The last time I saw Lucy today, she was lying face down, bare-assed and screaming on the bathroom floor. She and Jason were in a panty/pull-up conflict. Pull-up? NOOOOOOO, I WANNA WEAR PANTIES. Okay, panties? NOOOO, I WANNA WEAR A PULL-UP. Okay, let's get that pull-up on. (Note: "pull-ups" are misleading. Once a child is actually coordinated enough to get the pull-up...up by him/herself, the kid should not be soiling him/herself.) I attempted to kiss the pants-less beast goodbye ("NOOOOOO!"), then said to Jason, "Hey man, I'm getting off this crazy train. Vaya con dios."
And that, sadly, is the last I saw of her until about 9 tonight, when I came home from work and peeked in on her as she slept. She stirred in the sliver of light from the hall, poking up her diapered (yes!) butt, then rolling over to peer at me sleepily. "Goodnight, mama," she said, turning back over with her thumb in her mouth. It's funny how quickly I shift gears: is she lucky to be alive, or are we lucky to have her?