Dear Merritt,

I should have named you Destructo.
Love,
Momma

Kidding. Sort of.

At eight months you are a biting, hair pulling, miniature Gojira. Your favorite magic trick is the classic "whip off." You know, the one where you snatch a table cloth so fast that dishes and glasses full of wine and a flower vase remain unmoved on the table. Except in your version, you yank a table runner and then a lamp falls on your head and a Buddha statue that I've had for years is suddenly decapitated.

And I couldn't love you more. But I will, just as this second passes. And then the next one.Every single morning you plant upon my cheek what everyone on my side of the family refers to as a "Katie Love." I guess that means you come by these slobber bombs naturally. I can't get enough of them. Merritt, does this make me vain?

You cruise now, all over the place. This involves making your way from one end of the couch to the other, pulling your way up the oven door, and at least once daily, pantsing me while attempting to get to your next destination. I suppose turnabout is fair play for all the times your daddy has been left elbows-deep in something important, his pants around his ankles, compliments of Yo Momma: Pantsing Assassin.

When it comes to holding my hands and taking steps, your little legs go to jelly. You literally fold yourself up, starting at the feet. You'll be having none of that, thank you. I'm so glad you have such a trusting and loving relationship with all of the inanimate objects in our house. Then I come around and you immediately hold up a sign and park it for a sitting protest. The sign reads, "I'm going to pants you now. For good measure." I'd like to watch the couch try to teach you to ride a bike, or swim, or cuss. And the ottoman. Can it show you the five steps in tying a nail knot or how to properly consume a Road Runner Burrito from Marin County, California? Didn't think so.You continue to make a clamor over corded/technological objects. I. don't. get it. I like kites, and kayaks, and my canary yellow 1969 Schwinn. If you could talk, you'd add, "And your iPhone, Momma." Fine. True. But you like it better than I do.

I guess you can talk. You figured out "momma." You'd been babbling similar sounds for a while, but I knew when you said it for real because it made me weep. Full on, sit on the kitchen floor, bawl.Of course, your caveat to saying my name is that you only use it when you really, really need me. So it comes out Mommmmmmmmmma, and more often than not, Ommmmmma. Never, "Hey, Momma! How's you?"

It's a good thing you said momma since Daddy hates the word "mommy" more than anyone in the universe has ever hated another word. To a point of insanity in our household. I've spent many hours removing tags from pajamas that say things like Mommy's Hero, Mommy's Dude, Mommy's Best Good Boy. I'm afraid to correctly pronounce "edamame" in Japanese. Your daddy might lose it and ban the baby beans forever. And you love edamame. I should teach you to call him Matty.The summer between third and fourth grade your grandparents sent me to The Sisters of the Sacred Heart camp. Then onto a cheerleading camp. Incidentally, for years after that summer, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I'd respond "Cheerleading Nun." I'd mentally designed a short habit and everything. This has nothing to do with why I'm telling you about that camp. I digress.

My cabin's saint was St. Therese. We were told she was the saint of small sacrifices. And we believed it. I realize now that my counselor probably made that up because 1. every day at lunch there was a huge bowl of carrots and celery on each table and a competition of which table could finish the entire thing first. (Does anyone even like celery?) So our counselor, a rabid volleyball player, encouraged us to be like our saint and make the small sacrifice of chowing down, in the name of the Lord, Amen. And 2. Who gets sainted for making SMALL sacrifices?

Please forgive me, but I think I thought the majority of parenthood would be like eating a large bowl of celery. And maybe that's why it took me so long to have you.

To say I was mistaken would be the understatement of my life.

I just realized last week, LAST WEEK!, that I didn't ski a single day this entire season. Your mother, the ski bum, never once clipped in and flew down the face of a mountain, cares to the wind. It didn't even occur to me to do so. And I can't remember what caffeine feels like in my system. Or what it's like to take a shower daily. Or drive with wild abandon with the music cranked to ear bursting decibels. Or to be worry-free. These don't feel like sacrifices.

But any one that I make for you comes with nothing but peace to me.

I would do anything for you, little boy. I'd eat all the celery in the world without a second thought (or a first one) if it somehow showed you how very much I love you.
Love,
Momma