Kately Days: Dear Merritt,

A year and a day ago, while I was hospitalized for observation, my doctor phoned and said something I'll never forget: "This is going to end up being the worst headache of your life."

She was referring to a real headache. Not you. I think ...

So even though there was still a month until you were due, and you were perfectly content to remain a Kung Fu Fetus in your uterine dojo, the doctor ended that call with, "we need to get that kid out of you," which was just another way to say, "Impromptu! Surprise! Party!"

And what a party it has been. A year-long bash.

Congratulations on being the valedictorian of not getting your diaper changed. Or changed entirely, more accurately. We can get through the first few steps, usually without me vomiting (that's only happened, like, once), but you have graduated from Brazilian Dance Fighting to full-tilt nudist, opposite of never-nude, founder of a baby nudist colony, NAKED. You have a cousin whom I have rarely seen clothed. Perhaps he can be your first convert.

You finally mastered waving. For a few fleeting minutes we thought that your future was limited to Third Reiching (yes, I made that a verb) or gigs as a Statue of Liberty impersonator. But you got the hang of moving your hand and even your fingers, and now you wave at everyone and everything, including rays of sunlight and the ghosts that so very obviously inhabit this place. So freaky.

Hey. You hug like it's what you were born to do. I need you to understand that this is awesome.

When I was a little girl I always included burglars and robbers in my prayers because nothing scared me more than burglars and robbers. By "included," I mean I recited this lone prayer every night with hopes that god could somehow alleviate the fear by doing his deal: God bless the burglars and the robbers. Amen.

Merritt, I am no longer terrified of burglars and robbers because of a certain skill you possess. When provided a bedside table with just a few items on it, you are capable of honing in on the most dangerous object in the arsenal. A few weeks ago you couldn't get enough of a pair of needle-nose pliers, the sort that might easily impale a soft palate/brain. I can't imagine why those were more exciting than a Trader Joe's box of 99 tissues (1. Why not 100, Trader Joe's, why not? 2. You can empty and eat the entire box in under a minute.) or a New York Times Sunday Crossword Omnibus. I'm sure that if a burglar or robber found his way into our house that you could intimidate him with the running chainsaw we keep on the other bedside table, but I'm equally confident in your ability to choose the Albuterol rescue inhaler laying there and stun the bejesus out of the burglar or robber by squealing in your version of "the inside voice" over attaining such a prize! No one will ever accuse you of being a church mouse.

I should wear noise-canceling lawn-mowing headphones when you exercise your "OUTside voice." Maybe I should consider wearing those all the time. Your Momma is a fashion maven. And a great listener.

Random sidenote: I birthed a caricature.

At your nine-month check-up you were in the 10th percentile for weight, 25th for height, and the 75th for head circumference. I'd bet you one of your hats full of pennies that at the next appointment the only thing that will have changed is that your noggin will be in the 111th percentile. Now make me a rich woman.

Your biological clock is set on sitcom mode. Fifteen seconds after we turn out our lights, you wail across the monitor. I don't have anything funny to say about this because this is not funny.

You're still at the stage where virtually everything goes into your mouth. Everything except pacifiers. You hold them at a distance, put them under microscopes, sometimes you even hold them up to your ears - garnering pacifying wisdom? - but they never make it to your mouth. According to Freud, the next psychosexual development stage is ANAL! YAAAAAY! And after we watched you duke in the tub the other night (and you watched us scramble to ... uh, unduke the entire situation), we want you to know we are fine with this oral stage. Just please, don't put that poop in your mouth.

When you're not here we experience phantom Merritt sounds and we miss, miss, miss you. The wind blows through us. We imitate you. We tell stories about you. We pore over your pictures and videos and we sleep with your blanket. We cry. Sometimes because we're sad. Most times because you bring us so much joy and all we want is to do what's best for you, to give you the world, to make sure that you live with the confidence that no one has ever been loved more than we love you.

Merrittime, You are the best headache I've ever had.