It’s Sesame Street season in the Smardwig household — Isabel is 2 now, and ready for furry singing things — and as it was with Eli, I find myself hanging around to watch as often as not. And, as with Eli, I find myself developing clear favorites among the cast.

Kids, we know, go crazy for lovable little Elmo; Grover is an old favorite; Cookie Monster will always have his fans, in spite of his recent turn to fresh fruits and vegetables. Big Bird has a yellow immensity that’s appealing, and Rosita and Prairie Dawn have done much to close the yawning muppet gender gap. I have genuine affection for all of these characters, but as I head into my old and crotchety years, I find myself taken with another character entirely. It’s not Oscar the Grouch, either. No, as I sit in on the show, I am inevitably drawn to Bert.

When I was a kid, Bert was little more than Ernie’s sidekick, a pale yellow egghead without much to recommend him. I was enthralled by Ernie, what with his clever hijinks, his infectious laugh, his obvious affection for Rubber Duckie. I still see Ernie’s charm: he’s a winning combination of wide-eyed wonder and tender absurdity, with enough low-grade mischief mixed in to keep things interesting. Then there are those great songs: “The Honker Duckie Dinger Jamboree,” “Put Down the Duckie,” and my personal favorite, “I’d Like to Visit the Moon.” He’s a fantastic muppet.

But he’s no Bert.

There is much to love in Bert. We can start with his little German hat, his love of pigeons, that spectacular monobrow. But more than that, I love the exasperation that runs just below his ochre felt. Bert is seldom angry, but he is often annoyed. While not the butt of Ernie’s jokes, he is often left to clean up the mess, and he does so with a weary affection that any parent must surely recognize. Bert is the master of the beleaguered sigh. All he wants is a moment of peace, but he knows he could not bear a lifetime of it. Instead, he resigns himself to the inevitability of small intrusions, knowing that they are the price of friendship. He is a very grown-up muppet.

This side of Bert is on full display in the great skit where Ernie gets up in the middle of the night to sing “Dance Myself to Sleep,” pulling out some boogie-woogie sheep and giving his duckie a midnight bugle solo. “Ernie!” Bert pleads, “Those sheep are tap-dancing!” His complaint is useless, and he knows it. He turns over in bed. “Oh,” he sighs. “Why me?”

My kids both prefer Ernie to Bert, and I don’t blame them. They’re kids.

But some day, they’ll be older and wearier and more put-upon, but still decent and caring with enough room in their furry hearts for all their friends and family, and a few pigeons to boot. And then they’ll understand Bert.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)