To my little 20-month-old tree-licker

You know who you are:

Twenty months on this earth now, barreling toward two years. I haven’t done a proper update in months and for that I am sorry but I am letting it go. Guilt fuels nothing but bad things and my sparse internetting has not kept you from blooming into a beauty to behold and an ox to contend with should you determine you might not be getting your way.

You are strong and determined and stubborn just like the two of us responsible for your particular blend of DNA. You are sometimes easily frustrated, quick to lash out in anger, and of questionable temperament when you are tired. You are a clone of us, boy. Sorry about your luck! You also seem to have inherited my delicious mosquito-bait blood rather than your father’s blood, which is spicy and not to their liking. You are shy and take a good twenty minutes when in any new setting or when among unfamiliar people (as in, anyone but me and your dad) before you will warm up and have any fun.

But you are also so lovely and sweet and shy and so silly and talkative when you feel comfortable and safe.

You are way into high fives — especially if I ham it up like your thwack really hurt my hand, tough guy — and being outside. You like to taste things: My arm, that thing on the floor, the trees.

You enjoy taking things out of containers and then putting them into other containers, and then taking them out and putting them back in again. You like to pick up all your toys off the floor and put them in your new toy box. And then when your toys are put away you like to put everything else in your box too. The remote, my shoes, your sippy cup. Everything has its place, and it’s in your toy box.

I have not yet tired of just sitting and watching you toddle around on your own two legs. You were a late walker — a super late walker at 19.5 months. Everyone told us not to worry, to enjoy the crawling phase. Once they’re walking, you’ll be chasing them all over the place! But it’s hard to enjoy the crawling phase with that nagging worry in the back of your head that something is wrong. That we should have caught the problem by now and started correcting it. And then sure enough, as soon as I had halfway resolved to contact ECI, I saw you go from coffee table to chair on your own legs one morning. As if it was nothing big. We had been encouraging you to walk and you’d do it if we stood you up and pointed you in the right direction. But this morning was different. You decided you’d get around on your feet as a matter of preference. And you’ve been toddling around since then, only stopping to crawl when it is strategically necessary for you to terrify Ms. Kitty on her level.

And I have loved every minute of the walking phase so far. You stay cleaner (going somewhere only to have you act as a Swiffer the whole time can wear on one’s nerves and your clothes), your knees aren’t nearly as banged up, and you look freaking ADORABLE walking around, dude.

You don’t understand why we won’t let you just go go go. Why we have to hold your hand and guide you down the big hill in the front yard or across parking lots or along the edges of deep water or up next to dogs that weigh five times what you do. You waited so long to walk, you probably wonder why we are putting so many limits on your newfound superpower.

You caught on early to the concept of catching and throwing a ball, and now you have a fantastic overhand fastball. I’m completely serious. You have good aim and you’re a damn good faker, too; you can look one direction and hit a target in the other. And catch without looking. You favor your left hand for pretty much everything, which your Grandpa will take great pride in some day because he TOTALLY CALLED IT when you were a tiny baby. How does he know these things? I will take a guess: He grows wisdom in that crazy beard of his.

Your favorite books are the ones with animals in them and we “read” them by going through and naming all the animals. You are so totally confused by the concept of a Grover but you seem to get who Elmo and Cookie Monster are. You have a bad habit of throwing your books directly at my face when you want to read them or when you want to stop reading them. You also do this with your cup and all of your toys. I’m not sure you understand your own strength but you probably also really enjoy watching how worked up I get when you clock me on the nose with a full cup of milk. We’re working on our control; mine involves me not Losing My Shit every time I get a busted lip and yours involves you placing things gently on the table. It’s a walk we will walk together for a long time, I’m sure.

You know how to point to all sorts of things. You can show me where the red stars are in your bedroom, and where the blue stars are, and where the wall is, the door, the ceiling, and more. Tonight we were outside and I asked you where the house was and you showed me! Every night before bed we say good night to all the things on your wall, including the air conditioner (“thanks for keeping us cool!”) and the humidifier that looks like Mr. Kitty’s head, and we do it in the same order so that you know what’s coming. You like to make the blue star swing and you touch the H made out of buttons that Coco made for us. And you point to the bumblebees stuck to the back of your door before you touch the blue and black dots.

Daddy and I both have been hearing you say your name. I heard you say it to the mirror today and it’s kind of hard to believe, but I’ve heard it a few times now. You love to hear us count and say the alphabet and you will chime in with your own additions and sometimes make perfect sense. Other times we just assume you are being creative. You say “da” for ball and a couple of other things, but I figure now that you’ve got that walking thing out of the way, we’ll start to recognize more and more words as the weeks pass.

We cheated and put you in a forward-facing car seat part-time (it’s in my car) last month. I felt squicky about it but you are really only in it once or twice a week. You still ride like a balled-up armadillo in the back of your daddy’s car. The first time you rode forward facing, you had THE BEST TIME EVER. However, you can’t really figure out how to fall asleep in your new seat since it’s not as laid back and since there’s so much more to see, so long roadtrips involve a lot of whining. From both of us.

I started reading a book about how to better communicate with toddlers, so I’ve started doing and saying some utterly silly things that I hope will help me empathize with you a little better and not just assume you are being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole (although of course you still have that option at all times). Mothering a toddler is at times the most frustrating thing I have ever done (it barely beats out being in a relationship with an adult male) but I always just have to stop and think about how, two years ago, you were inside my tummy and had never even breathed air! You have evolved A LOT since then. Two years ago, I was eating Nutella out of the jar and crying at the season finale of Food Network Star. I think you pretty much win the evolution battle this round, kiddo.

You’re a doll. I love you beyond what I thought I could muster in this lifetime. It’s true.