Mom is having her coffee and watching Live with Kelly right now, so I figured it would be a good time for me to give an update. She seems to not like being messed with while she’s drinking her coffee…or her wine…or anytime, really. So here goes.

We had a rough couple of days earlier this week that were brought on by a rough couple of nights. Mom and Dad didn’t catch on to the fact that with all these bubbles inside of me, I might not like lying flat on my back in that cage all night long. I mean, hello? Two graduate degrees between them and this was a news flash? Mom got on the internet, which, second to those books she’s always reading, is her go-to solution. I heard her mutter, “YES! That’s it!” and call Dad to tell him about some magical chair. When he got home from work later (but not soon enough, according to Mom), he was carrying a big box that they opened together. A few minutes later, I had my own recliner. It still sits in the cage they call my crib, but it lets me sleep at an incline that makes it easier for me to push out the bubbles. Now, instead of dissolving into tears or frustration when the bubbles come out, Mom laughs and Dad says, “That’s my boy!” And I’ve slept a lot better since. They don’t seem to realize that a lot of the things that irritate them could be fixed if they would just use their heads. I can tell already that I have a lot to teach them.

Those rough couple of nights, when I would have to cry because–hello again–I haven’t learned to talk yet, Mom would come into my room all tearful and upset and say things like, “You just ate two hours ago! Why is this happening?” Which is funny, because she always seems to be stuffing her face and you don’t see me keeping track of how often she eats! It’s not like I’m asking her to cook up a full meal like she does for Dad, either. All she has to do is pop that shirt open and sit there while I do all the work. I mean, really. And after I ate and she burped me for, like, a minute, she put me down in that flat cage and how could I help it if the bubbles started up again and I had to cry? I heard her over in their room–she told Dad something like, “I can’t look at him right now. You go.” Well, Mom, you don’t look so hot at 4 in the morning either. Just saying. And how about a breath mint every once in awhile?

But we’re doing a lot better now. Mom is closing her eyes a lot more–not just in frustration at my feeding schedule–and saying words to God, and that seems to help. She also likes to get on that internet and play videos of someone named Stefon on a show called Saturday Night Live–he really makes her laugh. And she and Dad make each other laugh too. The other morning, he called to check in (he does that a lot–he must be worried that she’ll do something crazy), and they told each other some jokes about how no one knows what their going through except other parents and POWs. Um, dramatic much? But I guess the important thing is that they really like each other, which works out great for me because between the two of them, they may have just enough brain power to keep me alive.

Okay, I have to go now. I feel a bubble coming on, and I’m hungry–and it will take a few minutes to pull Mom away from her show. Plus, now that we’re on better terms, I really like hanging out with her while I eat: she smiles a lot right up in my face, and calls me the best little boy in the world.

Damn right.