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So, in the Good Parent Book, which I'm sure exists, but which, obviously, I don't own, it probably says that you're not supposed to sit around wondering why your six-month-old thinks your husband is so much funnier.

But as I said before, I don't have the book, so I don't know this for sure, and that's my excuse.

"He likes you better than me," I said to Freckles the other day, because Baby J smiles and laughs far more often at Freckles than at me. He'll look at me and grin, kind of, but you can tell it's the kind of grin he'll use later when really annoying people pester him for his friendship. It's the kind of grin that says, basically, "I pity you, but I'm a good person, so I'm not going to add more misery to your already pathetic life."

Whereas, if Freckles glances once in his direction over an hour, he lights up and starts laughing and smiling ecstatically. He's laughing right now, and all Freckles is doing is watching tennis on TV while absently holding Baby J's sweatshirt over Baby J's head while he reclines on the couch.

It's like, the funniest thing ever.

I can't compete.

But because I am probably going to grow up to become what Heidi Montag calls a "Stalker Mom" (which, by the way, whatever, Heidi Montag -- I'm sure she'll forgive you when you're crying on her shoulder after your divorce, and that makes her a good person), I am completely obsessed with the reasons Baby J finds Freckles so much more hilarious than he finds me.

I think it's because Baby J doesn't recognize me as a seperate entity.

Seriously -- it's like the shelf of culture I learned about in grad school. We examine all the other cultures that are on the shelf cause they're different and interesting, but we never look at the shelf of generic Western culture because we see it as the norm. And so there's this whole weird, perverse, unexamined world that we just take for granted.

In the realm of my house, I think I have become that weird, perverse, unexamined world. At least for Baby J.

It's because I'm always there. He cries, sure, if I work out instead of holding him (which Freckles says is evidence that he does, in fact, love me), but if I do hold him, he mainly just acts like he's thinking, "there. That's better," and goes along with his daily routine of grabbing things and babbling, and laughing maniacally at the sight of cats.

I don't know if I like my status or not.

And sometimes, I think my actual problem is that I want to be funny and I'm offended that I'm evidently so bland.

I know, I know, poor little me. (You think I'm joking, but I'm actually crying right now. Serves you right, there, doesn't it?)