Psychiatrist Karl Menninger said, “What’s done to children, they will do to society.” I think that adequately sums up this last installment in what I’ve now dubbed my “Stupid Parent Tricks” series of columns.

Two weeks ago, I wrote a multi-layered vent about parents letting their kids run wild and get away with all sorts of mayhem. Last week, I talked about concerns that “Bart,” a 10-year-old neighborhood boy, is going to end up killing someone while he zooms around the streets on a motorcycle, with his parents’ full consent.

You might recall that after darling little Bart drove through our front lawn, my husband warned him that if he saw him on the street again, he’d call the police. Because we checked, and you have to be at least 15 to drive any type of motorcycle on the street.

Well, of course, as children are inclined to do, Bart had to test us. So the ornery little monster drove slowly by our house several times last Saturday afternoon, to see if we were watching.

We were. I don’t know how it plays out in Bart’s family, but in my house, we don’t make empty threats.

The patrol car arrived within two minutes and caught Bart in the act further up the street. We couldn’t help laughing—it’s rare in this life that you get the treat of seeing justice administered. The police were there several minutes, then left.

Then we couldn’t believe what we saw—Bart saddled up again, riding off around the corner at the far end of the street. And then my head simply exploded and the rest of my family had a heck of a time mopping up the mess.

I guess I can say one thing about Bart’s parents—they’re consistent in their total disregard for the law. If we don’t see Bart’s name in the police blotter eight years from now—or sooner—I’ll be shocked.

And in this era where so many people of all ages exhibit total rebellion against the law, what kind of parent just leaves their children unsupervised at a public event? A few weeks ago, that happened while I was painting faces at a back-to-school concert at an inner-city school in Atlanta.

Before I tell you what happened, let me share a shameless plug for my face-painting and cake-decorating business. Go to www.aptedzoo.com or look up Apted Zoo Party Crew on Facebook. I’m available for birthday parties, fall festivals, you name it. I absolutely adore doing this and it’s a great little side business for my family. So, check us out. I’d love to work with you or your organization.

Just don’t do as this one father did, and show up with six kids, ranging in age from preschool to preteen, and say, “Alright, y’all have fun. See you in a couple of hours,” and then slip right out the door.

I was speechless. There were easily over a thousand people at this event and no one else seemed to notice what happened. Those kids lined up for face painting, the first one a beautiful little boy about four years old. When I finished, he stayed right there beside me for an hour as his siblings or cousins or whoever they were wandered off to other things. One of event’s directors kept moving him out of my way, but he always reappeared at my elbow. I felt so sorry for the poor little guy. Finally, one of the other kids came back for him and they melted away into the crowd.

In retrospect, I think I should’ve called the authorities then, too. I just kept thinking, who does that? Who leaves a child that small at such a big event without adult supervision? If I’d have been a predator, I could’ve easily taken him home.

I hope he made it home, though who knows how safe a place that might be.

My soul grieves over the multiple wrongs we are doing to our kids today. They need leadership, not abandonment. They need discipline, not excuses, respect, not rebellion. What we’re doing to these kids now, we’re going to reap in the future. And we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.

But then little “Bart” reminded me of a topic I didn’t even touch on. And that’s parents who openly defend their children’s illegal behavior. And as I type that sentence, all I can think of is, “Why? Why should I even have to write about this?”

My toddler had been napping for approximately ten minutes when I heard the motorcycle zipping down our street. There are quite a few motorcyclists in this neighborhood; it’s not an unusual sound to hear. It’s always annoying, mind you, particularly at nap time. Do any companies make a cycle with a quiet engine? Or would motorcyclists even buy a machine that didn’t emit an obnoxiously loud roar?

Regardless, after it bellowed by a couple of times, I looked out the window and saw that it wasn’t one of the neighborhood adults out for an afternoon ride. It was Bart, a 10-year-old who has absolutely no business flying around on city streets on a dirt bike at speeds about double the legal limit. Unfortunately for him, he chose to turn around on our front lawn just as my husband was stepping out of his car.

Donnie is a retired Army sergeant, and “Sarge” took over with his firm, no-nonsense manner. He told Bart not to ride through our grass again, and that it was illegal for a kid his age to be driving on the streets anyway. Donnie suggested that he ride his bike around his own ample yard, but Bart whined that it wasn’t big enough. Then my husband mentioned that other neighbors have complained about Bart’s zooming around on that thing. He warned the boy that if he didn’t knock it off, somebody was going to call the sheriff and let him take care of it.

So, Bart went home. Soon after, the boy’s father drove down to our end of the neighborhood. But instead of knocking on our door, to discuss the situation with Donnie, he just yelled at the other kids that his son had every right to ride on the street because he was wearing a helmet. And — cue the banjos — he made sure to give these young kids a thorough education in all current and classic profanity. I don’t think he left a single expletive out, from what I hear.

Hey, this is America. We have free speech, even for cretins vile enough to curse at little kids. And if someone loves broken bones and ER visits enough to let their extremely ADHD child drive a motorcycle around their private property, they have the right to do it. But when said parent lets his offspring drive on public streets, putting my kids, their friends, the retired folks that walk around here, and all our beloved pets at risk — yeah, they’re going to get called on it.

Because honestly, is it hard to understand that the DMV has really good reasons for not giving 10-year-olds drivers’ licenses?

I’d hate for it to take something tragic to make Bart’s parents wake up to the reality of their irresponsibility, but I wonder if anything less would do. Would a visit from the authorities be enough for a family that shows pretty blatant disregard for the law? A physician friend of mine says they call motorcycles “donor cycles” in the ER, for good reason. Does Bart have to accidentally kill someone or become a quadriplegic to make his parents understand why it’s illegal for a young boy to drive a motorcycle on the street? I sincerely hope not.

Unfortunately, irresponsible parenting seems to be something I’m encountering a lot lately. But I’m out of room before I can share about the man who brought half a dozen little kids to a public event where I was face painting, and just left them there. Maybe I’ll tell you about it next week — if I’m not too tired of venting.

Will you forgive me if I vent a little this week? Be forewarned — I sound fed-up because I am. Sometimes, somebody’s just got to say it — and I, for one, am feeling weary of dealing with the effects of other people’s poor parenting.

I shouldn’t even have to say this, but for starters — disrespect is never cute. I don’t care if your little precious is just two years old, she should never hit you, much less slap you in the face because you refused to give her candy. Deal with it immediately; don’t laugh it off. Restrain the offending hand, tell her firmly, “No! You may not hit mommy!” and put her in a time out. And for heaven’s sake, do not reward her by giving her that candy.

Speaking of disrespect, dressing your six-year-old daughter like a miniature Katy Perry isn’t cute, either. Nor is a boy wearing oversized pants with his underwear hanging out. Teach kids to respect themselves enough to dress appropriately, remembering that rarely means matching current adult trends in Hollywood.

Listen to your children’s teachers and take them seriously. Because if the teacher says that little Johnny is bullying someone, or being unruly, it’s not because she’s out to get him. She’s probably near the breaking point because the little darling makes her day so difficult, and if you dealt with him at home, maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with him in class.

And I say that from my own childhood experience. If I ever got in trouble at school, what awaited me at home was considerably worse than anything the school could dish out.

Sadly, few teachers can utilize creative discipline techniques anymore due to fear of lawsuits. One of the best teachers I ever had was named Mr. McLaughlin. If you talked during class, he sent you to the “Nose Motel.” He drew a small circle on the board and made you stand there for the remainder of the class with your nose pressed in that circle. Offenders who fell asleep in class got shot in the face with a water gun. I earned both punishments that year — but only one time each. I was too embarrassed to risk those consequences again.

When did we buy the lie that we cannot ever cause children to feel embarrassment or even shame? Who among us ever genuinely improves without the motivation of those unpleasant things? God made them feel unpleasant for a reason — so that we’d want to avoid whatever it was that made us feel that way.

If that weren’t true, why would boot camp programs and military schools be so effective in creating lasting change in troubled kids’ lives? They work because the people leading such programs aren’t afraid to make kids feel bad for doing bad things. Parents today seem to have lost understanding of the wisdom in that.

Take seriously any feedback you get from the parents of your kids’ friends, too. You can feel pretty sure that if a mom or dad finds the courage to contact you about something inappropriate that your child said or did to their child, putting those relationships at risk, chances are really good that he did it. Even if you didn’t personally witness it. Even if he denies it.

Because — in case you’re too far removed from your own childhood to remember — kids will lie to keep from getting into trouble. Yes, even the most saintly of our little angels will do this at some point, widening their cherubic round eyes, looking directly into ours and smiling while flat-out telling a whopper of a lie.

Babies are sweet, but we don’t arrive on this earth naturally altruistic and good. If you’ve ever witnessed a toddler’s tantrum, you’ve seen evidence that a selfish nature becomes part of us when we inhale our first breath of oxygen. It’s a parent’s primary job to teach a child how to overcome that selfishness and mold him into a respectful, well-behaving individual. That responsibility doesn’t fall on our neighbors, the school, the police or the jail warden.

If you are a parent, it all falls on you.

I’m fully aware of how archaic that sounds, but good conduct never became optional. If your child needs medication to help him behave, try the medication. If she needs a severe restriction of her phone time to get her homework done, don’t be afraid to take the phone away. Pull that kid out of sports or clubs if that’s what it takes. Be willing to see them cry and be miserable and uncomfortable.

More importantly, be willing to see yourself cry and feel miserable and uncomfortable when they tell you what an awful, mean parent you are. And then blow your nose and be glad, because when they say that to you, almost invariably, it means that you’re doing something right.

We’ve got to stop coddling our kids and hiding our heads in the sand when they misbehave. Sure, that’s easier in the moment, but devastating in the long run. Because if we’re creating kids that no one can stand to be around, we’re doing them no favors. We must summon the courage to use tough love and parent in a way that’s for everyone’s ultimate good.

In just five minutes, my toddler…

-Taste-tested the diaper ointment

-Sprinkled most of a cup of juice over the kitchen floor — then fell in it. Then rubbed his diapered bum across it. Then hopped up and left a trail of sticky footprints into the dining room.

-While I was distracted with cleaning the floor, he turned off the burner under the macaroni and turned up the one under the meat…and reset the timer

-Ran away with the bin of crayons and poured them onto his brother’s bed

-Scribbled on a dining room chair seat with permanent ink

-Asked for a cracker, then crushed it to oblivion between his chubby little hands, while smiling at me

ALL of that…in just five minutes.

So, that’s a little over one incident per minute. The child is awake for about 14 out of every 24 hours, or, 840 minutes.

That equals at least 840 opportunities for disaster. Every single day.

Actually, I think that figure sounds a little low compared to what it feels like we deal with on a daily basis…

God was smart to make little kids so darn cute. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to take it! LOL

Because dieting and me? We don’t get along — a fact that is blatantly obvious, is it not?

Actually, I’m afraid she’ll delete my entry because when I think about dieting, my first thought is not anywhere near “Rah, rah, rah! GO team!”

Rather, it’s more like, “Well…gotta do something. Even though I’ll hate it. Bye-bye, sweet chocolate. I’ll miss you….”

I quite remind myself of Garfield, actually, when it comes to how I feel about dieting. Because my results have been about this stellar:

I know, I know, they say don’t use the word “diet.” Call it a healthy lifestyle change, a pursuit of fitness, a new way of eating! Something positive!

And I say, you can paint it paisley, glue roses around the edge and hang a smiley face over it, but at the end of the day, it’s still a litterbox.

Just like how counting points, eating prepackaged instant food or drinking Slim-Fast are all just various ways of limiting food intake. It’s all the same painful self-sacrifice no matter how you color it (at least, that has been my experience on the dozen or so weight loss programs I’ve tried in the past.)

But…

Even a dolled-up litterbox serves a necessary purpose, and as much as I am loathe to admit it, so does eating less and exercising more in the life of a 40-something year-old who’s always been a big girl.

Especially a big girl with PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). (I appreciate that this website mentions how PCOS’ers can gain weight even while dieting and exercising…I know I have relatives who do not believe that truth and honestly seem to think that I sit around gorging on bon-bons dipped in cheesecake all day.)

The scary thing about being big with PCOS is that it potentially puts me on a fast track to diabetes and heart disease. And because I also have an unspecified autoimmune disorder that comes with its own complications, seriously — it’s time to stop playing with my health. So, this week, I decided to do something about it.

Granted, I’ve “decided to do something about it” countless times in the past. But I think I might’ve figured out a way to make weight loss doable. I’m not joining Weight Watchers for the seventh or eighth time. Nutrisystem can keep their dehydrated scrambled “egg” cups. Basically, I’m counting calories strictly Monday through Friday, exercising 5 days a week, and on the weekends, eating whatever I want but with more of an intuitive eating approach.

Why the odd-sounding combination? Well…I’ve gone through the processes described on the above-linked intuitive eating website, but through different programs. It helped a lot — I rarely ever succumb to emotional eating anymore, and never binge like I did 25 years ago. But because of PCOS, it isn’t enough. And because of my hectic lifestyle, it isn’t enough. I don’t always take the time to check in with myself constantly as you basically need to for I.E. to be successful. I’ve definitely slowed my rate of weight gain through these principles, but my body works too hard against me for it alone to be enough.

Women with PCOS usually have to follow a much lower-calorie, lower glycemic-index diet than women without the disorder who have an equal amount of weight to lose (it has to do with the endocrine imbalances, insulin resistance, and other factors associated with the disease). I think that’s why Weight Watchers never worked for me; they simply allowed me too much food to lose weight. So I have to try calorie restriction until I find a magic number that allows me to lose at least 2 pounds a week.

But trying to stick to strict calorie counting for…well, for what feels like forever…doesn’t feel very doable. I need that little break each week to look forward to something different. Plus, I’ve heard that mixing things up is a good way to keep your metabolism burning, that eating a little more a day or two a week can help keep you going. So…that is why I’m adding the intuitive eating weekends.

We’ll see how it goes. It’s an approach I’ve not tried yet and I’m hoping it’ll be a best-of-both-worlds scenario. I won’t lie — the past two days I have been HUNGRY. My stomach thinks my throat has been cut. But it does feel good to take positive steps toward getting healthier. And that is where my focus lies.

Because barring some horrible, emaciating illness, I will never be thin. It’s just not in my gene pool, PCOS or not. And I don’t even care about being skinny, or fitting into a certain size. I’m not one of those miserable fat people you see on TV, who are so consumed with self-loathing that no one wants to be around them. I live my life. I enjoy my life. I do things I love, with people I love. I even think I’m beautiful despite the weight. I’m happy, even if the world doesn’t think anyone as fat as me has a right to happiness, or deserves to love themselves like I do.

God thinks I’m lovable, and that is good enough for me.

One last thought on my reluctance to join up with Weight Loss Wednesday: in the past, announcing to the world that I was starting a diet was the equivalent of writing my own diet death certificate. There’s just something about people checking up on me, expecting results, that makes me want to quit. (Yeah, I could use a good therapist, I know…) Especially when those people are skinny-minnies who think the world is ending if they gain two pounds.

But maybe that’s why I want to jump in with WLW now…I know that we’re all in the same boat. It’s that three-strand cord Alicia was talking about. I need to go through this with people who understand the struggle but won’t press me for more than I’m ready to share. Weight is such a personal issue, even for those of us who’ve healed from some of the emotional issues attached to it.  If I want to share about it, let me…but don’t ask me about it. Does that make sense?

Well, I’ve rambled on enough and it’s time for my date with a cup of sugar-free Jello. So I’ll sign off for now. Blessings to everyone who is pursuing health, whatever that might look like for you!

Because it has been a really rough day and if I don’t think about the good things, I’m likely to lose what little remains of my ever-loving mind!

1. When he sleeps. (You know it’s been a tough one when the first thing that comes to mind is the child, unconscious!) But he’s awfully cute when he’s sleeping. Except for when he’s hogging my bed. Check out this picture, which clearly demonstrates why the lil’ pillow-moocher makes a terrible bed buddy:

By the way, that’s not crib rails behind him! That’s my headboard, and he’s stretched out sideways, embracing my pillow. I woke up over there where the remote control is lying.

2.When he’s NOT making this sound. Which, lately, hasn’t been very often. It ranks up there with nails scratching a blackboard on my personal Annoying Sounds Scale and he does it every time he doesn’t immediately get what he wants, which is pretty much all day long. It’s quite migraine-inducing as well.

3. His little feet. I love baby feet anyway, but his toes are particularly precious. And the pitter-patter of his little feet slapping the floor as he toddles around — truly, one of the cutest sounds a mom ever hears!

4. His curls. I need to trim his bangs but I can’t bear to part with those curls just yet. So he might be looking a little mullet-licious the next time you see him.

5. When he’s laughing. He thought the sound effects on Eli’s computer math program were hilarious today. You just never know what’s going to crack him up.

6. When he’s not destroying my kitchen. He loves to pull treasures out of the kitchen drawers, so I can never find things I need while cooking, such as spatulas, stirring spoons, etc. I usually find them about a week too late, stuffed behind the sofa cushions or in his bedroom. And sure, we live in an old house, but so far he’s managed to rip the drawer handle off one kitchen drawer, and totally remove the face off another drawer! I can’t tell you how nice that looks.

I always say it’s those little unrepaired white-trash accents that make a house feel like home…

7. When he wants to be a big boy like his brothers. He loves sitting in his little chair, watching movies and having snacks like the big kids.

8. When he says “may-men” after our dinnertime blessing. Then he immediately says “Da-da!” We aren’t sure why he always adds the “Da-da” at the end. Perhaps it’s his little spirit acknowledging his Heavenly Father?

9. His love of music. He adores music and dancing. He dances to everything–even the light classical music I play during our school time. That boy can bust a move!

10. When he bounces and dances with joy at the sight of me after I’ve been away an hour or two. Definitely makes all the other things worth it.

Yes, even that horrific screeching in item #2.

1. Oh gross! I thought it was a tipped over water bowl. But no, it was a puddle of clear dog vomit, the same color as the tile floor.

2. Being in a film with Kevin Costner: well THAT’s off my bucket list!

3. No, it wasn’t fun keeping up with a whiny toddler at homeschool group today.

4. My grandmother, Honey, occupied such a huge part of my heart and soul. I miss her all the time.

5. And then I thought, “I bet I feel psychotic today because I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in about two years!”

6. I can’t forget how much my grass needs cutting. But somehow, my husband always manages to. Time for the annual spring/summer relentless nagging to begin. Whee.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to hopefully spending a few hours alone, tomorrow my plans include going to writers’ group alone and Sunday, I want to continue this fine theme and spend some time all by myself!

Click here for more Friday Fill-Ins. And have a nice weekend. As for me, right now I just want to take a nap.

Ok, maybe that title contains a bit of hyperbole.

But only a bit. It’s beautiful out today, and where have I been?

Inside. Writing. Typing my poor lil’ ol’ southern fingers to the bone.

Well, except for this particular moment while I’m blogging…I reached a dead spot in an article and I’m procrastinating on fixing it.

Thankfully, I’ve been working beside an open window, so I can at least enjoy some of the delicious fresh air. But if I don’t work, I don’t get paid, and y’all — Mama needs to get paid next week.

Because back when I thought we were actually getting a tax return (before the ghost of Ebenezer Scrooge showed up out of nowhere and sucked it all down into the black abyss) I ordered Girl Scout cookies from not one, but two, precious little angels AND I told a friend of my sister’s that I’d take this really great chair off her hands for a fairly reasonable sum.

Yep, I made the stupid mistake of counting my chickens before they hatched. Again.

And that’s in addition to all the little yappy bills snapping around my ankles like a herd of jacked-up Chihuahuas: “Pay me! Grrrr! No, pay ME!”

You know, I don’t have any real desire to be uber-rich. I’d just like to live comfortably enough that something like buying Girl Scout cookies and a flippin’ chair doesn’t send me in to Worryville, hoping I can scrape together enough reserve to take care of those obligations.

I dream of a day that I can choose what I want to write, and when, and for whom, and not have to spend a gorgeous Saturday on boring “pay the bills” writing. But of course, I feel horribly guilty for complaining because heaven knows there are many people struggling much more than I, and it truly is a blessing to be able to work from home doing something I find easy and most of the time, enjoyable.

Ah, that I — that all of us — could learn to be content.

“I don’t have a sense of needing anything personally. I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I’ve found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am.” -Phil. 4:12, The Message

What broke me out of it earlier was some friends sharing some funny jokes on Facebook, and finding a site that shows text messages where Auto Correct went horribly, horribly wrong. SUPER funny stuff — I laughed til I cried! Nothing is quite so good for a crabby woman than some truly aerobic laughter.

Except maybe fine chocolate, a long vacation and a maid. But none of those are even blips on my radar tonight.

But then everyone else went to bed, and I made the mistake of walking by a TV that was left on. I  saw some stupid redneck standing on a boat, shooting at an alligator in the water, yelling something so heavily southern-accented that it couldn’t possibly have been real English, and I don’t know what happened, but that mood came back on me like a fly meeting a windshield on I-20.

I am drowning in testosterone, y’all. I love all the guys in my life. Honestly, I do. But sometimes, it’s all just a bit too much: all the burping, and farting, the constant sounds of racing engines and gunfire whenever the Xbox is on, shows like Top Gear and Ax Men and whatever that stupid thing was that I walked by earlier. The piles of dirty clothing — none of it pink or pretty, but all blue and brown and camouflage interspersed by socks and underwear dirtier than anything I could’ve ever produced.

And don’t even get me started on the damage they do to a bathroom.

I am just tired.

I’m supposed to be writing some articles for pay at the moment, and I can’t do it. I just don’t have what it takes right now. I have my son’s 13th birthday party to prepare for (also known as The 18 Hours I Welcome Four More Males Into Our Midst) and that to-do list is still a mile long. I have to get up early to bake brownies to take to our homeschool group meeting, where I get to chase Jonah (who has been impossible lately — could’ve sworn the Terrible Twos started later than this!) and only hope that I catch a few minutes of good adult conversation with the other moms.

I am so looking forward to ladies night out next week. You just can’t imagine how much!

I just wish we were going somewhere ultra-feminine, somewhere pretty, like the  little romantic tea-room my sister took me to ages ago. I need to be around pretty things, breathe in a fresh dose of perfumed, estrogen-soaked air and touch some flowers and some lace. Just be somewhere beautiful.

I know if I were to be away from my family more than a day or two, I’d miss them terribly, warts and all. But sometimes, a mama just needs a break. And perhaps I’m biased in this opinion, but I think it’s particularly true when she is the only female in the house!

10. Waiting til the last minute to tag my 100+ items for an upcoming consignment sale. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s  and hubby’s help, I wouldn’t have made the deadline. If I’d have started earlier, I could’ve tagged and sold a whole lot more stuff. Oh well—there’s always next time.

9. Volunteering to work putting out the consignment sale items in an un-air-conditioned warehouse when it’s 95 degrees out. Mis.er.a.ble. Wanna know how much I sweated? (Sure you do!)  I drank close to 2 quarts of water over that four hour work shift and didn’t have to find a bathroom. Not once. I don’t know that’s ever happened to me before.

8. And in a related item: assuming that it wouldn’t still be so stinkin’ HOT this late in September! Summer has GOT to go. I am beyond sick of the heat. It makes me grumpy. Grrrr!

7. And in yet another related item: thinking that because my family knew I was slaving away in a hot warehouse I’d come home to, at the very least, a clean kitchen and dining room. The dishes were done—the ones that made it into the kitchen, that is. Everything else was a total disaster.

6. Ignoring Eli’s announcement that Jonah had pooped yesterday afternoon. The baby had already “made me a present” earlier that day, and Zach and Eli sometimes use the dirty-diaper alert as a tactic to get out of watching their little brother while I’m busy. Since I didn’t smell anything, I assumed they were doing that. I was wrong. And my poor little stealth-pooper has had a sore red bum for two days. Bad mommy. BAD!

5. Not checking in with my friends before setting a date for Jonah’s first birthday party. Several of the families can’t make it and I’m disappointed. (insert frown)

4. Wasting a half-hour of my life watching “Kate Plus 8.” Why is that show even still on?

3. Not giving myself a pedicure when I had the time over the weekend. My feet look like they belong to the Wicked Witch of the West. Or perhaps they resemble the talons on a dehydrated hawk? (Of course if the weather weren’t still like JULY instead of late September, no one would see my feet because I wouldn’t need to wear my dumb flip-flops anymore!)

2. Letting the cloth diaper pail sit an extra day before washing. Oh wow. ‘Nuff said.

1. Not realizing my baby was teething! He’s already gotten all four incisors on the top and bottom, eight teeth total, and I thought he’d have a break before anything else came in. Tonight the poor lad was banging his head against the wall, and I looked up an article about that. Turns out that sometimes they’ll do it to help alleviate pain from teething or an ear ache. When I read that, I looked up the order that teeth come in. Turns out that the first set of molars usually come in around the first birthday! He’s been waking at night again, chewing on two fingers, drooling, nipping while nursing and yet his poor mother didn’t realize what was going on til he banged his head against the wall on purpose. Poor kid. Guess who got a dose of baby Motrin before bed tonight?

Here’s hoping I’ll be a little more “with it” next week!

For more Top Ten Tuesday lists, including Amanda’s list of fun Disney sites, click here.