Dear Merritt,

It's a shame that I haven't written in a third of a year. There's so much I could forget.

I don't want to forget the day we spun so hard in the office chair that I threw up.

Or when I heard Mommy asking if you could say, "that's what she said." I owe it to you to pinpoint the time in your life when you, like me, began desecrating the phrase (two years and two months). First, by not even saying the phrase in its entirety, just a brief "she said." Second, by using it as a non sequitur, like after you knock over a tower of blocks or build a robot. "She said." I'd see no flaw in that logic.

I don't want to forget the movement known as Unoccupy Big Boy Bed. I can't. If ever you wonder why we didn't produce you some siblings, we will undoubtedly point back to the day that you escaped your crib and prompted the transition to NEVER HAVING SIBLINGS.

I don't want to forget those few weeks when you made "Cookie Monster" a verb. "I 'Cookie Monster' it." Or the sound of your woodpecker laugh. Or how you sing the "oooooh-ooooh-oooh-oooohs" in Indigo Girls' "All That We Let In," or your "ACBs," or the "yes-sir-yes-sir" song (Baa Baa Black Sheep). I don't want to forget building your bed or erecting the Christmas tree and hearing you repeat delightedly, "I made it!" and "OH, GOODNESS!" over and over.

I don't want to forget how you count. "One, free, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, 'leven, twelve, 'leven, twelve, TIRTEEN!, fourteen, fiftween."

I don't want to forget the night that I shook some bath salts into the tub and you asked what they were and I explained and then you requested "bath pepper."

I don't want to forget the day you revolutionized the menstrual cycles in this household by peeking in the toilet (we always let you look) and renaming the phenomenon "blood potty."

I don't want to forget how you make yourself laugh, like the day you repeated, "achooblessyou" over and over again and laughed until your brain fell out of your head. That's the same kind of laughter that Cutting! With! Scissors! produces, an activity you're all too willing to participate in for hours on end, laughing and cutting. Cutting and laughing.

I don't want to forget your little voice saying, "last bite?" every time you finish a pouch ("couch") or some yogurt and want me to help get the very last bite into your mouth. Or the way you decided one day that Mommy needed nine kisses and now you two regularly engage in nine-kiss-fests, showering each other with far more than nine kisses. I don't want to forget how much you like trimming my nails. And Mommy's nails. And your nails. And your baby doll, Carlos', nails. You love a manicure.

I don't want to forget how you asked to watch "choo choo dragon movie" and it took us a minute to figure out that you were requesting "How to TRAIN Your Dragon," you genius boy.

I don't want to forget the way you love "Sampa," and the "presents tree," and the way your eyes lit up on Christmas morning. I don't want to forget how time slowed down that day: playing with cars, having tea parties, sticking your finger in cinnamon rolls, reveling.

I don't want to forget how you look when you're wearing an apron and painting at your easel. Or running around and around with Chapin. Or the way you lay your head on the ground while playing trains. I don't want to forget how you exclaimed, "IT'S SNOWING!" when you saw the white polka dots on your new curtains. Or how you chant "ready-set-go" to yourself when you need a little encouragement.

I don't want to forget the way you just announce, "I love _________." Whoever or whatever it is. In the moment. When you feel it, you say it. I love you for it.

I don't want to forget the day we were driving through a downpour and from the backseat you sweetly asked, "You enjoying the rain?" And I told you I was and I asked if you were and you replied, "Yes. Very much." I don't want to forget how alike we are.

I don't want to forget the night when we were laying in the dark stillness of your room. And out of the quiet, you asked, "Mommy okay?" And I whispered, "Mommy's okay." And then you asked, "Momma okay?" And I told you I was okay. "Merritt okay?" And I responded in kind. We went on like this for several minutes. You asking about everyone you love, me answering. A sort of benediction. A call to the universe imploring everyone to be okay.

We're all okay.

We're better than okay. Because you love us.

And we'll never forget that.

Love,

Momma (& Mommy)