Memo to Eli.

E, let's have a heart-to-heart here. Important stuff first: I love you like crazy, little boy. Even when you empty your yogurt raisins all over your carseat and then sit on them for 20 minutes so they melt everywhere and then Mommy doesn't realize it and gets yogurt goo all over her arm when she picks you up.... Even then. Your dimple makes me swoon and your daddy and I can't help but chuckle over the silly diaper waddle you've got going on.

But see, the whole point of this heart-to-heart is that, well, frankly... I'm going to have a heart attack if you keep going the way you're going. I strain to find the balance between Psycho Safety Mom (Daddy won't let me envelope you in bubble wrap) and Responsible Aware Mom (those outlet covers are NOT for you to eat, son!) Yet somehow, you keep bypassing all my precautionary measures.

For example, we kind of need things to sit on in the house. Eventually, though, we're going to have to remove all the chairs because you keep using them to climb atop things that really aren't Eli zones. That means the dining room table (I know it's funner to throw the dog food from there, but it's still a no.) And the kitchen counters. And the computer desk.

I'd also appreciate it if you could be LOUDER. See, your brother has one volume, and that's ear-splitting. I dig your sneakiness (and even envy it sometimes), but save it for a life of spy excitement later on, okay? Because I'm holding my breath for the day when your antics escalate from locking yourself in the closet with my guitar and a Sippy Cup to attempting acrobatic feats off the roof.

I ask this on behalf of my heart. We're cool, right?