Lucy’s not sleeping well, and when Lucy’s not sleeping well, no one is.

I made the mistake of trying to solve this problem with a little help from some web forums when Abby was a baby, so I know enough to just commiserate and feel better at the end – avoid all the guilt. (If you ever want to feel like a horrible mother for suggesting your baby might be old enough to learn to calm herself down, search “cry it out” and read some of the crazy comments on the forums that pop up. Oooh, so not helpful.)

No, I’m fighting this battle alone (well, with Dave, whose ribs meet my elbow a few times a night: “Your turn.”) Lucy’ll wake three to five times a night, apparently because she – who can’t even coordinate bringing her hands to her mouth in a swift movement, has figured out that I exist and can be summoned with a cry. The little evil genius.

The Books That Know Everything But Don’t Tell You How to Actually DO These Things When It’s 3 in the Morning and You’re Exhausted suggest that I let her know I’m there for her – without going to her crib every time.

Oh, that’s helpful. I’ll send her an e-card. Maybe gift her a virtual pet on Facebook. You know, to let her know I’m thinking about her.

Rolling eyes here: No. Not helpful.

There’s wisdom less-tired people can grasp in that advice, but I am not less-tired people. I want to know how to tell a 4 ½ month old that I’m “there for her” when I really want to say “I’ll give you 20 bucks, kid, if you stay quiet ’til 6:30.”

See, there’s an older sibling involved. Abby wakes up for the slightest disturbance (and that unexpected fireworks show the other night at the college near our house did not qualify as a “slight” disturbance. Holy nightmare.) (Wow, that was a colorful vocab lesson at 10 o’clock at night.)

Anyhow, so I’m not about to let Lucy cry it out – not because I’m anti-CIO (as the moms are calling it these days, I hear) but because if I let Lucy cry it out, Abby’ll follow. Try explaining what 3 a.m. means to a toddler. Go ahead. Come on over and try it. See if YOU can talk her down from her demands: “I want UP, I want Froot Loops! I want’a wear pretty DRESS.” “It’s not time to wake up, lay down; we’ll get Froot Loops later.” “I WANT FROOT LOOPS.” “Shhh, it’s nighttime, it’s not breakfast –” “FROOT LOOOOOOPS!”

No, letting the baby cry it out isn’t on my game plan. But is waking up this often each night til she’s, what, 18 months old, part of my plan? Pffsh, no. I need another idea.

I generally secretly roll my eyes when people say things like “Enjoy your kids, the time goes so fast!”, because when they’re saying these things to me I’m usually knee-deep in dirty towels and wearing clothes that smell like spit up and I’m not feeling like the time’s flying by with any amount of mercy.

Dude, have you seen my to-do list? This baby won’t leave my hip; she’s magnetically attached to it, and she can’t be tricked to play in the bouncy chair or the exersaucer for longer than a few minutes.

No, “fast” isn’t the word I’m looking for.

But Dave carried our Zuma up from the basement and we snapped Lucy inside and while we took pictures of her pushing her first spoonsful of rice cereal out of her mouth with a snarl, it hit me: This is flying. I have a baby eating cereal. Oh-em-gee.

The bassinet’s already history, banished to the basement; same with the baby bathtub. Where did summer go? The season of fighting with Dave over his fantasy football drafts – plural, because what fun is just one or two leagues! Erin! Why limit yourself! – and all its “research” time and “lineup” time and “just checking the score” time is about here. And with it: changing out the 3-month for the 6-month clothes, bringing up the high chair, breaking out the rest of the baby toys. (Cleaning the carpets … My to-do list is insane.)

Sunday morning “pretend football” time aside, fall will likely go just as fast; something not lost on me as the kids in our neighborhood rode by on their bikes on the first day of school. GASP. Abby’ll be there in what, two years? Three if I opt out of 4-year-old kindergarten? I can’t push four, though, even if she’s still just grasping there are numbers need to go in sequential order. Oh, ugh, I’m not ready.

And we said this was it. Literally: “THIS IS IT,” I think were my delivery room words. “NO MORE KIDS.” I think after spending 40 long weeks with me repeating that phrase, Dave was worn down to agree: “Fine! No more! Two’s great!”

I’m not second-guessing that – because I have to say that, because Dave’s reading right now and he just spilled coffee down the front of his shirt in alarm – but when my friends start talking seconds and thirds, will I really be ready to pass them the ridiculously clunky baby bathtub or the nifty Zippy, or the outfits with the little elephants on them (because in all my daydreams my third child would be a girl)?

I don’t know. Maybe? Probably? Dave’s nodding.

If baby Lucy were any more relaxed we’d have to knock on her belly every so often to make sure she hadn’t turned into stone. Ninety percent of her four months have been filled with nothing but drooly smiles, chubby cheeks just begging to be pinched; she just goes with it.

This week’s not one of those 90 percent.

She arrived home from her week at Grandma and Grandpa’s with, I don’t know, ISSUES. She’s got beef  about eating, or not eating. Feed her? Bottle in her mouth? No? Yes? Yes, there she swallowed a few, WAIT, just kidding, it’s dribbling down her chin and into the deep, unexplored crevasses of her neck. One second she wants to eat, another she squirms like a cat on its back in my arms, its spine flinging the rest of its body to the floor.

None of this alarms me or causes me particular grief, except when her, what do you call it? Episode? seeps into Abby’s bedtime. I’m coping because my “whatever, dude” baby is easily soothed with a walk in her Zippy, or with a steady shushing in her ear, or with a few laps around the first floor of our house in my arms. Easier than pie.

Plus I’m good at lying to myself. That helps.

Yes: I keep telling myself it’s teeth. You know what? EVERYTHING is teething. Everything. Since she hit three months, every unexplained crying jag has been teething. Wait, make that “teething.” Are her gums red and angry-looking? Well. I don’t know, it’s all gums to me. Is she drooling? Yes, but that’s kind of her schtick, she’s a drooler (and this fact I will exploit on her first dates-turned-last dates her whole teenage life).

“Teething” is the magical expression. A fussy baby in your arms? Bounce her on your hip and shake your head sympathetically at all who look at you, and just saying “teething.” “Teething, tsk, tsk, poor thing,” I say, and onlookers nod or give me an obligatory “man, that sucks,” and I don’t look like a complete moron.

It’s working too – so much so that I believe it, and I’m peering into her mouth for teeth that aren’t coming yet, and I’m wondering how long I can play the teething card til some actually show up.

Aren’t they teething for like their first 4 years? Their whole lives? Can’t we blame it all on teething?

Dave’s onto me. “Is she really teething? How long does it take til they pop out?”

“I don’t know, the poor thing.”

Ha. I am the only mother on the planet, probably, who’s looking forward to her actually getting teeth.