Dear Merritt,

This month it's outer space. You've decided you want to go to there. That you're going to be an astronaut. And soon.

We have pored over every space book we own. We have checked out a hundred more from the library. You are a walking (floating?) outer space encyclopedia. You tell anyone who will listen, and even those who won't, about dirty snowballs (comets) and booster rockets and all the buttons on your make-believe space suit. You randomly name off the planets, always sure to note Saturn,"da earrrf," and "Nars," of "Nars Needs Moms" fame (I appreciate that you believe we'll be abducted and taken to Mars if you don't behave). You announce, "MY DREAMS ARE BIGGER THAN THE SKY!" with all of the authority in the universe.

When you're not busy breaking our hearts about launching into outer space and taking us with you, you're breaking our brains in other ways.

You sing a song about symbiotic friends and you understand exactly what you're crooning on about. Oxpeckers and hippos, man. Synergy.

I bought you a Shrek Look-and-Find book. It said ages 4 and up, but that didn't stop us. The pages are extra busy, but you seemed game to look for the specific images in them. So we scoured a few pages successfully enough and then put the book down and went on about our lives. A couple of days later, we picked the book back up, and your memory served you immediately as you pointed out all the previously scavenged images. Gauntlet: thrown. You blasted through the rest of the book like it was nothing. 

The other day, during a conversation where Mommy said something and I agreed with her, you chimed in with "Me, three!" How did you know that would work? 

I'm not convinced that if I were to spill a box of toothpicks on the floor, you wouldn't immediately be able to tell me how many there were. Or that at a dinner party with Albert Einstein, Tina Fey, Stephen Hawking, Amy Poehler, Lorelai Gilmore, Nikola Tesla, Sir Isaac Newton, and Betty White, you wouldn't be able to hold your own.

Merritt, Merritt, quite contrerrit. How does your brain muscle grow?

Can we talk crazy sciencemaths for a minute? You are as many months old as Mommy and I are years (32). This is more unique than the Hale-Bopp comet (dirty snowball).

You have a future in play-by-play commentary because you have a present in play-by-play commentary. We are never left wondering what is going on because you are always telling us. You tell us what you're doing, what we're doing, what the dogs are doing, what the characters on a show are doing, what you've previously done, what you plan to do. And when nothing is going on? You provide color commentary. You are Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy and Vin Scully all rolled into one and I want season tickets for a lifetime of your narration.

We love you so much, little boy. We love the way you make up games like "FREEDOM!" and "Don't Cross My Paw Prints" and "Garbage Truck" with their intricate and tacit rules. We love that you channel Bobcat Goldthwait when singing your ABCs. Only you can make ol' Bobcat tolerable. Adorable, even. We love you for your grumpfish face, and your "open teeth" face, and your just-woke-up face. We love that you slowly walk and then run to us after a nap, requiring no fewer than fifteen minutes of full-on snuggling, your damp head nuzzled into one or the other of our shoulders. We love you for accepting that having us around means there will always be a minimum of a two-part harmony to accompany the theme song of whatever show you've chosen to watch. We love you for being easy to love.

For being so very Merritt. We love you for being you.

We always will.
Love,
Momma & Mommy