They Say When Man Makes a Plan, God Laughs.

I Think Toddlers Must Laugh (or Cry) Harder.

22 Months Old

Dear Myles,

We had a routine that I mistook for a deal.
I thought we were well past sleep regressions. In fact, I was so confident, I let it go to my head. When I met other parents, I went on and on about how you were sleep-trained.

“He’s in bed by 7:30 PM, up at 7—almost 12 hours of sleep.”

Yes, I gloated. It took a lot to get there—a lot of tears from the three of us.
How we took turns sleeping on the floor in your room.
How you sometimes woke up at odd hours just to make sure one of us was still there.
How we rubbed your back, sang the song about the stars, and prayed each night—until one day, we didn’t have to anymore.

How excited we were to get our bed back.
How excited we were to finally have time for ourselves.

How we just listened to the hum of the fridge, the bravado of frogs, and each other’s breaths.
Those precious minutes felt sacred—how we dared not even break the silence.

How we had just three hours for ourselves, for each other, to tend to this relationship we built so beautifully together—the one that willed you into our lives.

How even the TV seemed to smile, relieved it did not have to play Sesame Street.
Ms. Rachel and Sesame Street—the only three things you are aware the huge black square on the wall ever plays.

How we cracked open the ice cream, cookies, and pies—sometimes all at the same time—and folded into each other while binge-watching shows that sometimes just watched us.

That is, until this past week.

They say when man makes a plan, God laughs.
I think toddlers must laugh harder.

This week, we decided to finally wean you off the pacifier at night.
We thought it would be cute for you to say bye-bye to it—so that is what we did.

We held a funeral procession for a pacifier.
Wrapped it in plastic (my idea, just in case I had to come back for it).
You waved goodbye as we threw it into the fire pit, and then it was time for the repast - playtime.

That was cute.

But that night—it wasn’t cute. Not cute at all.

That night, after our routine—the bath, the book, the prayer—you asked for it.
We reminded you that you said goodbye.

“It’s gone, Papa,” we told you.

You looked at us as if to say, Wait... you two were serious?
Then you walked to the window and peeked through the blinds, as if it might be out there, emanating in all its rubbery glory.

That night, you cried.

For a long time.

The kind of cry that almost sent me outside to the fire pit—grateful I had wrapped it in plastic.

But I didn’t.

Just when I was about to though, we remembered the weaning pacifiers.
They come in a set of six, each with holes that get gradually wider to help you detach.

It was getting late—maybe around 9:30.
We were desperate. And we had work the next morning.

Your mother handed me pacifier number one and sent me in.

“Here’s your pacifier, Myles,” I said.

You fumbled for it in the dark, desperate.
And when you finally got it into your mouth—you laughed.

Laughed so hard.

You thought it was a game.

Until you realized it wasn’t.

That first night was hard.
The second night was not any easier.
I think we are on our fourth now, and it is much of the same.

But I know it will get better soon—because it has to.

Because yesterday, it was something else.
Tomorrow will be something else.

And that is what they do not tell you about transitions—sleep regressions, teething, potty training, going from milk to solids, and all the other changes still to come.

They are hard not just because the new human is changing.
They are hard because the ones taking care of him are changing, too.

And while change is hard for one, it is even harder when three people are changing at once—especially when none of us truly knows what we are doing.

I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Love,

Daddy

P.S - I am done gloating. You have humbled me.

These letters are a labor of love. All funds collected from writing these letters go toward Myles' college savings. A paid subscription also gives you access to all letters I’ve written to Myles, including these letters I write every other week or so, where I explore fatherhood more deeply, discuss my own upbringing, and reflect on what it means to be raising a Black son.

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Let me know your thoughts:

1. Tell me about a time when you made a plan and God laughed?

2. Do you have a routine or are you flying by the seams? Where does that even originate from?

3. Myles has been having trouble sleeping, so we aren’t sleeping. How’s your sleep these days?

4. Tell me about a transition you’ve gone through recently.

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