The kid in a bubble

I was about to write on how the baby has six teeth coming through, which makes me long for a glass of wine at nine am and have wet dreams of going back to work.

He follows me around whining, and when I am doing anything besides looking directly at him, he gets behind me and smacks my butt (like right now, I'm trying to finish this sentence standing up and having my butt smacked by a fussy creature).

Come to think of it, husband and baby are a LOT alike.

Then I read about the shootings in Connecticut and now I am deciding to home school. I sit on the floor with the baby as we share a string cheese, which I can't feed him fast enough, before I get smacked on the leg, and decide we will not go to malls or movie theaters anymore, for that matter. We are not flying either. We are staying in a bubble until he is old and I'm dead.