It was very apparent soon after my son George was born that he was a character. An observation that continues to be communicated to us by friends and strangers alike. I’m not sure what it is though… I mean, he’s a normal little boy. He has all the same likes and dislikes typical to other little boys his age. He looks normal enough – no unique physical traits to set him apart from the rest. And if anything, he strives to be like the older boys who serve as role models in our neighborhood. So why is he always labeled “the little character?”

I’ve given it a lot of thought and have come up with a few reasons. First – he’s on the small side. He also has a little voice, so the general perception of him is “little guy.” Then as if to make up for his diminutive size, he’s kind of loud. Everything he says seems to register at several decibels higher than it needs to be. So it often sounds as if he’s yelling – usually about something you’d rather he not broadcast in public.

Again – neither of these traits are all that unusual for four year old boys. But I think the clincher is his dramatic flair and pronounced air of self importance. There have been numerous blog posts here dedicated to my children’s quirks, and I’ve definitely talked about how George is a screamer. And I don’t mean a shrieky “eek! I saw a mouse!” kind of screamer…I mean a wide eyed, hell to pay, berserker kind of screamer. I really should capture this with the video camera sometime as it’s quite a show. You can literally see the steam coming out of his ears and feel the vibration of his head starting to explode. He is intense.

If it wasn’t so funny to watch it would probably scare us. It also tends to be rather short lived since like other preschoolers, he can alter his mood on a dime. And he never actually hurts anyone or breaks anything, so we’re inclined to just keep an eye on it, but not worry overly much.

One of the everyday things that can set him off is being interrupted while he’s trying to talk. And since he has a motor mouth twin sister who demands an ungodly amount of spotlight time, this tends to happen about one hundred times a day. Usually I can diffuse it by enforcing turn taking (letting George finish what he was saying first of course). But I cringe to think of the wrath that would ensue without swift intervention.

I can’t blame him for taking himself so seriously because he comes by that honestly. I have needed to get over myself already since birth, so I do understand how he feels. And his father is a pretty intense guy, so I think we unwittingly created a monster with our genetic contributions. A perfect storm of DNA that resulted in a four year old George Jefferson strutting around my living room.

Oh my George… I’m so crazy about that little nut. He cracks me up every day with the way he looks at life. He really is a little dictator at heart – he wants to run the show. And everything he does sounds SO important.

All children mix up syntax and use the wrong words as they acquire language and communication skills. But George makes everything sound as lofty and important as he feels. Back when they were toddlers, I tried to teach my kids that instead of just throwing tantrums, they should tell me if they need some attention. George still incorporates this into his meltdowns. Long after I think the issue should have been resolved and tears dried, he will demand that I give him more. He doesn’t just say, “Mommy, come downstairs. I want some attention.” No…that would sound like he was asking rather than directing. He has to exclaim, “MOMMY! Come HERE! I will take my attention DOWNstairs.” Well okay then…

One of my favorite Georgeisms started last month when he began calling the art projects he brought home from preschool his “workings.” How great is that? Like he’s one of the old masters – an artiste. And I can’t get rid of ANY of his workings. Not even a single crayon slash on a piece of paper. Oh no! He likes to lay them all out on the floor and admire them, “Mommy – can I see my workings?” He needs space to stand back and observe. Putting them away before he’s done with the viewing is frowned upon. He takes great pride in his glue and glitter creations.

What inspired me to write about George today though – after what could be considered my longest dry spell of writing attempts to date – was his presumptuous acquisition of an entire DC neighborhood. After picking up the twins at preschool, I planned to take them to my high school’s annual Esprit de Noel (or holiday bazaar). Since none of that would mean anything to them, I just said that I was taking them into the city to get a treat and see some fun things. Eleanor asked where we were going and without thinking much of it I said, “Georgetown.” In pleasure and awe, George asked, “MY town?” To which I replied, “yes George – as soon as we get there, I’m sure it will be.”

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