This morning I was sitting in bed reading the paper during a brief pause in the continuous pillow fight that is my life at the moment -- the termite fight in Antz was on, which required Jackson's full concentration -- also, it was about fifteen minutes pre-earthquake so my shit hadn't been freaked out yet -- and I discovered a story about how 30 percent of the New York-Northeastern New Jersey area's 22- to 31-year-olds live with their parents. And I looked at my booger-covered dauphin and realized that you don't have to be a colorful, achieving thirtysomething to go back and get cozy with mom and dad, you can do it at two-and-a-half.

Yes, we've abandoned all crib enforcement and Jackson is sleeping with us now.

How did this happen, you may force yourself to ask out of politeness? Well, let me tell you! It was cute last summer when he finally learned to crawl out of his little wooden cage, but occasionally he'd still wake up in the night and holler for me, and I'd go into his room and pat him on the bum and he'd go back to sleep in his crib and I'd pat myself on the back for doing it by the book. Thanksgiving week, however, he was being all grown-up and toilet trained and everything so I broke the fourth wall (i.e., took off one side) and officially turned the crib into a "toddler bed." For a while he slept through until morning, but increasingly he'd show up at our bedside in the middle of the night and -- I dunno, he's just so goddamn cuddly and we all love each other so fucking much -- we'd let him stay. And then one night Jackson fell asleep in our bed when I was reading Corduroy to him and Jack said, "Screw it. He'll just be back in a couple of hours. Let him stay."

Please, God, let him be ready to move back into his own bed before the wet dreams start.