Dear Merritt,

At some point I'm supposed to stop counting your age by months. This is not that month. Eighteen months sounds "fewer" harsh than the fact that my baby boy is a whole one plus a half. And every day after today you're closer to two than to one.

I guess that means you're also closer to saying "why?" all the time instead of your current go-to: repeating shouting several versions of Momma/Mah/Mommeeeee over and over. Where did you even learn Mommy? I didn't think I'd like it, and as it turns out, I don't: I love it. So keep it up. And if you'd like to stave off the "why?" stage, you're welcome to stay right where you are, with the occasional interjection of the "EYE!" stage, where you cluck your tongue while sticking your finger in a maternal eye, all while proudly identifying it. Eye! Eye. Eye? EYE!

Baseball season started. And while we've forced none of it on you (except your undying allegiance to a couple of teams), it's delightful to watch you toddle into a room and suddenly be captivated by the game on the screen. You proclaim "BAH!," because you're suddenly too lazy to pronounce the Ls in "ball" and then you crawl into a lap and watch, mesmerized, regularly pointing to the players—and more likely—the ball, while repeating that word over and over. And over.

Yes, Merritt.  I just told the same story about you twice, only switching "BAH!" for "EYE!" Sorry, Bud. These are the days of our lives. Also, I'd be impressed if the next time you give me a scleral abrasion (true story), you utter "EYEBAH!"

In a totally related note, ask me about that one time I chipped a tooth making you this adorable shirt:

Mom helped. Not with the tooth-chipping, but with the embroidery-stitching.

A couple of nights ago, I gave you your first dollop of ketchup. I was weak and desperate for you to eat, and as a condiment lover myself, I thought it might do the trick. You took a tiny dip of it, sucked it off your fake chicken patty, and then grabbed your spoon and ate the rest straight. No chaser. Then you demanded more, followed by the sweetest signed "please." And that's where you got shut down. There are a lot of things I hope I've genetically passed onto you. Eating condiments with a spoon (specifically nacho cheese, tartar sauce, homemade ranch dressing, and ketchup) and shitty lungs are two that I hope somehow got trumped by nature.

In other news, your favorite thing to do at the end of a meal is balance any remaining food on your head. It's hard not to smile when we look at you and you're wearing a proud grin and the last three bites of a granola bar on your crown. It's a little more mystifying when you balance the remains of your yogurt or cereal milk, sans bowl.

Which leads us to the bath. Where, in another moment of (this time we'll call it) CREATIVITY this week, I gave you a tampon (useless to us given that you'd already unwrapped it) with which to play. And so tampons remain your favorite toy of all time. Wrapped, unwrapped, matters not. As long as they're unused, you're game.

Perhaps it is this kind of parenting, the tamponing, the ketchuping, the sure!-let's-destroy-the-house-in-the-name-of-fun style that leaves you wired and wanting more especially when it comes to nap time. You've taken to almost whispering "nigh-nigh" when a sleeping time approaches. And we're suckers, so we believe you. We believe that your sweet little voice and tired eyes mean you're going to crash so hard as soon as your head hits the pillow. Did I mention we're suckers? We've been told you're essentially the valedictorian of nap-taking, though we've yet to witness such. Recently, we put you down around nap time and listened to you (over the monitor) talk to your nursery for almost an hour before finally jabbering yourself to sleep. So the next day, I waited almost an hour past nap time before I put you down. Logically, this meant you'd go right to sleep. Merrittly, this meant that for another hour, we were treated to you singing to your curtains and doing something with your floor lamp (without a video monitor it's hard to say exactly what it is you do, all we know is that it's loud ... and probably dangerous). And then you didn't fall asleep.

So we cut our losses, gave up on the nap, and then Mom taught you how to embody "Gob" Bluth by pretending to shoot fire out of your hands. If you're reading this years from now and you have no idea who "Gob" Bluth is, we have failed you entirely. And not just because you laughed so hard in that moment that you dropped your frozen banana. And not just because you would never understand what I mean when I ask you "But where did the lighter fluid come from?" But because we base our success as parents on whether or not you'll—at any given point—be able to name your constantly rotating top ten favorite Arrested Development episodes.

I dare you to show me something cuter than you shooting fire (nothingness) out of your hands.

What's that? You want to watch Blue's Clues? And you're twirling about the room and squealing because you're just ready to sit down in your thinking chair and think ... think ... think?

CUTE. OVERLOAD. The fact that you spend more than half an episode with your little fists clenched in thinking mode ... oh, Merritt. There aren't words. So why am I writing you?

Harumph.

Lately, you spend a lot of time looking at yourself in the mirror. You make faces and watch the way your lips move when you make kissing sounds. You watch your eyebrows furrow. Sometimes you watch real tears fall after you've thrown a fit. Sometimes you lose focus on the mirror and instead work to form your hand into the "I love you" sign, which usually turns out looking like the "okay" sign. We can't blame you for being enamored with yourself. We are. And we will always watch you, the way you watch yourself in the mirror, with wonder and awe, and sometimes the slightest loss of focus. But that's only because you always find a way to bring tears to our eyes and it's hard to see clearly through those. 

You are so well loved, 'Boose. So well worshipped.

Love,

Momma (& Mom)