Noah River Porter Rosensweig is 3

He was born on April 24, 2006, at 4:48 a.m. Miriam, his mom, did the work while, from the sidelines, I encouraged her to count and watched in utter amazement as our baby, God’s newest creation, came into our world.

 He was magnificent. I was watching a miracle from within and (what seemed) from outside nature, a moment tantamount to the rainbow painting the sky once the waters have calmed.

Three short years later, Noah has learned to walk, talk, sing, play, run, eat with a spoon and fork, say “cinnamon” (or actually “cimamon”) and create a circle of love by extending his right hand to his mom and his left hand to me, at the same time. Noah has given us a new way of gauging time outside of the seasons, and of understanding what growth is all about.

Our little guy has also made us feel young again. Recently, I received an e-mail from his mom that said, “Make a butterfly with Noah this weekend.”

Man, when was the last time I was encouraged to engage in lepidopterology with a toddler, sitting cross-legged on the floor, my fingers annoyingly sticking together from glue, surrounded by scraps of orange, red and green tissue while attempting to attach cutout wings to the paper body of a Monarch butterfly?

Never – not until my Noah came along.

I received another e-mail a short while later from Miriam stating: “Noah woke up saying both his knees hurt. I said, ‘Like Daddy’s?’ and he said ‘Yes.’” How lucky am I that a little person wants to be like me – even if it means figuring, in a pickwickian sort of way, that his knees are bugging him like mine do sometimes?

And Noah makes us wonder about stuff. He will request (strongly) that we stop in front of countless storefronts along Eglinton Avenue, stare inside and let him know what everything is and is for, and how much it costs. And guess what? Right now everything costs “nine dollas.”

Noah makes us laugh boisterously at his darling articulations and definitions. The elevator is as an elegator. Toothpaste is blue water, a cellphone was a celltone, socks were shoes, and red buses were yellow buses – in fact, every vehicle was.

Our gift from God, our Isaac to Abraham and Sarah, turned three years old and reminds Miriam and me how sad it is when a brown yaya (cat) falls off our wagon and “blows away.”

His little brave heart encourages us to face our fears as he faces his, such as the time the alarm in my car went off without notice. We jumped back nervously.

I asked, “Noah, are you scared?” and he responded excitedly, “Yes! Do it again Daddy.” So I pressed the panic button on my car remote. Our diminutive soul of a child stopped in his tracks and asked me to do it again, again and then again. So I did it again, again and then again.

I watched Noah as he worked through his fears. I know I must do the same. That’s what he’s telling me.

“Daddy, am I Jewish?” Noah asked me.

“Yes, you are little man,” I responded, and we are proud of that.

“Daddy, I don’t want to wear a kippah,” my boy says.

“Yes I know Noah, I’m not big on that, either, but let’s wear it when we make a brachah [blessing].”

So he does. Sometimes.

Our Noah is three years old. Yesterday he was two, and the yesterday before that he was two, too. Before that he was in his mother’s womb, and before that… well, he was somewhere. Today he has been entrusted to Miriam and me, and our village.

Happy birthday Noah. We love you. Thank you, God, for our special gift. We’ll do our best.

See Avrum’s blog at avrum.net. Darfur?