Dear Merritt,

I've been a parent for six months and you've survived. Thrived, even. So I suppose I'd get all esses on my parenting report card. I want you to learn this lesson now; it will make that one day in first grade less painful. What day? The day when you bring home a report card with all esses. And you ask me what "S" means and I tell you "satisfactory." And you ask me what "satisfactory" means and I tell you "fulfilling all requirements." And then you cry all afternoon because you feel you're better than satisfactory. You watch the flag through the entire pledge of allegiance, you never tap on Parsley's cage (class hamster), and you were the only one who didn't laugh when John Jarvis wet his pants. You deserve something better than an S! And I tell you that S is as high as you can go and that I love you and I'm proud of you. And you humor me and genially accept that, all the while creating your own grading system where you get all effs. For fantastic. Or flipping best kid ever.My, how you've grown. 18+ pounds. I'm not calling you portly. Yet. But you're certainly not the tiny dude I brought home half a year ago. Strangers tend to look at you and comment on your cheeks and how mother's milk must be good! Then they ask how old you are. Typically, I answer "two months" and enjoy the awkward social moment before I explain that I'm just kidding, you're only a month and a half.By the by, mother's milk IS good and save a sip of bath water here or there, it's all you've been fed to date. But the time for avocados, bananas, sweet potatoes, and that delicious, fiery green Peruvian salsa from Andina is nigh. Mazel Tov!

Edited to add: Since I composed this you've eaten bananas and experienced rutabagas. I say experienced because claiming you simply ate them doesn't do the moment justice. Son, you like you some rutabagas. You like them so much that they go nowhere except straight to your tummy - none left lingering around your mouth, on your forehead, all over your shirt ... no. All, right down your gullet.You arrived with an abundance of Lary looks, my bleeding liberal heart (just assuming here), and genetic coding that requires you sleep with a fan, but when the weather airs on the morning news you go radio silent. And you didn't get that from me. Fixating on the screen, you behave as if today's forecast will either make or break you, cutting eyes at me if I try to discuss something with you while the Skytracker 3000 images roll.

I've branched out from just singing your name over and over again to the tune of familiar songs - or inserting it where necessary. During one of our Saturday Morning Jam Fests, I was singing The Proclaimers 500 Miles to you, substituting "mom" everywhere they sang "man." All was well and good until I declared, "If I get drunk, then I know I'm going to be, I'm going to be the mom who gets drunk next to you." This reminded me of that time during the enchanting second trimester where I took some liberties with The Police lyrics and sang about you, "Every little thing he does is magic! Every little thing just ... turns? me? on?" Awkward. And Awkward.

But music still has its place. Recently you were teetering on the edge of Fuss Canyon and Daddy and I had no choice but to sing you down with an impromptu song about green beans a la The B-52s. At a crucial moment we looked at each other and shouted, "Your WHAT? Green Bean. Snap-ded." Merritt, if we raise you right you will someday understand this reference and how it relates to rusted tin roofs.

Wise beyond your (half) years, you're already in possession of the knowledge that when music hits you, you feel no pain. Your addendum? Good weather forecasts create similar effects.I've waited six months to mention it, thinking that maybe it would fade or, better, disappear. Alas, it remains. IT being the unbelievable stench that emanates from your feet. No one believes me when I say they are some awful-smelling things, and every single one of them regrets it when they take a big whiff. Even though I know they stink, I can't seem to stop myself from sniffing them several hundred times a day. And dipping them in ketchup. And eating them.I can actually smell your foot through the computer screen.

For half a year you've endured my costuming and photoshoots and I figure I've got a few good months left before, upon your insistence/refusal-to-participate in such fun, I have to channel my creative energies elsewhere. Say, back to Hudson, previously dressed as a: ladybug, accountant, French socialite, bodybuilder, stowaway immigrant, Indian Princess, and Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Hudson loves having you here, seriously.

For Easter this year, you provided a blank canvas for my unbridled imagination. And since I have a flair for non-subtlety and offending sensibilities, I considered telling everyone that I posed you as Jesus in the Stations of the Cross, ALL FOURTEEN OF THEM, so that they'd breathe a sigh of relief when they got their card and discovered that all I'd really done was expose your bum for a Playgirl centerfold shoot. Greetings from the Keister Bunny!You are officially mobile in that you're never where I left you. If I set you in the middle of the living room floor you almost immediately appear under the couch or tucked neatly in the corner by the sub. The crib? At least 90 degrees from site of deposit, though you prefer 180. You spend the majority of your time on all fours. This includes the changing table where you demand that I change your diaper with you in the ready stance for crawling - just in case something comes up that needs crawling at. Your current crawl isn't a pretty one. In fact, it's sort of like the worm, in slow motion, on drugs, on a boat, in quicksand, during an earthquake. But it gets you there. And I'm pleased to be cleaning your vomit off the floor now as opposed to those first several months when I was trying to figure out how to get it off the ceiling.

I remain amazed by your ability to get puke on the back of your head, to smile like you mean it, to make the world a better place by merely existing in it.

I adore your left hand, how it sometimes strokes my arm when I hold you and other times it gets stuck in Asian Good Luck Cat mode.

I crave the way the full weight of you sinks into me when we snuggle.

And I love, love, love being your momma.Love, Momma