I drew the early morning work shift today, which is fine with me. Since AJ first got up and plunged headfirst through our bedroom door like an Olympic gymnast at 6:15 a.m., he has been speaking every word in a combination of his two most annoying speech patterns: incessant whining, and the beginning of every word with the letter �M.� This obsession with the letter M seems to stem from his love of the word �Mommy,� so I suppose I should be flattered. And often I find this pseudo-language quite funny. But since it started before I was even out of bed, let alone before I�d had coffee, I�m finding it like fingernails on a chalkboard. �Mommy, mhere�s my milk?� �Mommy, MAY MITH ME!� It is nice to be able to escape for a couple of hours, by the end of which, hopefully, I will have regained my sense of humor.

It seems to me that small children all go through a period of behavior that in adults would be termed severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. Any alterations in perceived routine are met not with wide-eyed wonder but with abject terror. Apparently the world will come to an end if, after pulling the plug in the nightly bath, I fail to give my hand a water-shedding shake over the tub. Really. I had no idea that I even did this until one night I apparently didn�t and AJ burst into tears so hysterical that it was a full five minutes before he could even tell me what the problem was. Now every night after I�ve removed him, dripping, from his bath, he reminds me in a panic, �Mommy! Shake! Your! Hand!�

Is it because the world suddenly seems so large, so out of control? Are these small actions incantations, spells to retain order, to declare a sense of place and ownership of a world that often acts as if you are invisible or absent?

But the kicker is that sometimes the gestures don�t matter at all. Yesterday AJ�s favorite stuffed rabbit meet with a small accident when AJ didn�t make it to the potty in time. Flopsy needed a serious bath, and at bedtime, she was still reclining on the drying rack in the laundry room. When I put AJ to bed, he took one look at the army of toys piled next to his pillow and said suspiciously, �Somebody�s missing.� I was prepared for a disaster, but AJ merely blew a kiss in the air to Flopsy, snuggled under the covers and began to snore.

Mostly, though, we count. We count the stairs as we go up and down. We count the tiles across the kitchen floor. We count the pieces of mail we collect from the mailbox each day. We count bites of banana at breakfast. We count to five before getting off the potty (this rule was actually established by me after a couple of attempts at escapes in medias res but has been thoroughly embraced). Sometimes AJ pretends he can�t count, testing a rearrangement of the universe: �1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Is that how we do it, Mommy,� he asks cocking his head to one side with a big grin on his face as we both look at each other, and shake our heads vigorously, �NOOOOO!!� He repeats the exercise with the wrongs righted. The universe is right-side up again. God�s in his heaven and all�s right with the world.

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