Dear Merritt,

I love you.

I love hearing you repeat “mermaid” when I’m putting your pants on you and I thread both legs through one hole. “Murr-mee.” I love mermaiding you.

I love the way you made (egg) hunting the new black for several weeks. Everything went in your basket. You could be found wandering around with eggs and pieces of tape and carpet fibers, all in your basket, because you are that apt a hunter and gatherer.

I love the look on your face when you're "building character" (as Mom puts it). Seeing the uncertainty-bordering-on-terror in your eyes as you sat on Granddad Great's lap while he navigated his way through the house on his Hovvvvvvver Roooouuunnnd and the way your little hand gripped your cousin Jackson's hand was nothing if not endearing. You had every right to be scared; the night before, Granddad ripped a door off its hinges with the weapon of mass destruction on which he rides. Character. Building.

I love that sometimes you have to do emergency somersaults. Like, everybody calm down, I just need to fold in half like a taco, sniff my belly button, and roll.

I love that you haven't quite mastered the "sneaky walk," that you're able to take about one step in sneaky mode and the rest of the steps just involve you holding your hands close to your chest and keeping those wide eyes and that impish, impish grin plastered across your face.

I love that you squat to look around corners.

I love the way you operate after a nap, like you exist in stop-motion for several minutes while the stupor wears off. But never the bed-head.

I love the way you make animal noises. The way you "baaaa" with such conviction, and hiss in a way that almost convinces me snakes are cute. Almost.

I love that I've heard you bark in your sleep.

I love that music is in you. That you sing "yo-ee-yo-ee-yo" back to me when I lead with "Old MacDonald." That you sometimes sway to songs, sometimes just gangsta-bob your head to the beat, and that you STILL (and if I'm lucky, will ALWAYS) twirl and twirl and twirl when it is absolutely necessary.

I love that before your tubes surgery, while you were completely wasted on Versed, you agreed to go streaking. And you told me a cat says, "beowshe." I love that you woke up after that surgery, that you manhandled a popsicle, and that now, on most days, you can hear the difference between "toes" and "nose" and point each out. But you are still deaf to "no," and "quit it," and "for the love of god, Merritt, please STOP before Momma has to put a kitten in the microwave."

I love that your hair is your go-to napkin/towel. It's so convenient.

I love that you are a sensitive little human who knows when to give a hug, or reach up for a hand to hold, or to lean over and randomly kiss an elbow or a thigh or an eyelash. You came into the world this way, and for the past twenty months have continued to cultivate such.

I love you so much that I'll let you eat crackers in my bed. Whenever you want. For the rest of your life.

I love the bond you share with that magical lady you started calling "Mah," then "Mom," and now "Mah-mee!" I love the way you want to find her when she's not in the room, or when you're just waking up, or when we're on our way home from an hour away from her. I love that you let her get your sugar, and that you identify her shoes, and suck on her old lollipop sticks and wear her caps, pretending to be just like that person you so adore. No, worship. I love that you worship her. I love that you watch baseball with her. I love that you made her a mother. I love that you love her.

I love you.

I love the way you attempt to tell me you love me, the way your little hand tries to sign it, the way I know that your one little finger pointing firmly at the sky means you love me, too.

Love,
Momma