Dear Merritt,

When last I wrote, you were a mere 33 months old. Not yet potty-trained. You hadn't seen Mount St. Helens up close. You did not know the primary colors or the first three presidents of the United States or the proper name for your pointer fingers. You had a full head of hair.

But now, at 34 months, that has all changed.

One of your current favorite activities is to declare what shape the bubbles from your urine have formed in the toilet. It's like cloud gazing, except not whimsical. You most often claim to see a giraffe, though once, there were five elephants. It was a forceful elimination.

Speaking of. Early in this process, it would have been a gross understatement to say you were a bit reticent to poop on the potty. It was around the same time you learned that instead of saying "stop" or "no," it's more polite to say, "no, thank you." You wandered off one day and your silence set off the tornado sirens in my brain. I rounded a corner to see you sort of squatting in your underwear, your face a twisted portrait of concentration. You immediately started shouting, "NOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOUNOTHANKYOU!" Exactly.

Since then, your inhibitions have faded. You duked off the deck last week, an event that we handled gently, explaining that the world is not your bathroom, but YAAAAY! for! anal! output! You're back on the quest for colon health, pooping three times daily and demanding that we behold each and every piece of your excrement. Basically, you're fitting right in.

Also, Mount St. Helens: check. Though you've still not technically "seen" all of her since 1. the weather has yet to fully cooperate and 2. it would be difficult to gather up all of her pieces for your viewing pleasure.

And, yes, now you know the primary colors. Not that you're always willing to share them (though you're almost always willing to point out that the color "warrange" is not a part of them).

You were willing to repeat "Washington, Adams, Jefferson" for a day. But with the way your brain works, we won't hear it again until two years from now when you'll randomly announce that those were the first three presidents. And we'll be the ones pooping off the deck because we'll forgot we taught you that that one time.

Regarding your second digits, you learned about them, then spent the evening mulling it all over. The next day you greeted us with this gem: "Why in a dick's finger?" Index finger, baby. IN-DEX.

Oh, yeah. And you and Mommy shaved your heads together. So there was that.

You are as proud of having the same haircut as her as you are of yourself when you announce, "I just sang the Earth" (which is humming the Universal Pictures theme) or take a piece of bow-tie pasta and hold it up to your neck. This is the equivalent of pretty flipping proud.

Lately, when you choose to ignore us, you somehow get away with it by telling us things like, "My face doesn't work; it needs batteries."

And when you're gearing up to read us a book, you clear your throat over and over again as you open the book and prepare.

Sometimes when we're driving and I ask if the mountain is out, you respond with, "Mt. Hood ISN'T IN," like you're some sort of modern nature correspondent. Landforms are so last year. Valleys are the new black.

You built a train out of dining chairs recently, told me to put on the "chugging hat," and directed me to be the "'ductor." I obliged until you announced, "I want to be the chugger now!" I have a sneaking suspicion that college may be a fun time for you.

But you'll have to get better about knowing the continents before you head off to your four-year school, because even though your accuracy on pointing out the Americas is staggering, "Aprica" and "Earope" are not two of the seven main landmasses on this globe.

"I have good news and bad news," you say. "Good news? Birds. Bad news? ...uhhhhhh." These are the regular sorts of things that come out of your mouth. "At some point, you will take me to the farm." At some point?

Your most recent and awesomely-timed bit came two mornings ago at 6:16 am. You had just crawled into bed with us, and as you were getting snuggled in next to me, Mommy jumped up, shouting something about how Gilmore Girl had just--in that moment--had diarrhea in her crate. My immediate reaction was, "Are you kidding me?" And without missing a beat, you sat up, and with perfect intonation, said, "ARE YOU KIDDING US?" While it didn't take away the awfulness of the occasion, (because what can make pre-7-am-liquid-dog-shat better?) it definitely lightened the mood.

A couple of weeks ago we were driving and you mentioned that you needed a pencil for your ear. You folded down your ear and stuck your finger there, where it remained for the duration of the drive. I asked what the pencil was from and you were able to give enough clues to lead me to the movie we had watched the week before during what has become a traditional family movie night. "Meet the Robinsons" is one of your favorites, about a brilliant orphaned inventor named Lewis who is hoping to find a family. So you're sitting in your car seat, "pencil" behind your ear, just like him, and you say, "He found all the family he needs." Then you took a deep, calm breath, serenely smiled, and said, "And I got all the family I need."

Those of us who are fortunate enough to call you family outnumber and are more eccentric than the Robinsons. We are lucky beyond lucky. You made us this way. You made us this family. You keep us moving forward. 

We love you bigger than the sky.

Love,

Momma & Mommy