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"I think it's a sore," my husband (hereafter to be referred to as "Freckles") said, examining Baby J's mouth, "it's just not in the right place."

Freckles is from a medical family. His father was a pediatrician and his mother was a nurse. For this reason, I often defer to him on questions of healthcare. After all, as he told some friends over dinner last Saturday, during Baby J's birth, the hospital staff practically asked if he wanted to help out. He's often right about things, too, underscoring his parentage.

But this time I didn't agree.

"I think it's a tooth," I said.

"Really, it wouldn't be there," he said, "it's seriously some kind of sore."

Great, I thought, now all I need is for Baby J to get thrush, pass it along to me, and live in misery forever after, just like that lady I read about a few months ago. Actually, there were about fifteen such ladies on a message board I peruse with some frequency. All the same problem, all living in agony because of thrush. It has been pointed out to me that I should stop reading parenting message boards. The fact that they often devolve into a contest to see who is the most unhappy has not escaped me.

"Fine," I said, "if it's a sore, then he needs to go to the doctor."

"He seems fine," Freckles countered, "let's just monitor it and make sure it doesn't bother him."

A few days passed. I still thought it was a tooth.

Today, Freckles, Baby J and I all went to visit Freckles' mother's store, in Atwater. On our way out the door, Freckles remembered the point of contention.

It was still there, white tip rolling roundly from the center of Baby J's bottom gum line.

"Can you look at this?" Freckles asked his mother, as I waited for news of our imminent discontent.

"That?" she said, glancing in and touching it lightly with her finger, "that's a tooth."

I looked like those drunk guys on TV football games. I started jumping up and down, pumping my arms above my head. "I knew it!" I practically shouted, "I told you it was a tooth, and you totally freaked me out instead of believing me!"

Freckles, his mother, and Baby J stared at me blankly.

"Wait, you were worried about it?" Freckles asked.

I shrugged it off.

But in my head, the celebration continued.