Except Grandma, of course

Samuel, born a bit premature in 2003, recently turned 3. Along the way to that illustrious age he caught on to nearly every ability appropriate to his age. He crawled, although in a lopsided way, pulled himself up, took his first steps, learned his first words - mostly in what child development experts consider “normal” progression.

My visits with him are spaced so far apart that I can easily see his latest accomplishments. The baby behind which we crawled up the stairs, intent on saving him from a fall, now takes them one foot to a step, both climbing and descending, and no one even looks his way. (Except his grandmother, of course, who holds her breath until he lands safely.)

He still loves wheels, expanded now to mean any truck or vehicle. I brought him a toy on our last visit and without anyone telling him, he pronounced it not just a “truck” but a “red pickup truck.” And while I was swooning over this insight, he got out his truck picture book and pointed out bulldozer, cement crusher, track excavator and backhoe, naming each correctly.

The word that matters most, of course, was the one he uttered on our arrival. Wakened from his nap, he stopped halfway down the steps to look around the living room and cried, “Grandma!” Yes, with an exclamation point.

His trucks and cars are favored above all other delights, although he loves taking walks with a willing Grandpa and singing songs with an adoring Grandma. But without doubt, his favorite “toy” at the moment is “Grandpa’s big truck,” our 22-foot RV parked in front of his house.

Grandpa’s Big Truck provides us privacy and a comfortable cab-over bed (as opposed to a double bunk in the littered cave Samuel shares with older brother Isaac), and is endlessly interesting to a 3-year-old auto aficionado. He can reach nearly every light fixture, carefully turns them all on, and shows off his dexterity by climbing onto and down from the bed.

Samuel is no longer allowed in the driver’s seat, however, since he turned on headlights and somehow disabled the emergency flashers. (Temporarily, of course, Grandma says, trying to calm Grandpa.)

This column was not intended to dwell on Samuel. I want you to meet Uriah. (Don’t talk to Grandma about that name. She’ll tell you how to reach his father.)

He is 8 months old and this is the longest time I’ve spent with him. Any qualms I had about loving him as dearly as I do Samuel are long gone. They are as different as two brothers can be, yet I adore them both. Samuel was a wiry little thing, still is, and can pipe up a tantrum in a heartbeat - an extension of the “terrible twos,” I guess.

Baby U could be the Gerber Baby, although soon he will stand firmly enough to work for Michelin. Everything about him is round. His head is perfect, his cheeks like apples, his thighs like the Virginia hams they are. Even his fingers and feet are round.

A smile marshals every muscle of his face, and he smiles often, adding a drumbeat of fists and a thrashing of feet when he really wants to make a point. His nose wrinkles and his eyes appear to be all indigo blue - they daunt description.

A sanguine fellow, he has four teeth - two up, two down - that flash when he smiles. (Update: when we left, their number had doubled.) Jean describes his crawl technique as “classic,” legs and arms in perfect synchronization, round bottom swinging from side to side. He pulls himself to his feet, batting happily at whatever he finds. His mama is reasonable, knows he won’t be this age long, and simply keeps the coffee table cleared for baby games.

Baby U and his Big Bro Samuel play together, genuinely gentle with each other until Uriah grabs a handful of Samuel’s blonde hair. This may lead to tears, but - remarkably - not to violence.

Their mom said he wouldn’t take food from a spoon and was almost totally dependent on her for meals, plus Cheerios on his tray. (“Ha! Of course, he can eat table food,” says Grandma.) We started with fingers but went to a spoon, and very soon had half a banana on board. Before long he was eating little balled-up bits of pizza crust. With cheese.

Since we’ve been here, play has become more sophisticated too. Samuel’s cars, each carefully purchased according to his age (“For 3-year-olds and up”) now litter the floor. His mother would rather they didn’t, but I’ve noticed that no one is too concerned about the fact that Uriah plays with them too. At a fraction of the designated age.

Shortly before we left, I heard a familiar sound under the kitchen table. It was the growl of a little boy making a car go. “Rrrrrmmm,” he says, and I hear wheels rolling.

When I bend down to have a look, there’s a little boy like the one I watched two years ago, lying on his right side, cheek resting on an extended right arm, left hand pushing a Matchbox car in a great arc on the floor.

“Rrrrrmmm.” Sounds just like Samuel. Looks a lot like Samuel. But it’s 8-month-old Uriah, teddy bear days behind him. (“Of course,” says Grandma.)