Duncan Six-teeth

Edit 2010 Jul 17: corrected spelling error. (NDS)

Last night Dane and I were cleaning up the kitchen and packing lunches in a quiet house. We were tired. So tired that as I was scraping kung pao chicken out of the wok I launched into a mini-lecture on the common themes in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and Lady Chatterly's Lover, and I didn't think this was strange. Fatigue brings out my liberal arts education. Dane, good husband that he is, nodded along, asked polite questions, and washed dishes. Tolkien and Lawrence were spinning in their respective graves. The only excuse I have to offer them is that we had been sucked back into the dark again.

A few weeks ago I wrote about our incredible relief at the sight of Tristan's first tooth. I also hinted that I expected to have an easier time with Duncan's teeth, since he is such a mellow little guy.

Ha. Well.

In the past 2.5 weeks, Duncan has gone from having zero easily visible teeth to six. Six. Tristan has kept pace (actually, he's been about one tooth ahead most of the time), but he's not the star of this post. Little Duncan Six-teeth is. Duncan Six-teeth, who didn't sleep at night for four consecutive nights. Duncan Six-teeth with whom I went to the doctor twice this weekend, and with whom I missed two days of work this week. He really, really wanted to have his own blog post.

So, let's talk about Duncan, a small boy who has six new teeth and who has suddenly learned to alternate his legs while crawling instead of hitching both knees forward with a little hop. He can wave hello -- but only if he wants to. He can pick up cheerios, but he can't chew and swallow them very well. He loves to sing in a sweet little voice in the car -- gentle songs with verses made mostly from the syllable "blep." He can give his teacher an uncertain high five and he smiles at the floor when he does it. He says, “Beh-bay. Beh-beee,” at dinner. Is it nonsense or excitement over seeing his brother?

Duncan is usually our sturdier, steadier, calmer baby. He flirts when his admirers insist -- or when doctors are examining him -- but he prefers to sit and think. Left to himself, he sits in the middle of the floor carefully examining a new toy, while his brother shoots across the room to find out if he can open the diaper pail lid (answer: unfortunately, yes). Duncan is losing his round baby cheeks and his knee-rolls a little slower than Tristan. He will crawl across the floor for the forbidden camera case, but not for a book he's seen before. He will crawl faster if he sees you holding a red drink – iced raspberry zinger is his favorite. He's remarkably fast at grabbing spoons and stealing his brother’s hat; theft completed, he’ll settle onto his chubby haunches and examine the object in question placidly.

During the Great Tooth Explosion of 2010, Duncan gave us several bad nights. It wasn’t just that he was fussy and refused to sleep. It was that the nights I spent patting his diaper butt while he whimpered and chewed my shirt last week reminded me vividly of the nights I spent awake with him back in March. By last Sunday, Dane and I were both sleep deprived and a little terrorized. We paced around wondering if we should go to the ER. The new doctor who examined Duncan Monday morning, however, wasn’t concerned. Backing out the door, obviously impatient to see kids who were actually sick, he told me that there was nothing wrong with Duncan. “He’s just messing with you. Let him cry at night.” Filled suddenly with maternal rage, I bit my tongue and didn't scream, "YOU DON’T KNOW DUNCAN!"

But if I had, I would have been right. Duncan wasn’t messing with us. His teeth were driving him crazy. He went right back to sleeping peaceful 12-hour stretches as soon as they were out. I felt vindicated, as well as relieved. There is a reason that I make Duncan wear the green “evil twin” onsie less often than his brother.

So, there you have it, little Six-teeth, spiller of iced tea, grabber of NASA badges. You don't have to cry at night. I'll hold you and do what I can to prevent it. In the morning we'll get up and play at smacking our hands on the table -- and on the toys and the cat. I'll let you chew my arm instead of Tristan's bib. I'll have to leave briefly to hide the diaper pail, but I'll be back. And I'll take a very long lunch break to write you your own blog post. If you feel like it, you can sing me a song in the evening. And please, please, please, sleep again tonight. There's no rush to get the rest of those teeth. I know where the green onsie is if I need it.

I also know you're all dying to hear what I have to say about Lady Chatterly and Gandalf, but I think I've obligated myself to write a post about Tristan next.