Dear Merritt,

Recently, just the two of us were in the car and we were jamming. Hard. Indigo Girls' "Perfect World" was playing. While it's possible that you've heard the song enough times to actually know the words, it seemed more likely that you were just jabbering along through the chorus. But you were doing it with closed eyes and all your heart. My little almost 23-month old, swaying in the rearview mirror, singing about learning to live another way so we can have one perfect world.

I guess it's not completely beyond the realm of possibility that you were singing the actual words. You've taken to calling all automobiles "uffle." It's essentially the only word in your ever growing vocabulary that we can't understand. When you say it, specifically when you repeat it over and over, I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream where we're playing "Mad Gab" and every card says "uffle" and I'll never be able to win. To make peace with this, I've determined that you've come to the conclusion that oil dependency is "uffle"/awful. And you speak your mind about it. Just not when you're strapped into your car seat in your own oil-dependent-mobile, singing about an obligation to change humanity.

But seriously, your existence has already forever altered the universe. Mine.

A few days ago you were snuggled in my lap and I asked, "Who does Momma love?" I expected your answer to be "me" or for you to point to yourself or flash that knowing grin. I am the one, after all, who bought you Cookie Monster slippers, and when you decided those were the "shoes" you wanted to wear grocery shopping, I didn't impede your style. I'm the one who will play "dried beans" with you for hours on end (somehow, it's far more exciting than it sounds). I'm the one who accidentally stole a circus tent from IKEA for you. I must love you. But you answered immediately and without hesitation, "Mommy." And we were shocked. Then Mommy asked, "And who does Mommy love?" And you said, "Momma." So, naturally, our hearts detonated.

Merritt, I worry all the time if I'm doing this right. All. The. Time. But with that answer, you affirmed to me that we're doing an adequate job at the most important thing: loving well. And everything else will be okay as a result. You barely gave our hearts time to mend from the explosion when you started saying "luh loo" (love you). We "luh loo," too. And we may never recover.

But I don't have time to think about that, what with the potty training we've begun. I have nothing to report on the subject except that you can become naked in record time while shouting something that starts off sounding like "potty" and ends in hysteria (the good kind). And then lots of nudity, and sitting down on the potty, then standing up, spinning around, and readjusting, followed by unholy amounts of unclipping the deflector shield. You have yet to pee in the potty; I, on the other hand, have eaten an entire 56 oz bag of M&Ms.

Your current favorite show next to Sesame Street is Super Why! When you request to watch an episode, you are giving us a preview of the future and don't even realize it. You repeat "Why!" 6,000 times, but we pretend to hear "Why?" And then we answer wholeheartedly. You could learn a lot in those instances if you'd stop demanding a show and just listen because We. Break It. Down. But hearing you shout, "Hooray!" is kind of amazing, too. It's like your version of breaking it down for us. So, thanks.

I guess it's a good thing that you're so charming. That you like to wear my gaudy sunglasses and let me call you "Miss Hollywood." That you turn your head at eighteen angles to gaze and smile at Mommy from each of them. That you just woke up from a nap and are yelling, "Momma? Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock," over the monitor. That you pretend my guitar capo is a nail trimmer and give yourself full pedicures with it. That you put everything on your head and then announce, "hat." That you cross your fingers and just hold them that way. That you say "hi" to all living things, and some inanimate ones. That you jump all around the living room and when we look at you like you're crazy, you matter-of-factly exclaim, "rabbit." Like, duh.

Your charm has saved you.

It saves you when you dump six pounds of dog food into a one-cup bowl. It saves you when you've done something bad and you march to time-out with your arms crossed, and a minute later come out to say "sah-ee" (sorry). It saves you when you hit, claw, bite, kick. It saves you when you make me cry in public. It saves you when your answer to every question or request is a flat "NO." It saves you when nothing else can. When we don't know what else to do, but stringing you up by your toes or throwing you out a window or mailing you to a Nigerian prince aren't options because you're so damn charming and, really, we kind of live for it.

A couple of weeks ago, we loaded you into a glass elevator at OMSI and then we pushed the button and awaited your reaction. The doors closed, and you stood looking out the window, unaware that it would soon feel like the ground was disappearing from beneath you. When it happened, your bottom hit the floor so fast. It was your way of bracing for impact ... after impact. And everyone in the elevator laughed. We couldn't help it; you were adorable. But our laughter was immediately followed by scooping you up to tell you everything was okay.

We know we won't always be able to protect you, though we'll want to. We know that at some point it's going to feel like the rug was ripped out from under you, and it won't be our place to put it back. What we need you to know is that we will help you brace for impact for as long as you'll let us. We'll allow you--even encourage you--to learn on your own. And we'll laugh only when it's appropriate. Most of the time.

Love,
Momma & Mommy