Sweet William


William. Walks and runs and dances and tip toes and grunts and squeals and mimics.
William wants to know "This?" "That?" "This?" 
He wants to wear nothing.
He wants to bathe in the sink in the tub in the hose in the wagon.
He brushes his teeth with everyone's tooth brush. We've lost a lot of tooth brushes lately and we find them in rooms, in shoes, under a squash plant, in the car.
He wants to play with George Wilder and then he wants George Wilder to leave him alone or give up his toy that he just took up to give up his toy for William.

He wants to eat pickles and pesto and raw green beans.

William can say outside. He is proud. He didn't know how to react to figuring out how to say it. He just wiggled and giggled and shook his curls all around.

He knows he has curls. He carries heavy things. He draws with permanent marker (I don't know how he finds them) on important things and with chalk on unimportant things.

He wants to watch the pigs and the chickens and he wants to help pull weeds in the garden.

He is loud. He plays the harmonica. He bangs, he laughs. He vexes me. I love him.





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