Where's the script?

Someone needs to tell my son that he's not quite meeting the baby guidelines. He'll do anything in a crib but sleep, ditched the pacis without a second glance when my milk came in, and while he can't literally talk, the expressions on his face say everything from "Dang, that was some good milk, need a lie-down now" to "What the fluffy duck are you trying to put in my mouth, woman?!"

My son, as his auntie says, is a weirdlo. But he's our weirdlo, and we love him. I also don't quite fit the mold, either: I'm an African-American breastfeeding mom, I cloth diaper Zak, and I'm trying to get my degree in Islamic studies. So I guess Zak fits in just fine.

It's good that Zak is smarter than me. With all the parenting books and tons of (usually bad) advice out there, I'm glad I've someone to guide me. I figured out early on that I needed to raise the kid I have, not the kids other folk have had or kids I've read about. Expecting Zak to be just like a baby halfway across the world, or thirty years ago, or like anyone but himself is absurd when you think about it. One of the more eloquent looks Zak has given me when he's not acting like my grandmother thinks he should translates to:"My name isn't Most Babies, The Neighbor's Baby, or Your Mother. My name is Zak. Act accordingly."

So I guess there is a script- one written by my son.