My son began to teeth last night.

At not quite four months, he was ahead of schedule, or at least this is what my First Year Of Life book tells me. My parenting books pile up on the countertop: What To Expect During Their First Year, Your Baby, Your Life and So This is What It's Like?, stare at me from across the room. I breathe in, I sigh. I refer to them on a weekly basis and compare notes. Am I feeding him as I should? Is he getting enough tummy time? Is he progressing physically, emotionally, mentally. I attach my self- worth to their harsh opinions and advice.

I am convinced the universe was testing my strength as a mother.

Last night our dinner got cold. It was 7:02pm, and I was feeling proud of myself for having the energy -- in my sleep deprived state -- to go to the supermarket, buy some fresh garlic, tomatoes and pasta and create a new dish for dinner. Although to some making a new dish is nothing out of the ordinary, Miles appreciated it. He looked up at me and smiled as if to say GREAT JOB. Whether he smiled out of appreciation or support or just passing gas, it didn't matter. He was proud of me. I was proud of myself, dammit. Something besides baked chicken or speghetti. Way to go.

I cooked the pasta, browned and seasoned the meat and added my own touch (extra mozzarella cheese) before popping it into the oven. Just when the cheese began to bubble up in a sinful way, my son began to scream.

I thought he just aching for some cheese like I was.

After picking him up and quietly shhhhhing in his ear (which usually does the trick) his screams begun to elevate and turn into squeels, a piercing sound of irritability I had never heard from him before.

I held onto him tight. I caressed him. I rubbed his back. I sang him a sweet little lullabye only to be shunned by his violent arms and legs kicking me in protest. Ten long minutes later (was it only ten?) my husband returned from the drugstore with the teething ointment and I couldn't apply it fast enough.

My day as a 'good mother', a mother who knew exactly what to do -- when to burp, feed and change him -- rapidly turned into a hectic, holding-in-the-tears, I-want-to-cry-like-my-baby's-doin' mother. I was not as perfect as I wanted to be. What did my parenting book say about that?

Tonight I heated up the leftovers and we ate in peace. No crying, no teething but a perfect threesome for dinner. Right on track. Tonight I didn't refer to my baby books for an answer. Tonight my baby's peaceful state of being was the only answer I need.