I’ve had a baby in the house for eight years now. Whenever someone offers to hold one of my babies, I take them up on it. It isn’t long—seven minutes precisely—until the squirming babe is returned to me because he or she is “throwing up.” If you’re a Scott baby, then you have “the excessive spit up gene.” All of my babies spit up, just like all of my babies hate, hate, hate the playpen.

Greg tries to console me by telling me that highly intelligent babies can’t be confined to playpens. They have to explore in order to stimulate their brains. They must be active, and so I should take comfort that we are raising a pack of geniuses. (He hasn’t confirmed his source on this yet.) I consoled myself with this when I was young and naïve, but now that they’re growing up all regular and such, I’m convinced God only has one genetic mold for Scott children: spit up, no playpens– and my personal favorite—dislike sleeping.

Since the Bible tells us that God grants sleep to those He loves (Psalm 127:2), I admit to feeling a little blacklisted. When mommies on the playground talk about how their babies don’t get up until 8 a.m., my eyes glaze over and I excuse myself for a spin on the merry-go-round. A hard day of work in the blazing Florida sun seems to recharge my kids, not wipe them out. Withholding sugar, keeping them up later, and giving them plenty of work and hard play leaves them eager for another day. They rise before the sun so they won’t miss the day.

I miss the night.

Yet, the view from the ranch, so to speak, is quiet and unassuming. Our 10-month-old has forgotten how to sleep through the night. Greg and I know that he will learn to sleep all-too-well by the time he reaches puberty, so we take this backward step in stride. There are wars and such going on, and we try not to get too myopic in our outlook.