Everybody sing . . .

Happy Birthday to The Boy
He only drinks the soy
He'd like a new toy
He's our stinky little joy

Today is Junior's birthday. He's two. Terribly, terribly two. He's in this hitting, kicking, crying, screaming, grunting, biting, spitting, wetting himself phase. Because asking him to take a bath is unfair. Taking him out of the bath is unfair. Drying him off so he doesn't catch his death of cold -- sorry, I seem to have channeled somebody's grandmother there -- is unfair. Putting on his pajamas? So, so unfair. And don't even get him started about how his mean, mean mommies won't let him stand, weeping and sniffling and generally bringing the rage, in the open refrigerator doorway for 20 minutes each morning as he tries to answer that age-old question: Soy milk or orange juice?

We give him both, in case you were wondering.

JudyBat is shopping for sperm, yes, and at some point I absolutely expect to rent out the luxury high-rise loft that is my womb. But I'm wondering if we're really ready to push on with Derek Jeter (#2 on your scorecard, but right up there in our hearts) while we're having such trouble handling even one.

Doubt struck me recently as The Boy and I wrestled over his unwillingness to let me take his clothes off for bath time. At one point, the kid seemed to give up, and he backed away and gave me the most pitiful look. I opened up my arms to hug him, and he came rushing toward me.

And then he slapped me in the head.

Other than that -- and the fact that he's suddenly begun waking up multiple times in the night, screaming for no apparent reason -- he's delightful. So, you know, Happy Birthday to Him. There will be no cake, because the child clearly doesn't need any sugar.