Dear Merritt,

Month fourteen was a big one, Moose.

Aside from gaining a new nickname, the combination of 'Boose & Munch, you divided and conquered. What, exactly? Everything. And sometimes not in that order.

You've endured your first official road trip. And while I've always been a "it's all about the journey, not the destination" kind of girl, a couple of things changed that.  1. A two hour dead stop just outside The Dalles, where we exhausted our entire 90s repertoire into your microphone, and you still weren't impressed ...

And 2. the destination was Grandma's. Mom's Grandma & Granddad to be exact. So now I'm ALL destination because that. place. was. awesome. And you are in complete agreement with me. It was at Grandma's that you became a bona fide Walker, Texas Ranger. You roamed the halls, climbed the stairs, and even wandered into the furnace room, not yet aware that you are supposed to be terrified of the furnace room. You loved on cousins and aunts and uncles galore. And one night, just in case you weren't already in their good graces, you watched The Lawrence Welk Show with Grandma & Granddad (Great) and danced to all those upbeat numbers for them. And then you walked some more.

I love that this is the place where you found your feet.

Back at home, we got into the Christmas spirit early by erecting the tree. You stole my heart when I put the finishing touch on it and you walked up to it, laid down under it, and looked up through it. Merritt, that's my signature move, and one of my very most favorite things to do. Sometimes I forget that I grew you in my body and birthed you, but you always find the perfect way to remind me. We are the same, you and I. Except for the part where you systematically remove ornaments and tug on branches and, well, boom goes the dynamite.

Lately, if something goes into your mouth, you immediately say, "nom nom nom." This goes for remotes, your socks, dust bunnies. No onomatopoeia has ever been cuter.

One thing that doesn't go into your mouth is flesh. Or it doesn't stay there, rather. You are apparently a self-proclaimed vegetarian. There is no gentler way to put it than that you pound the shit out of tofu. And polenta. And things that don't have eyes or souls. I applaud your stance, but need to let you know you will be missing out AND SORELY on Momma's ... never mind. Can't think of anything deliciously meaty that I make. So go on with your feed-it-don't-eat-it self.

You figured out how to open the cabinet safety locks. We have already completed your application for early admission to MIT. Stinker.

Mom recently took you to the library's "Fun for One" story time. Apparently it was harrowing. She was unaware that there would be sing-alongs and dancing and sent frantic messages to me as those activities began. And you were no help, what with your lack of joining the karaoke par-tay. My two shrinking violets. I asked her for details afterward, but the experience was too traumatic, and all she was able to get out was, "repressed memory." I guess  I'll be taking you from now on.

You met Santa; it went as well as could be expected. We passed you off to the man in red and then captured a picture of what I refer to as "panicking baby hippo teeth." You recreate this face whenever a running vacuum cleaner is present. I may or may not prey upon this, your only weakness.

A couple of days ago the three of us were on the couch. While I leaned over to hug mom, you ripped my pants down, planted a huge, slobbery raspberry on my bare butt, then clapped for yourself, proud of such a feat. I imagine that someday this will mortify you. Until then, well played, son.

Upon moving in here, Mom and I decided to hang our degrees in your nursery. Partially to instill the value of education in you early, but mostly to remind ourselves that we're smart enough to do this. Omitting the fact, of course, that you are smarter than the two of us put together. And parenting you is an education neither of us expected.

You've taught us to slow down and laugh, especially when we want to cry. You've taught us to trust each other and you. You've taught us to celebrate exploration and discovery, even if that means the contents of the cupboards are never in the cupboards, and surprises (usually chewed food) await us in our slippers. You've taught us that sleep is overrated. You've taught us that expectations are silly because your only option is to blow our minds. You've taught us that there is a difference between an oatmeal bath and an Apples & Cinnamon oatmeal bath. You've taught us that "no" really means "Go ahead and keep doing that. Over and over again." You've taught us selflessness. You've taught us that there's no missing like missing you. And no loving like loving you. You've taught us that there is nothing better than being greeted by one of your hugs, your smiles, your sweet, sweet kisses, and being loved by you.

Long story short, we love you.

Love,
Momma (& Mom)