Sometimes when I lean in to kiss Teapot, she squeals and squirms away. I blame Teapot’s dad – the way he kisses her, he makes MUMMUMMUMUM sounds and tickles her ear with his lips and prickly facial hair. She has this radioactive-green gibbon (we call him Gibsy!) that she will hold out for me to kiss, and so I do. And then Gibsy will pass the kiss to her. I have this silly belief that every kiss, every hug, builds up her immunity against the sometimes-awfulness of this world. So therefore, it is my duty to smooch and squeeze her as much as possible.