Dear Noah,

Today, you are 20 months old. On Saturday, I accidentally told someone you were 21 months old, but I promise, I’m not rushing you to grow up any faster.

In the last month, you’ve become even more verbal. You’ll try saying any interesting sound you hear, especially if it makes your mommies laugh. So far, the funniest ones have been “Arby’s,” “police,” and the name of one of our newer local radio stations, “La Raza.”

You’ve also become a true toddler. Your answer to every question is “no” and if you think we are about to physically require you to do some onerous task like have your diaper changed, take a bath, or go to school, you drop to the ground, limp and resisting. I have a theory about where the early civil rights leaders got some ideas for passive resistance.

Bedtime is getting both easier and harder. You resist more, but when you get tired enough, you’re starting to ask to be put down in bed to fall asleep, instead of nursing the rest of the way to sleep. Sometimes, though, you wake up too much when I put you down, and then there is much screaming and throwing of stuffed animals and trains.

Speaking of trains, you carry them everywhere. There are two you especially love, a battered blue plastic “Gordon” with attached coal tender, and a new green “Henry” made of wood, with a matching-but-not-attached coal tender. You’ve decided that the green engine is a “Mama” and the matching coal tender is a “baby.” We died of the cuteness.

It’s hard for you to carry 3 cars, but you do your best, clutching them all to your chest when we make you come to the table for dinner, or go upstairs for a bath. By the way, you must have the cleanest trains in America; they go in the bath with you every time.

When you feel like it, you’re very helpful. In fact, last night you paused mid-tantrum to pick up a piece of thread from the carpet and hand it to me. Almost as funny, when you had an accident before getting in the tub last night, you insisted on helping me clean up the “pee-pee.” You also like to help me sort the clean laundry into piles, but sometimes you get annoyed when I won’t let you keep sorting the folded piles.

I love you, sweet boy. I love you more than tiny little words like that can express. Both of your mommies do.

love,

Mommy