Today you are twenty one months old.

You are a toddler. I suppose you earned that title at nine months when you began walking, but the label on your clothes would say otherwise. You still shop in the "baby" section.

I went out to find some new pants for you yesterday and I brought home two pairs that will fit you for another week. Maybe two. In the store they looked bigger than your current pants. Bigger enough. Babies burn through clothes in three month cycles. But they're not bigger. Not at all.

They're size 18-24 months, and so, apparently, I need to let it go. You are not a baby. You are a walking, talking, eating machine. You speak in sentences. You have opinions. You ask for things, "Yes, please."

You pretend to make cow soup in the bath with a cup and a bubble wand. We add imaginary salt and a dash or two of frog or rubber ducky, tasting as we go.

You walk through the house with your arms straight out, droning, "M U M M Y." Some days you call me Mummy and I've made the mistake of responding. You also call me MOM. As in MOM. O, MOM. MOM! Etcetera.

You learn new words and shout them out at random for the remainder of the day. CABLE CAR! SHARKS GAME! SUSHI! And so on.

This month we night-weaned, meaning you get no more milk at night. It was the easiest thing we've ever done. So easy, I'm afraid to put it in writing, but there it is: NIGHT WEANED.

For a long time - maybe month nine to now - you've been a hybrid baby-toddler. A 'tween of sorts. A babbler? A tobby? But no more. I miss the baby, but I relish the toddler.

You are grande.

Happy Twenty First Monthday.