There’s this funny thing about kids. Sometimes they repeat stages you thought you were long past.   Just to screw with us. A previously secure and independent child suddenly clings to your leg, crying like a newborn with a wicked diaper rash. A baby who was nursing fine reverts to fussing wailing and gnashing their gums instead of eating. A potty-trained preschooler starts having accidents. Usually on expensive furniture.

Or, say, an almost two year old randomly starts sleeping poorly, drooling like a maniac, chewing on everything in sight, sports flaming red cheeks and pooping 18, 739 times a day.  It took me weeks to figure out what in the holy hell was going on.  And then the light bulb sparked in the dark recesses of my mind and the word “teething” dawned on me like a red, apocalyptic sun.  I had forgotten about those ominously labeled “Two Year Molars”.  Just when I thought the horrors of teething were behind us. Just when the psychological scars of sleep deprivation and hours and hours of relentless crying (by the baby, not me. mostly.) had begun to fade.  Just when I thought we were past that whole spectacular torture called teething, we seem to have won an all expense paid trip to Bone-cutting-through-flesh-in-an-excrutiatingly-slow-and-painful-manner-ville (just off the coast of So-help-me-I-will-put-this-hamburger-in-the-blender-ton). Lucky us!