelling in some mysterious baby language that ultimately translates
to, "Pick me up •ow, people! NOW!" ... how you clamp down on a spoonful of baby food and elicit a contented little coo, as if we're feeding you spoonfuls of caviar instead of something that looks suspiciously like goat vomit ... how, when we lay you down in your crib at night, you stare up at your mobile, yawn and smile up at me as if to tell me good night.

You can't talk yet, but it's only a matter of time. And as much as you babble and chatter and make all manner of noises, I have no doubt that once you pick up on a few words, you'll start talking and never stop.

Which is just fine with me, because I so look forward to the days when I say, "I love you, Ezra," and you smile up at me and say it right back. You already do, in your own way — the way your eyes widen and a smile lights up your face like the stars in the sky on a cold winter night and you clap your hands and reach for me, eagerly, wanting to be held.

When you do that, my
heart swells, and a million things rush through my head — all of the places I
want to take you, all of the music I want to play for you, all of the movies I
want to show you ... all of the life that I want to experience with you.

It gets overwhelming, sometimes, and I have to remind myself to slow down ... to relax and take a deep breath and stay right here, in today. There's certainly no need to age you before you're ready, or before I'm ready — there will be plenty of time to do all of those things and more.

What matters most is squeezing all of the life and love we can out of each single day, so that when night comes and your little eyes redden from lack of sleep (you so hate the naps, dude), we'll both know that we've lived as much as we can in the 24 hours we're allotted.

Everything else can be paused and picked back up tomorrow. Right now, son, just lie on my chest and put your head on my shoulder ... your wispy hair tickling my nose as you shift and nest, making a little comfortable spot for your cheek against my collarbone, sighing contentedly and finally resting after a day of going full-tilt.

I could sit like that forever, until my arm loses circulation, not moving you an inch. You don't stay like that very long, unless you happen to fall asleep, but that's OK, too. Your dad's shoulder will always have a place for your little head, no matter how big you get or how old you are. Because I need you there as much as you need to be there.

Never forget that, son.

Love,

Dad

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.