One Year Old: 1994
Noah could say "mama," "dada" and "'tar" by the time his first birthday rolled around. Instead of Timothy, he said "Meemee."
"Like Beaker on the Muppet show," insisted Timmy, who was four.
Noah would follow Timmy around the house, just steps from full-fledged walking, holding on to furniture with his oversized hands and calling "Meemee! Meemee!" until Timmy would stop and pay attention to him.
"He's so annoying," Timmy said often, but usually with tolerance and occasionally affection. And it was just as often that Timmy would find a quiet place to sit with Noah on his lap or next to him, "reading" him a book or showing him a pill bug he'd found on the ground or a snake. Noah would watch with wide eyes and attempt to hug whatever it was, then put it into his mouth.
"Meemee," said Noah, holding onto the banister by the front door.
"Timmy's frosting your cupcakes," said Ruth, closing the dishwasher with one hip and kicking blocks back into the family room.
"They're blue, see?" said Timmy, holding up the Cookie Monster-hued frosting spoon. Noah moved a few steps closer and screeched his approval. Timmy finished blobbing blue frosting on the top of six chocolate cupcakes and climbed down from his chair to stand beside Noah, handing him the spoon. In obvious delight, Noah took it, waving it madly a few times before Ruth rescued it from his chubby grip.
The front door crashed open loud enough to make Noah and Timmy jump. The figure in the doorway wore a furry blue mask and a black leather motorcycle jacket.
"Is it time?" said the man under the mask.
"Subtle, baby," Ruth said, rolling her eyes.
Timmy squinted up at the fuzzy-clad face. "That's Daddy under there," he said suspiciously. "It's not really Cookie Monster, is it?"
Noah obviously hadn't reached the same conclusion. He stared in rapt fascination. "Dah," he said.
"It's Cookie Monster, sweetheart," Ruth said. She watched carefully as Aaron got down on the floor but his movements were steady and he didn't seem overly manic today.
Noah stumbled forward and planted a wet, sticky hand on the blue fur. "Kitty."
"Ma, he said kitty," shouted Timothy.
"I'm Cookie Monster," Aaron said in a low, gravely voice. He really did sound like him.
"Kitty?" Noah said again, more uncertainly.
"I like cookies. Cooooookies."
Timmy giggled. "What about cupcakes? We don't have any cookies."
"They're round like cookies, but they're not as good," Aaron decided. "You can eat mine. Come on, boys. Cookie Monster's gonna sing you a song. You know any songs about cookies?"
While Aaron tuned his guitar, Timothy filled him in on the fact that C is for Cookie. They sang it three times, once in the Cookie Monster voice, once in a funny squeaky voice and once in a robot voice. By the time they got to the third one, Noah was dancing along, holding onto the arm of the chair and Timmy's hand and his father's pants as he bobbed up and down on his chunky legs.
Ruth smiled, watching her three boys playing, and wished there was something she could do to make every day like this.