She's pretty much perfected that last impression, because honestly, the boy disappears about twice a week. It's mildly concerning to have a two year old vanish in a 1700 square foot house, and it becomes downright alarming when that two year old knows how to open locked doors and could possibly be down the street or, with his proclivity towards pushing boundaries, China.
(*It might be a true story to share that one time our next door neighbors brought Ezra home to us when he left our yard to enter their back yard, climb on their deck, and enter their home uninvited via the back door.)(I hope this in not an indication of his future vocational aptitudes.)
When Ezra disappears, the whole house shuts down. I employ all three girlies in the search efforts, and we run from room to room, saying his name with increasing frequency and volume as more time passes and there are fewer options left to explore.
It is only when I am screaming (the final step before I fling open the locked front doors in a panic, run down the street, and shout his name frantically like any other mom with her act together) that I remember one last search method.
This is when we all freeze, and I softly whisper, "Ezra, Dude, ... want a cookie?" and Ezra comes tearing out of his hiding place, the glee at pulling a fast one on Mama again replaced by an urgent signing of the word "cookie", which was his first independent sign language sign, and remains to be the only one he uses consistently today.
I hand over a delicious cookie to the monster who has once again played Mama like a finely tuned cello. I'm obviously raising the next Yo-Yo Ma. Well done, Dude. You won this time. Again.