Guest Post by Ezra’s Daddy: Lotsa Jokes

Well, it’s the 5 month anniversary of Ezra’s birth, which happens to be the day after the 5 month anniversary of his death. So you’re probably thinking that the title of this blog post seems rather strange, a little misplaced under the circumstances. Please bear with me, give me a little time to explain, and I think it’ll make sense to you.

Little Peanut Boy’s parents are known for their sense of humor, the silly songs they make up with nonsensical lyrics, the silly names they give their two cats on a daily basis (one day, Red and Zora are called the guppies, the next day they’re called the parrots, or the monkeys, etc.). There’s no laughter these days, but sometimes the sun manages to come out for a brief spell, as it does in the winter.

It was clear to me that Ezra had that same sense of humor. It all started when I used to tell him all of those jokes while he was still in his Mommy’s belly. I tried to impart knowledge to him, like any father would, but mostly I told jokes. And he responded by kicking his Mommy. And what a kicker he was! He kicked me in the head once when I got really close to him! Of course, once we saw how long his legs were, the glorious gift of an unidentified ancestor, it all started to make sense.

And when I first saw him, peaceful as he was, in his deep slumber, he had this look on this face. It was a smile, a grin, a silly look on his face, with his little lips puckered. It was clear to me that this little man would’ve filled our house with a great deal of joy, lots of comedy, lotsa jokes indeed. And judging from his expression, he probably had been in the middle of a big laugh. Sadly, tragically, he died from a placental abruption, when the placenta becomes separated from the uterus before delivery. A placental abruption happens to 1 in 150 babies. And in about 1 in every 500-750 deliveries, there is a placental abruption that causes death to the baby, just like Ezra. But judging from the look on his face, he just wanted to be a funny little boy.

When we last saw him on the day of his funeral, his homegoing day, his face looked a little more serious. I think he tried to keep a straight face that day, out of respect for his Mommy and Daddy. The three of us sat together and read Goodnight Moon. We laughed a bit, and we cried a bit. Finally, we put him in the ground in his little wooden box, with his blanket to keep him warm, a picture of his Mommy and Daddy by his side, and his sidekick mouse to keep him company—and listen to his jokes.

I am sure that each day, when the old ancestors in the spirit world have finished telling their stories— stories about their lives in bondage in Charleston, South Carolina and in Egypt, or about their days in the shtetls of Old Europe or the villages of West Africa— they allow Little Peanut Boy to tell some jokes. You know, to lighten things up a bit. What do they make of this funny, bubbly little child, and his curious mixture of African American and Jewish humor? I’m sure they appreciate him, and they embrace him just as we do, and they all sit around and laugh together.