Teething is not so easy a process, I say in all my wisdom.

As I cut my teeth in the blogosphere, I watch as my daughter is literally cutting.her.teeth. Today she left teeth marks in her finger, bit a decent chunk off of a toddler-size crayon (and went back for seconds and thirds), tried to bite a coloring book, and chomped on her dinnerware, my breast and the granite bathroom counter. She woke crying every hour of her long afternoon nap.

She’s been a slow teether; she has only her bottom two in her official first birthday photo. Now at 19 months, she has nine, three of which have broken through her tender little gums in the past week or two. She has at least three more waiting in the wings.

My husband is conservative with the Motrin and Tylenol. “If we give it to her tonight, we’ll end up giving it to her tomorrow night, and before you know it she’ll be 3 and have some sort of addiction to berry and bubblegum flavoring.” I exaggerate. A little.

What’s with bubblegum flavoring for babies, anyway?

But tonight she made her case. She’s resting comfortably, and I will, too… until she nurses in the morning.