Dear Noah,
Well, in one month you’ll be Two, which is hard to believe. I am so amazed by the passage of time since you came into my life, Love Bug. Last year your cheeks still sagged down past your neck and they wobbled as you took your first tentative steps, and the year before that you were a squalling little worm, incapable of much movement at all and needing to be held close all the time. Now you look much more like a little boy than a baby; you’ve thinned out and stretched up and you aren’t much about cuddling or being held close because you have too much to do. You have so much to say and so many places to go, and you don’t consider yourself to be in need of help in most cases. As a result, you have a panic-stricken Mama, following you around with outstretched arms as you tackle the stairs by yourself, climb the ladders at the playground by yourself, and attempt to ride the dog by yourself.
This month you learned how to talk. We worried for a while because you weren’t saying much, and only the month before last you learned how to say Mama. But now you say “Mama” all the time, even when you don’t want anything. You just say Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. MAMA. MAMA. MAMA. I’m not complaining though, because it’s music to my ears… most of the time. But that’s not all you can say, and you surprise us every day with at least one new word. Yesterday morning you stuck your nose to mine as usual, but where you usually say “EEE” (which means “eat”), you instead woke me up with “cous cous”! “Choo-choo?” I asked groggily. “COUS. COUS.” you said, very clearly. “Cous cous? You want cous cous for breakfast you mean?” INDEED. That is what you meant, and you nodded eagerly and hopped off the bed to head into the kitchen. How funny you are, already with such strong opinions, but now starting to realize what you want to eat or play or do and learning how to tell us.
If you crawl up on the couch, point to the television, and say “choo-choo,” we know you want to watch a train movie. You can tell us what you want to eat (usually “TEE” which means cheese) or drink (“bikuh”, or milk). You sit and stare at your bookshelf, carefully choosing books after much silent deliberation. If you can’t find the one you want, you tell us (“Ah-hee” means Curious George, “Beeyuh” means Brown Bear Brown Bear).
You have also started showing your ass independence by being an ass defiant. If I say to you, “Noah, get off the edge of the retaining wall please, so that you don’t fall six feet and break your neck,” you step off, then lock eyes with me and step right back up there. Like, Really Mom? I don’t think you’re going to do anything about it. And then you get really pissed off when I walk over and physically remove you from imminent serious injury. If I say to you, “Stop pulling the dog’s tail because you’re hurting her,” you walk around to her side and, looking right at me, take a fistful of her fur and yank out a clump. I know this kind of defiance is normal, but part of me wonders if I’m not raising a little Calvin already.
Despite that, you have a shockingly sweet disposition… most of the time. If you see a boo-boo on anyone, for instance, you insist on kissing it. (And by boo-boo I mean anything from acne to a freckle to a chicken-pock scar.) You find flowers outside and pick them and bring them to me without anyone telling you to do it. You give amazing hugs and (non boo-boo related) kisses. You smile at everyone and give what your Daddy and I call a Super Grin to people you know. If everyone around you is laughing, you throw your head back and give a big, fake laugh of your own to show that you’re in on the joke. You clap your hands and say “Yay!” if we arrive at the playground or your grandparents’ house, or if we tell you someone’s coming over to see you, like your little girlfriend Sammy.
On top of all this rapid and funny development, you are like the smartest kid I’ve ever seen. You have some kind of crazy memory, and you’re already learning to recognize your ABCs and 123s, and you can work that animal letter puzzle faster than I can. If we go to the grocery store you know exactly where that stand with the matchbox cars is. If we eat at Far East Nashville you point to a newly constructed building and say “backhoe,” because the first time we ate there they were still breaking ground. And with your brains comes a sort of knowledge snobbery that I swear you got from your Daddy. “Tractoo!” you exclaim, pointing excitedly at Daddy, who is pushing the lawn mower. “Lawn mower,” I counter. You shake your head at me. “TRACTOO,” you repeat. “Baby, it’s a lawn mower,” I explain. You take my chin in your hand and lock eyes with me. You shake your head again. “TRAC. TOO.” You’re schooling me, is what I’m saying. But I’m absolutely fine if you insist that an excavator is a backhoe or if you think a fallen leaf is a tree (“twee!”) or that the moon is the sun (“shun!”). I think it’s adorable, and anyway I’m used to the men in this family thinking they are being smarter than me.
Ok, so despite all of that good stuff, I would be lying if I didn’t add a paragraph in here about what a butthole you’ve been lately. You’ve been pinching and biting for a while now, and today you hit someone for the first time. You whine incessantly about the tiniest things, even though we both know you really could USE YOUR WORDS if you wanted to. You’ve stopped saying “thank you,” even though it was so sweet for about a month (“Dee-do!”). Mama and Daddy are realizing that you’re becoming Two, Bubbs. You’ve got a lot nastier to get before the end, I fear. I pulled out some books and even bought a new one so I can try to figure out how to help you communicate better, and so that we can communicate better with you. When I’m able to correctly put this into constructive words, I will let you know that if you hit your friends when they make you angry you won’t have friends for very much longer. Also I will constructively let you know that if you pinch my collar bone one more time I will stick my foot up your ass. Just kidding, Bubbs. But seriously.
There are some serious changes happening around here, but none is as significant as the fact that it’s been one week since we’ve nursed. I was thinking weaning you from that last nursing session (the one that put you to sleep every night) was going to be really hard for both of us, but it was easy as pie. I just said to your Daddy, “Let’s give not nursing a try and see what happens.” I don’t think you even noticed. We just put you in bed and you laid right down and insisted that we pat your butt (by lifting it into the air and saying “Uhh! Uhh!”) until you fell asleep, which you always do. And I didn’t cry that night, even though you not nursing for the first time meant that you are no longer a baby. You don’t need me the way you used to, and I was ok with that. I mean, a little sad, a little nostalgic, but I held myself together. LAST night, however, your Aunt Ellen came over, and after she read you a story at bedtime I reached for you so I could rock you and sing you a song and put you in your bed and pat your butt for an eternity, per normal. But you shook your head at me and clung to Aunt Ellen. So I laughingly suggested that she try putting you to sleep, and I left the room, fully expecting to be called back into your room to take over when you realized you wanted me. Only, that call never came. I waited on the couch for 20 minutes, and suddenly Ellen snuck out and reported that you had fallen right to sleep, no problem.
Ok, so last night I cried. You are so big now… you don’t need me for food, and you don’t need me for comfort right before bed. Mama’s world is sort of in a tailspin right now. You’re growing so fast, like water dripping between my fingers. One minute you’re snuggling with me as we read a bedtime story and the next you’ll be graduating from college. Mama’s a little pregnant emotional right now, so bear with me while I hold you close (as you squirm and protest) for just a few minutes too long over the next several months.
I love you, Love Bug.
Love,
Mama