Dear Merritt,

We don't understand how you are suddenly two & three-quarters. We wish you could help us process this. But if you were in possession of that skill, perhaps you'd also understand that those shelled reptiles to which you so often refer are "turtles," not "journals." And that the past tense of "forget" is not "gotfor."

The rest of your English is almost impeccable. Lately, when we ask you questions, your response is a pleasant, "'course!" Right. [Of] course it is.

We took advantage of a beautiful day a couple of weeks ago and headed into the backyard for a dinosaur hunt. You loaded up your backpack with all the necessities for such an event (flashlight, sunglasses, Carlos the babydoll, and some books), and we set out to find the brachiosaurus, stegosaurus, and microraptor that I learned were seeking refuge in our yard. Merritt, they were pieces of paper I cut out and taped in various locations, but I swear, the only thing that might have made you happier would have been finding actual dinosaur bones out there. Probably not even that because, uh, bones. Calcium, phosphate, some other really old minerals. Meh. But crudely cut, color-printed paper dinosaurs?!? GET ME MY FLASHLIGHT.

While putting you to bed one night, we were naming off all of the people who love you. Once you got through immediate family and then all the pets and grandparents, you branched out into aunt and uncle territory. And your new favorite game was born: "Uncle." Formerly, "Putting Off Bedtime For Twenty Minutes By Being Adorable And Having Lots Of Stuff In Your Room." You named off an Uncle and I confirmed that he loved you and I asked who else loves you and you looked around the room and said, "Uncle ... Bird! Uncle ... Robot! Uncle ... Pillow!" It's like a really forward and uncle-y version of "I Spy," and we've played it a thousand times since. You especially love it on the road. "Uncle ... Gas Station!"

You count down with a flourish. You say "awwww" at just the right moments in movies indicating that you sympathize with the best of them. You snap five-year-old umbrellas in half the day after I find a lifetime warranty on them (for regular wear and tear). Your dreams now include becoming an astronaut ANNNND a literal fan, like, motor, blades, power to move air. You are the best.

Recently, you've been telling us stories that begin, "When I was a little boy..." As if we require the reminder that time, and the way it gets away from us, is an enigma. So instead of trying to stop it, we're just marinating in all that is you. Complying with your demands that the three of us all wear hats or sunglasses or get naked right this minute. Listening as you whisper-yell our names at bedtime, and then coming into your room to find you in your old "Sampa" hat, as you explain, "I'm big enough! I have all the toodles! All the toodles! Because I'm a robot!" And then watching you randomly press invisible buttons on your stomach as you say, "Beep. Boop. Bop."

Yep. Just letting you permeate. Because even if your "When I was a little boy" stories seem set in the future right now, we know that someday they won't be, and we hope that you'll be able to tell the one about how when you were a little boy you had two mommies who loved and worshipped and couldn't get enough of you. We do and do and can't. And we always will and will and won't.

(mid-sneeze.)

Love,
Momma & Mommy