We've been having more freakout meltdowns over the past few days, but this morning may have seen a minor breakthrough in baby relations. I use "we" there and not "Daughter" because when she hits that stuck-record mode where all she can do is frown and say "No! NO! NNNO!" louder and louder until she's hoarse and furious, it's not just her -- it's everyone in the house. For all I know, the neighbors are feeling it, too. (By "neighbors," I refer to the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and Cuba. Once she becomes vocal, Daughter is not a girl likely to go unheard.) So, we've been dealing with this a bit lately. It's our problem.

I think I sort of prefer the Victorian swoons she'd do during temper tantrums last year. Step 1: wail. Step 2: bring hand to forehead. Step 3: collapse into a tiny pile on the floor. All we needed was a hoop skirt and smelling salts and she'd have fit right into some romance set in the 1800s.

Anyway, this morning she was fairly chipper, and as we ate vegetarian sausage and sipped guava pineapple juice (one of the best things ever) at the breakfast table, My Assiduous Spouse noticed this red spot on the top of son (son!)'s foot. Mosquito bite? Blister from new shoes? We don't know.

But Daughter knew what to do -- get band-aids! Quick! And look, there's another on his other foot! Need more band-aids!

This is a dramatic development. It could be that she's just too young to get the concept that things run out eventually, but for Daughter, band-aids are like heroin. Not only did she touch the newcomer (which she hasn't been eager to do), but she touched him in a healing way and, most significantly, she shared her stash to do it.

So there's hope!