Dear Merritt,

This month you earned your "Merritt" badge in Penis. Unbeknownst to us, there were many requirements involved (beyond merely possessing a penis) and you achieved each and every one of them. I'm designing your patch now.

Most of our art projects, no matter how large and extravagantly they begin, usually end with me--at your request--just tracing your hand over and over again. And such was the case a few weeks ago. Until you decided you wanted me to trace your penis. Oh, did I not mention you were doing art while naked from the waist down? Anyhow, I obliged you.

Several times.

Then you laid across the table and asked me to trace your tummy, but managed to get a little bonus penis action in there, too. Which thrilled you. Then you asked to trace on your own. This indulgence resulted in you, I shart you not, tracing a heart around your penis.

Both resplendent and accidental.

Every time you finish using the bathroom, we tell you to tap & jiggle for obvious reasons. Except they aren't obvious to you. So instead of actually following through with those motions, you just mutter "taptaptapjigglejigglejiggle" as you stand statue-still. Then you slam the toilet seat down (another issue that I'm not quite sure how to explain because when I mentioned that you could break your penis by doing that, you casually remarked, "I can get a new one"), and pull your pants and underwear up at the same time into one magnificent wad.

And 'tis the season to be, well, to be frank. And erect. And we're just taking this one easy. So when you exclaim, "MY PENIS IS SO BIG," we nod in agreement. And when you rip off your underwear to free the raging thing, we can't blame you. You inspect it and talk about it, and because it's totally normal, we treat it that way. Which is probably why during one of these recent episodes when we asked how it got so big, you answered with, "By eating. And napping. And going to school." Exactly. The same way you got so big.

But you're not creating phallic art and shopping at the New Penis Store and personifying your penis around the clock. If that was the case then you wouldn't find time to create 200 new songs a day, all to the tune of the ABCs. Or to wake up from dreams and shout, "rainbow dash!" (which, as it turns out, is actually Rainbow Dash, a pegasus pony from the three minutes of "My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic" we managed to watch that one time). Or constantly look through your pretend "'noculars," or for your "'monica" (as in HARmonica - that thing is always missing).

In fact, you've found time for a lot recently. Ever since I dug out my old lifeguarding watch, sewed a mini wristband for it, and wrote the word "FUN" across the long-dead screen. We were at the grocery store the other day and you looked at your watch and then announced, "It's shopping time!" The same has happened when the mood has struck for "cheese and fruit time!" and "watching a show time!" You're always available to observe the situation, check your wrist, and announce the time.

Unless you're performing a magic trick; that takes all your attention. You usually throw a dish towel over an object, yell "FOCUS-FOCUS!" and then snatch the dish towel and object away, impressing us all. And then you do it eight more times.

Teaching you to play "Go Fish" was about as successful as explaining to you that saying "last night" isn't a blanket statement for anything that occurred in the past or that your name isn't spelled "M-E-R-T." And by "about as successful, " I mean "mostly." I broke down the rules and disclosed that the goal of the game is to make matches, and you exercised your "understanding" with this polite little gem: "Can I please have one of your cards?" As if any one of them would do.

You often come out of a deep thought with a simple and profound statement. Two weeks ago, you broke several minutes of road-trip silence by telling your grandmother, Née, "My mommies are married." Perhaps you were remembering how you held our rings in your pocket, our tiny, lone witness, almost a year ago now. Or maybe you were thinking about something completely unrelated, but felt the need to have your voice heard and decided to go with that--something we'd never heard you utter--instead of reciting from memory Never Pat A Bear: A Book About Signs, a daily read in our house.

You remain a sweet and sensitive little boy. You handled learning what a "cankle" is with more poise and grace than I could ever muster. You are more than willing to talk (raise your voice) about your emotions, regularly mentioning (yelling), "that makes my feelings sad/happy/mad." You'll stroll through a room or look up from a puzzle and aim a "PSSsssstttt - I love you" at one or the other of us. Why? Because you can. And you do.

"Thousand-sixty, Momma!" At first I had no clue what song you were requesting, but after racking my brain over all the songs to which we listen that include numbers, I made my best guess and played "Seasons of Love" from "Rent." Apparently, "thousand-sixty" translates to "five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes" in Merritt-speak. And you sing your heart out. When they wail over the lyrics "how about loooooooooooooooooooove," you open your mouth so wide to sing that you usually end up yawning. I have three-minute videos where your face is gaping for the duration. While this month may have been measured in penis, this (almost year) has definitely been measured in love.

Last night, after books and laughter and lights-out, you rolled over to kiss me and wrapped your arms around my neck. Then you whispered in my ear, "You saved my life." In that moment, as I tried to catch my breath and process what had just happened and figure out how to tell you that no, YOU saved mine, you nuzzled in even closer and in the most hushed of hushed tones said, "It's from The Lorax." And my laughter was heard in other galaxies.

You are the best thing.

Love, 

Momma & Mommy