Dear Merritt,

Banner month, 'Boose. BAN. NER.

You are a fool for tampons. If given the option of scoring a golden ticket, a pony, or a wrapped tampon, you'll pick the tampon every time. Ah, the perks and perils of living with two mom-ladies. One day last week after dumping an entire box of Regulars onto the bathroom floor, you imposed yourself on Mom's shower (as you are wont to do). She attempted distraction by reminding you that there were thousands of those absorbent missiles on the ground and I chimed in with, "He'll do anything for a tampon." So Mom asked if you would walk. I responded, "but he won't do that." And we immediately launched into our own rousing version of Meatloaf's hit, "Merritt Would Do Anything For A Tampon (But He Won't Do That)." It's safe to say you were profoundly affected.


Earning yourself a lifetime supply* of tampons, the next day you walked. Like seriously walked.  No more of this couple-steps-here, couple-steps-there business.

*Offer ends at menopause.  Void where prohibited.


I will be sad to see your crawl go, especially the one where you make like a human bulldozer, tuck your head, and charge.  Somehow, walking makes your uncanny ability to blitzkrieg any room, car interior, 600,000 square foot warehouse, that much more terrifying.


Also, I hope that you never stop picking up random objects and pressing them to your ear and uttering, "Heaagh?" When the objects are too big to lift, you lean your head over to listen to them. Often, we'll find you garnering wisdom from the coffee table this way.

Confirming that you are indeed an old soul, "huzzah," is your current favorite word. Shakespeare would be so proud. Sometimes you'll peek around a corner and whisper it, sometimes you let the whole grocery store hear it, and sometimes, when you're equal parts exhausted and adorable, you'll mutter just the end part, "-zzah," in your final big breath before falling asleep.

Last year, at a mere 18 days old, you went as "Awesome" for Halloween. I made you a premie Three Wolf Moon onesie and you pretty much owned the holiday. This year, we continued the wolf theme, dressing you as The One-Man Wolf Pack, Alan Garner (of The Hangover fame). 

Let me be clear: you hated this idea.

Momma learned her lesson. Sure, you liked Carlos well enough, but see that pile by your knee? That was your handmade yarn beard.  And if it was on your face, you could almost guarantee that Carlos was down a hat or some glasses. Or that you were in the process of simultaneously ripping the beard from your face and the makeshift Baby Bjorn from your body. Because there was some small print somewhere that read something about how one-year-olds are limited to one piece of accoutrement per costume and any overage will result in the costumer's inability to get photographic proof of thee best. costume. ever.


Noted.


You continue to dole out the hugs. You kiss gratuitously. Like X-rated gratuitously. And thirteen months in you figured out that crawling into a lap, specifically Mom's, and resting your head on her chest is just about the best thing on Earth. For her. And for you. Keep that up and she'll give you anything you want. Oh, wait. She already will.

Thank you for eating! With a spoon! In public! Your Ghandi-like hunger strike was cured with just a little utensil autonomy. Also, you made us look like decent parents. Thank you for making your bathroom a "First Six Rows: Splash Zone" zone. Watching you cherish a bath is beyond delightful, even if ponchos are required.  Thank you for enduring my made-up Birth Control: The Musical score. You've got years of my impromptu singing coming, Bud. Years. Thank you for teaching us to throw "yay" parties in your honor. For no reason other than that you exist.

Thank you for laughing so hard you have to bury your chin in your chest and full-out guffaw. Thank you for waking up with righteous bedhead. Thank you for that noise you make when you press your cheek to Mom's cheek. Thank you for knowing exactly where your head fits on my shoulder and auger-ing it in there. 

Thank you for letting me take care of you and love you and worship you.

Thank you for making me a mother.

Jon Stewart recently noted that parenthood is "an amazing opportunity to ruin someone from scratch." Only slightly daunting. How are we doing?

I just mentioned that I have no idea how to end these things and read aloud what I had so far. Mom called it "nice." I told her that nice isn't my aim, that someday when you read this collection of missives, I hope that the level of love and admiration I have for you is so evident and overwhelming that it's like a punch to the stomach. Essentially, I want you to throw-up and weep after reading each letter. She said, "just write that."

Truth is, if I spend more than a second thinking about how much I love you, it feels like I've been gut punched times infinity. But I've never been so lucky to hurt so much.

Love,

Momma