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My daughter Ava is now seven weeks old. As I am writing this, she has finally settled to sleep peacefully on my chest after a two-hour crying spell. Feeding, diaper changes, a bath, bouncing, walking, swinging, singing — none of these had worked.

And to think it all started when she woke up from her nap!? I now publicly apologize to all those mothers I silently ridiculed for grocery shopping in 1980s-inspired jog suits. I am sorry. I bow to your fortitude as I, decked in sweatpants and unwashed hair, leave the house with my child.

When I do venture out, Ava is buckled in a car seat in the backseat of my SUV, exactly where I usually have a house hunting couple sitting. She is not like these other babies I hear about. You know, the kind who like cars. If Ava so much as smells that car seat in the house, she goes berserk. Hates a car ride! And no, I don’t think it’s my driving, thanks.

But sometimes we do have to go somewhere. And that’s when I repeat my new mantra: "Wow! I am so thankful my daughter has lungs! She can breathe! Oh, and what volume! Surely, she will win ‘American Idol’ someday."