Dear Merritt,

Here's the deal: you are old.

Okay. Old is a relative term since your other mom and I spent last night watching our debate and cheerleading VHS TAPES ON A VCR. Merritt, these were videos from our junior year of high school. Literally half our lifetimes ago.

But you're still old. Eleven months exactly. And the best you've ever been. Can I take a minute (or the rest of my life) to tell you how amazing you are?

I always thought that my Air Force upbringing made me incredibly adaptable. Louisiana Tech University was my sixteenth school; I had no choice but to adapt. Assimilate. Carry on. I didn't give you a choice either. But you've redefined adaptation. You've mastered it, and you've done it with grace and ease and a level of jubilance I didn't know existed.

Dude, you roll with the punches. You are a professional punch roller. Roll puncher? Poll runcher? Umm, you're awesome.

And hilarious. Your comedic timing rivals Betty White's. She is also old: eighty-eight and a half. You still don't speak English, but you know exactly when to deliver a punch line, an eyebrow-raise, an almost nine-toothed grin, or your own laugh. Your giggles are bowling ball-sized and as they roll up your throat you sometimes choke on them. But it's cool because that makes three of us that can't breathe. You are so flipping funny. Makes me wish "Golden Girls" was still in production. And that they were all still alive. Blanche would eat you up.

You continue to not meet strangers. By that I don't mean you're an antisocial recluse who trolls Facebook. I mean you never meet a stranger. You make friends everywhere you go. And people want to buy you ponies (multiple) as soon as they fall into the tractor beam that is your line of vision. I'm all for a Shetland or two, but I'm certain you could use this power for greater good. Like a Coke Icee machine. Or a house with all trampoline floors. Duh.

Oh. My. Goodness. I just imagined you on the back of a miniature horse who is jumping on a trampoline. Can we somehow make that a Halloween costume? Bouncy Jockey!

Or maybe you could go as a total tool:

I just watched you palm the butt end of a ketchup-y meat loaf. A butt that wasn't yours to palm. But this is who you are. You swipe food off plates, grinning all the while. You empty boxes of tampons and strew them about the house; sometimes you open them and play Chinese finger cuffs. Changing your diaper and getting you dressed is not unlike trying to shove an octopus into a mesh bag. Nothing is safe from your teeth. You climb like you were born to do it. You know the exact right moment to smile, to sass, to put your head on my shoulder, to lift your hand in the air for your version of waving. You are smart beyond smart. You like to use your STADIUM VOICE, especially during the sweet snugglefest that occurs in the master bed each morning. Soft light, sleepy faces, neck nuzzles, warm bottles, and "You're a waaaaaaaankerrr, number nine!" You clap and clap and clap. You dance, my how you dance!

And you love.

I cannot get enough of you, little boy. I never will.

Love,

Momma