Dear Merritt,

Today you are four months old.

It's been a big month, Merritt Badge.

You took your first flight. Correction: You OWNED your first flight.

And then an 8 day vacation to Maui owned you. Correction: OWNED your Momma. How was I to know that you hated sand and heat and merely existing in a lovely, tropical climate? On one of the days when we were on the Merritt-imposed lock-down at the condo, your "I hate vacation" wailing hit a fever pitch and it occurred to me that we could have saved thousands of dollars and done this at home. Yeah. But then I wouldn't have been able to spend a week gazing at your Toes! And Knees! And Elbows! I'm not sure I can put a price on being able to kiss and nudge and nom-nom-nom all of those bits of you that are usually covered by slippers and sweaters and warmth. My sweet fall baby, I sure do love your parts.

You moved into your own room. Fears that you might (verb) Incredible Hulk your bassinet were compounded by the fact that I reached a point where I was only speaking in made-up ultra silent sign language in the master bedroom. That's no way to live - you, with legs and arms busted out of the sides of the bassinet because I signed too quickly, and the slight breeze that action created was not unlike exposing you to the blast of a gamma bomb. Nope, no way to live at all. You love your room. I love speaking at a reasonable volume using words, not flailing, desperate, swirly hand gestures.

You are rarely doing that freaky fell-asleep-at-the-wheel thing with your arms anymore. While I miss seeing you "drive the bus," I'm surely impressed with your ability to hone in on objects and grab them with all your might. Like hair, the mole on my neck, and my soul.

You have something to say about everything. I have no idea where you came by this trait.

Also, you're the funniest person I know.

A year ago right now I couldn't wait to love you forever.
I will. And I do.

Love,

Momma