The next thing I know it's five in the morning and baby Bigfoot is crying at the gate in his room, demanding release. I turn to Milk Man and whisper, "I'll be your best friend forever if you get up this time and get him a sippy cup." Grumbling, he acquiesces. I sleep for another hour with a smile pasted on my face. When I get up, the baby is in the pack n play watching "Morning Joe with Joe Scarborough" on MSNBC with his older brother, who is on the couch eating cookies. Good job, Milk Man. I try to duck behind the kitchen wall, but big brother sees me.
"Mommy, John McCain really took a bath last week, but he still has my vote," he announces. Groggy and confused, I suspect that I might be still asleep. I glance at the kitchen table. Abe Lincoln and a beaver are not sitting there, so I must be really awake. Milk Man comes in holding the baby. He passes him off to me. "Honey, I think his diaper has to be changed. He really smells." I stand there, staring. I put my hand behind my back and start scratching. "What are you doing?" Milk Man asks. "I'm trying to erase the sign that says: "Official POOP CHANGER. Why do I always have to change him? You know where the diapers are." He carries baby Bigfoot upstairs, grumbling again. This time he's audible. He's wishing he were back at work where life is easier. I smile to myself, secretly enjoying his realization, wondering exactly when

--Milk Man and I during a moment of marital bliss, (Fall, 2008).
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