If someone could kindly tell Spawnling that sleeping at night is conducive to a happier mother, that would be grand.

Oh, and if you could also let him know that it helps when he lets mommy get some mommy time in the evenings instead of sleeping for 45 minutes and waking up again at 8:30PM and staying up until I go to bed, that would also be greatly appreciated.

My coffee maker has never seen more use. It's probably starting to feel like a cheap whore. Next thing I know it'll be asking me to drop some money next to the bean grinder before I leave the room.

Oh, and the other thing he's not doing? Walking. Nope. Not at all. And that, I've concluded, is a strong indicator that he's going to be a slacker who lives with us until he's 32 and snags a hot lawyer girlfriend who will take care of his designer shoe fetish.

Intrepid took first steps at exactly nine months. Like, the day he turned the big niner. And Gutsy? You guessed it: Exactly nine months.

Well guess who turned nine months today and tried to impress us with his standing up unassisted in the middle of the kitchen floor a few times? That's right: the new kid. Were we impressed? Hardly. He's been doing that for three days now. It's kind of getting old.

"Hello, Spawling? It's your pal, Clue. Just wanted to give you a heads up that you're the third boy in the family. You might want to try stepping it up a little."

So now we have the not sleeping coupled with the not walking. He should know by now that negative attention is not as good as positive attention. Also, he should be telling this to Gutsy who still hasn't figured out that secret at 4 1/2, but I digress...

Also, I should perhaps make Slackling aware of the fact that I'm still holding a bit of a grudge over being three days late. His older brothers came early. Why couldn't he be more like them?

I think, as crazy as it sounds, that the Tupperware Tornado might be trying to assert some individuality. Maybe he's attempting to show us that he's not Intrepid and Gutsy's triplet brother who decided to hang out in the womb a few more years. That he has his own thoughts, feelings and timelines. That, despite being the third boy gremlin, he's actually his own person.

Funny, isnt' it? Him thinking he's people and all.

But then again, he might also be giving me exactly what I want and need; a lot of my friends have just had or are just about to have babies. I cuddled Fly's little sweetheart and instantly wanted another squishy infant. Tonight I snuggled a three-week-old baby girl who looked at me with those adorable newborn eyes that said ' You, too, could have one of me, Maven. Just one more try. Come on. You're fertile enough! You can do it! Just go home and make one of me RIGHT NOW.'

I can't, evil (and incredibly cute) little baby! I don't make babies easily! I can't go through the heartache of trying to conceive again.That long, painful process that comes so easily to some and not others. I can't imagine wishing and hoping and testing every single cycle for years. The temperature taking, the charting of cervical fluid, the sadness at a negative result, the mixed feelings of wanting to wean Spawnling sooner so I can try and be more fertile and not wanting to because it's best for him that I don't. Despite having PCOS, I've been blessed with three really awesome (wild, destructive, impulsive, terrorizing) children. Who gets that lucky? Me, that's who. Why would I tempt fate by trying again?

And then if I actually did get knocked up and didn't miscarry again , then I'd have to go through the morning sickness and the tiredness and the emotional rollercoaster and the inevitable c-section and the Russian roulette of depression or anxiety lasting for months on end. Spawnling evened me out. I went from Depressed with Intrepid to anxious with Gutsy to being chill enough (for me) to think that I've replaced my morning Cheerios with Prozac again: The breakfast of champions and people who are essentially emotionally castrated thanks to the wonderpill.

Nope. No babies. This is my last one.

So maybe - just maybe - my last little wonder has decided to take his sweet time and do things on a schedule that best fits his place in our family. Such as walking a few days or weeks later than his brothers in order to let me savour his fleeting babyhood just a little longer.

Happy nine months, Spawnling. I love your non-walking, kitchen-standing self more than I can put into words.