Dear Merritt,

A few months ago your daddy showed you how to dramatically approach a book for reading. Pick it up, remove any dust that may be on it with an earnest blow, read the title in a British accent, then commence with reading. You eat this up. I can only imagine how your inaugural "reading aloud in class" will go down.
Your current favorite book is Ounce, Dice, Trice by Alastair Reid. Okay, fine. It's my current favorite. But you indulge me. It's just a book about the waywardness of words, but it tickles me to pronounce them and watch your eyebrows arch and your little lips purse and ohhhh as you mimic me. Also, this book reminds me of a made-up game your Daddy and I play: Garlic Breath. After a delicious meal of Funyuns and pepperoni and peanut butter and camembert cheese, we take our laser breath and aim it at each other with the breathiest words we can conjure. There's no winner. Just lots of wincing and laughing as we utter words like Hufflepuff and smarmy within three centimeters of each others' noses. I bet you'll be great at this game.


You talk non-stop. You talk until we turn a video camera on you and then you make liars out of us.

Your toots are adult-sized. And I'm not talking about average adult. I'm talking "Largest Male To Ever Compete On The Biggest Loser"-sized. Impressive, sir.

You love a lot of things. You love to be held. You love to snuggle (especially in the morning). You love your dog. You love taking baths. Most of all, you love Ellen DeGeneres. I can't fault you on any of these.

People used to comment on how still you were during diaper changes. Back when changing you was peachy. Well, mustardy-peachy, but peachy nonetheless. That was before your new hobby of Brazilian dance fighting and a sudden interest in vintage drapes collided. Now most diaper changes result in this:Insert your daddy stating, "Son, you got a panty on your head" here.

You do this thing where you put your lips together and blow. It doesn't result in a whistle. It results in spit in my eyelashes and your daddy reminding you, "Say it. Don't spray it." You kind of sound like a broken tuba. We think it's the best sounding broken tuba we've ever heard.

You're working on sitting up by yourself. See?
Lying. Sleight of hiney. Photoshop. That's thee only picture of about 70 where I caught you sitting up. Every other picture was taken mere milliseconds after the sitting. Most looked like this:(Please forgive the blurriness. I was laughing at you.)

You have devastatingly blue eyes.
An impish grin.
And two of the most precious bottom teeth I have ever seen.


The last five-twelfths of a year have been the best of my life.

Love,
Momma