Let me tell you, hellzapoppin' around here now that the Nut's almost nine months old. He wants to eat everything with his hands, for one thing, which creates an ungodly mess. Cheerios everywhere. Then the third tooth starts cutting through. Then last night at 5:00 a.m.: Waaahhh! I climb over Jack and start to put on my robe. Then silence. I sit back on the edge of the bed and wait. Nothing. I take off the robe and climb back in and curl up around Jack. Mmm. Then, Waaahhh! I get up, put on the robe, and go into the Nut's room, and he's just sitting there in his crib, looking at me like, Hey, look! I figured out how to sit up in the dark! Then, of course, this morning, near the end of the aforementioned raccoon mating ritual: Waaahhh! (You've never seen a woman concentrate until she's forced to choose between an orgasm and a crying baby.) So he's really pissed off after we've let him cry for several minutes, and then we rush in to see what's going on and he's standing there at the side of his crib ready to rip his John Lennon "Imagine" mobile to shreds, but he sees us and he stops cold, and there we are all sticky and disheveled, and he looks at us like, What the hell is so important that -- Mommy, what's that stuff all over your hand?

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