The kids are finally in bed. We collapse on the couch, ready to veg. We are so tired tonight. We vow that nothing short of a life or death situation can call us back up to their rooms. We have Seinfeld on TiVo and ice cream in the freezer. There is nothing more we could ask for in life.

The monitor crackles. We hear Babs’ voice, loud, mostly unintelligible. She is pressing her lips against the monitor on her end. She talks. And talks and talks. Perhaps she is reciting the Gettysburg Address. There is a lot of talking. We’re finally able to pick out a few words:

“MOMMY AND DADDY,” (something muffled) “SCRATCH MY BACK,” (crackle, crackle, something else) “AND I WILL COUNT TO TWENTY…” (long pause) “A-BILLION! TWENTY-A-BILLION!” (muffle, crackle) “…PLEASE.”

We look at each other. She wants us to scratch her back until she counts to twenty-a-billion. She has trumped us with the cute card. Resistance is futile. We go up to her room. We coo, we snuggle, we scratch her back, we count. This child of ours is God-sent, irresistible. There is love all around.

And then she throws up everywhere.