Michael J. Fox's motto in life is, "Acceptance is the key to everything". Remind me to stencil that over the crib.

Mom came to visit this weekend and let me tell you, having family around was great. It was like having our very own House Elf! Dishes got washed! Food got made! Best of all, at 6:30 every morning, baby got handed off to grandma so mom and pop could get some sleep. Not that grandma seemed to mind; those early morning hours are when Will busts out the Hardcore Cutes. It must be some sort of survival instinct, blinding parents with adorableness when they're at their bleariest.

Will's sleep is what it is. Definitely getting better (Longer stretches! Occasionally sleeping separately!) but teething seriously sucks. He gums everything within reach (everything except a teething ring, natch) and drools like _____ (insert funny drooling thing here). Of course the whole Cry It Out thing now seems even more fraught. Sleep training is hard enough, but sleep training while teething seems cruel and unusual. The last few nights have been particularly rough - waking up every hour, crying in his sleep... He's got two little bumps where his bottom two teeth should be. Hopefully they'll be coming in soon and put an end to his pain. My pain, however... (Two words: tits and teeth.) I've already had several talks with Will about his new favorite breastfeeding technique, which involves a sharp turning of the head whenever something requires looking-at. Unfortunately he doesn't yet grasp the concept that my breasts doesn't necessarily move along with him. I know some gals go for that sort of thing but my nipples DON'T STRETCH.

Speaking of stretching, money's gonna be even tighter now that Will's officially been accepted to pre-pre-school. Yep, our 3-month-old snagged himself the last spot in a class that doesn't start for a year and a half and we couldn't be happier. And by "happier" I mean "I can't believe we've stooped to this". We're just waiting to hear about our financial aid package - vital, considering the tuition. Back when I was nannying, I witnessed the absurdity of New York's pre-school process first hand. Applications for the coveted 92nd Street Y (you know you're in Manhattan when a YMCA can be prestigious) were only given out one day a year, and only over the phone. People would actually take off work to call. The application wasn't much different than the ones I filled out for college: letters of recommendation, interviews... essays were required. (Seriously. Seriously.) I spoke to mothers who actually hired tutors to prep their children. For pre-school.

Granted, some of the schools I saw with this kid were pretty spectacular. My favorite was housed in a tony Upper East Side townhouse. A large marble staircase led to a wall of French doors which opened to the school's organic herb garden. The school smelled delicious (due to the fresh bread the children baked every day) and the walls of the lobby were lined with second graders' watercolors - of the Hindu god Ganesh. Considering that the cost of an NYC pre-school is roughly that of an Ivy League college, a fresh muffin on arrival is least a parent should expect, I guess.