Dear Simon,

You are already a month old, which is still kind of unbelievable to us since we really weren’t expecting you to make your debut for another two weeks yet. Of course, we can’t imagine it any other way.

It is truly a blessing that you were born six weeks early (still, right on time, as your dad pointed out). I have needed those “extra” weeks since I’ve already had several near-meltdowns of the “he won’t be a baby forever” variety. Indeed, you are growing so fast—you weighed a hefty five pounds at your last appointment. To others you look so little, but to your dad and me, you are simply baby size. In fact, we have met a number of brand new baby friends since your arrival (there has been an absolute baby explosion at Zion), and we just can’t get over how big they look compared to you—most of them are twice your size.

One of my overwhelming impressions of you on your birthday was that you were impossibly soft. I seem to remember asking everyone who saw you that day if they had touched you and if they noticed how soft you were (okay, I was a little loopy from the Demerol).  Your dad and I got hooked on Mythbusters while I was in the hospital (and have continued our habit now that we have cable TV at home). I keep wondering if Adam and Jamie can come up with some experiment to prove that your wee little head is indeed the softest surface known to man. Totally plausible.

You spent your first three weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit. While we are thankful for the excellent care you received and for the extra sleep (which we are completely deprived of now), I can’t even begin to tell you how hard it was to leave you each night. After your first two or three days, you no longer needed oxygen or other help breathing, so they called you a “feeder and grower,” which sounds like some kind of farmer but just meant that you needed to grow and to learn how to eat before they sent you home with us. And we are so happy to have you home (sleepless nights and all); home just didn’t feel right without the littlest Morehead.

True, your days and nights are pretty predictable: eat, sleep, poop, repeat. But even when you’re sleeping, you have a multitude of expressions, and any one of them has the capacity to bring me to my knees with its sheer cuteness. We knew from your very first day that you had a dark look—one that rivaled even Jones’s pout (not shown in this picture)—but you also have a smile that absolutely lights up my world. Your most common expression is what we think might be bored—you hold your lips completely still and shift your eyes as if you are so over whatever we might be doing as we try desperately to entertain you. Sometimes, though, you do the opposite—you wrinkle your lips into a teeny O (as if to coo) and say with your eyes that you have just heard the most wonderful news. My favorite, though, is when you pucker up: I just can’t stop myself from planting a big kiss on your lips—the kind that would make you roll your eyes and say, “Oh, Mom!” if only you could talk, which you can’t.

On that note, I love your myriad baby noises as well. Your squeaks and grunts are priceless. You’ve already nearly outgrown your goat cry, which makes me kind of sad because it was almost as cute as it was pathetic. When you sneeze, you let out three or four “Achoos” almost always followed by an exclamatory “Huuuuunh!” Oh, how I wish you would not outgrow that one. It’s ridiculously sweet.

Although it’s still a ways off, we have been talking about what you might like to be when you grow up. We think that you may have a future in the military’s special forces. We base this on your guerilla pooping skills. You patiently wait until after your diaper is changed and then promptly fill it. You do this several times a day, and you’d think by now that we’d be on to you, but we continue to fall for it.

You’ll also be well equipped for your special ops career with your rock-hard abs. You lie flat on your back and raise both feet in the air. Sometimes you work on your obliques by lying on your side and lifting your legs. I know from my work-out DVDs that these are difficult moves.

And yet another of your qualifications would be your special ability to Houdini out of your blankets. You always manage get your arms loose, no matter how tight we swaddle you. You are one strong kiddo, that’s for sure.

You are the very definition of “good baby,” as you are about as chilled out as human babies come (you must get that from your dad). You are nothing if not delightful, and your dad and I couldn’t be happier that you’ve come and turned our lives upside down.

Mama loves you, little man.