In the words of Pat Sajak, "Another day, another ceramic dog."

I dropped Eliot off at daycare this morning, where another little boy was wearing a bright orange shirt with white lettering that read, "My parents are exhausted." No kidding. Eliot should have that shirt.

He was up a million times Wednesday night crying and crying and crying. First we thought allergies, because he was rubbing his face a lot; then we thought cold, because he had a fever; then we thought constipation; because he hadn't pooped all day; then we thought teeth, because he was chewing his fingers and drooling. That's what it's like when he can't sleep: this constant guessing game to try to identify the problem and for god's sake fix it so we can all go back to sleep already. *Whew*

Allergies? = Benadryl, Fever? = Tylenol, Constipation? = Glycerin suppository (yeah, I know. ew. You don't have tell ME.), Teeth? = More Tylenol.

Oh, you mean that still isn't working? Cause nothing's really wrong? And you just want to get up and play at 3:00 a.m.?

Okay, we'll play. At 3:00 a.m. both Momma and Daddy will get up, turn all the lights on and play blocks. No, Daddy, we will not be watching that infomercial for "Girls Gone Wild" while we play blocks.

What's that? Major League Baseball? Okay.

So the kid sat there on the couch and watched a rerun of a Cubs vs. Pirates game that stretched out into something like fifteen innings. Until 5:00 in the morning. When he decided to go back to sleep.

Next time he wakes in the wee hours of the morning and refuses to go back to sleep, we'll know that he simply wants to catch up on his baseball. Makes perfect sense.