Dear Merritt,

I should address this missive to Hayley Mills since we often call you by her name, and more often refer to what you're doing as "Hayley Mills-ing." If, by the time you're reading this (or just by the time you can read) you don't know of this Hayley Mills character, or her signature chin-in-both-palms-legs-crossed-at-the-ankles-in-the-air-behind-her move, then make another mark in the "Parental Failures" column. Yes, I said "another." You no longer like avocados.

You pulled a nap strike for a couple of days last week. The fact that I accidentally left a pair of sewing scissors in your room kicked it off. During round one/day one, you completed a wardrobe change, tore a bunch of pages out of library books, cut your curtains, the tags off some stuffed animals, and possibly a pillow (but not your hair!), then beckoned me with the shouted understatement, "I'm a little bit wet."

Oh, yes, you were a little bit wet.

You were soaked down one entire pant leg because your wardrobe change included removing your diaper. Also, putting on a hoodie sweatshirt backward and continually spinning around while trying to show Mommy the image that is usually on the back of the shirt. I can't even remember what round two was because it is overshadowed by round three/day two, when Mommy warned you not to leave your bed. And you didn't. But you DID pull down almost every single painting and piece of art off your wall and brought that party to the sack.

Yes, everything hanging on those walls was in the bed with you.

Hmmm. What has happened since I last wrote?

You took a spill over some handlebars and earned your first chin whiskers. Five whole stitches. I only bring it up because you still do. Nearly daily. Even though it was months ago. I don't blame you. Chin whiskers are kind of a big deal and strangers deserve to know about them.

We got another dog. We named her Gilmore. You called her "Gil." We asked if you could say "GilMORE." You repeated "Gil." We asked again if you could say "GilMORE." Slightly frustrated and maybe a little confused, you renamed her "Gil-SOME-more." We get it now.

I'm not sure you've ever met an animal you don't like.

The intensity of your cuddling and kissing has grown immensely. When you want to hold hands, you HOLD HANDS. Fingers interlocked, squeeze: engaged. When you want to kiss, you MAKE-OUT. It seems awkward to label your kisses sensual. So I won't. But you kiss from a deep and loving place. You hug from there, too. And your morning and post-nap snuggles? They were invented there.

You've become obsessed with Diego ("-ego!") and Dora and waterfalls and volcanoes and filling a backpack with odds and ends and going on "adbentures." You wander the wilderness on the search to find baby animals that need rescuing, holding your hands in a sort of diamond shape around your eyes, taking in the world around you through your makeshift telescope.

I need you to know now that according to American Sign Language, you are looking through a vagina. I just want to save you the embarrassment so that many years from now, if you find yourself leading a group of parents and their toddlers in a sign-and-sing sing-along to "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," you WON'T accidentally sing about vaginas. And then have a sign language expert from the crowd tell you about it. Not that I know anything about that. I digress.

The "Happy Birthday" song has been on repeat around here lately. We had a very unmerry birthday celebration for your second-and-a-half birthday, and while my "Half-y Birthday to you" rendition was lost on you, the half-a-cake and balloon bouquet were not. As a result, I think your age is your new favorite number. How many strawberries do you want with lunch? "Two. No, wait. Two AND A HALF." Done.

Our days are filled with Googling "shape belt" to figure out exactly what "Umizoomi" episode you're trying to describe, and dropping everything to mop the kitchen floor where your version of potty training is actually potty draining. Our days are bursting with you yelling "LOUD, PLEASE!" from the backseat when you want us to crank a song you love, and listening intently whenever you leave the room to look for something. "Don't worry," you always say, "I'll be right back." Our days are brimming with requests for snacks, and that I draw you with chalk: "draw my penis, and toes, and make my head a tiny sun." Our days are full and abundant and perfect.

A few weeks ago you woke up from a nap, crying. Mommy rescued you, soothed you, and asked if you'd had a bad dream. And then you told us, "Yeah. I'm bad at dreaming." But you aren't, little boy. And it's apparent in the way you describe sandwiches that land on rockets' noses, and how "motorcycles eat poop," and "Grandma loves to pee," and with the fervor you sing "Together Toever" (forever), and how you sometimes just stare off into the distance, that sparkle in your eyes.

We hope you will always have dreams. That you will keep them. That you will share them. That you will remember them. And that you will let us be a part of them.

Love,

Momma & Mommy