Young Yeller

This week Frances has been working hard on a new set of bottom molars. The matching top pair debuted about six weeks ago. Once these two finally show they’ll be number eleven and twelve, officially putting us past the half-way mark (babies get only twenty teeth, who knew). 

Even though teething dread is right up there with labour dread, colic dread, sleeplessness dread and tantrum dread, so far it’s been a notch or so above barely noticeable (lucky stars were thanked in the writing of this post). She has been so good about it (compared to the tears, interrupted sleep and gnawed frozen bagel mountain I was expecting) that it often takes me a bit to realize that new teeth are on their way. Then, of course, I feel awful.

She gets a tad more impatient and a tad and a half more yelly (as in “yell, hold me” and “yell, here this toy is for you”, “yell-yell, I SAID this toy is for you”). That's it. A quick gum check sets my oh god could this be the terrible-twos early mind at ease and ushers in an extra dose of cuddling (on the double) for the brave little molar grower.