Secretly grateful for night tummy, a strange condition that seems to afflict Girl only at bedtime. It’s come on suddenly for the past two nights, happening right after she brushes her teeth.

“My tummy hurts,” she tells me. Sometimes she is more descriptive: “My tummy feels like it’s being pulled in two directions.”

Apparently the cure for night tummy is for me to lie down with Girl in her bed until she falls asleep. I used to do this on a regular basis until about six months ago, when she abruptly decided she didn’t need me or my bedtime stories to fall asleep anymore. Just a kiss and a prayer, thank you very much. She wanted to be alone. So the Adventures of Emily Poochydoochydachydoo, my rambling bedtime saga, came to a screeching halt way before I was ready for it to end. But you can’t beg a six-year-old to be more needy. You have to respect their small declarations of independence.

I think night tummy is really about saving face. For a girl like Girl, it’s easier to say “my tummy hurts” than “I still need you, Mommy.”

I’ve liked the last two nights, lying besider her in her small bed, staring at all the toys in her room as her breath grows steady and even. Happy that my baby can still sometimes be my baby.

Exhibit A: Wearing a construction paper birthday crown, Girl asks to sit in the big chair at the head of the table at supper.

“You mean in Dad’s chair?” I ask.

“Yes. It is my birthday, you know,” she says.

I think about it for a split second, then realize what that chair represents to a 6-year-old. Raw power.

“Nope,” I say. “That’s not the way we roll. Go sit in your own chair, please.”

Exhibit B: The unthinkable has happened. Girl was on blue, a less than perfect conduct grade. I heard about this second hand — she’s not talking about it — but allegedly, the teacher did not pass out some papers that Girl insisted needed to be passed out. The teacher must have reminded Girl that she was, in fact, not in charge of the classroom. To which Girl burst into tears and earned herself a blue grade for the day.

Exhibit C: A flyer comes home in Girl’s backpack advertising classes for cheerleading and karate. She informs Bob that she wants to take karate because she’s already done cheerleading. HI-YAH!

Where did this child come from?? Her light brown hair is the result of my dark brown and Bob’s formerly reddish-brown hair. Her eyes are a blend of my chocolate brown and Bob’s sky blue. But her personality — Good Lord! Where did this fierceness come from? It’s like the genes of all the angry Scotsmen and the genes of all the crazy Sicilians have been crammed into one small package. No wonder she explodes at the slightest provocation.

Of course, it could be more than genetics. She’s an Aquarius. And if you Google Aquarius, here’s what you find: “Of all the signs in the zodiac, Aquarians have perhaps the biggest ego of all. Their interest in intellectual pursuits and their unique viewpoints on life makes Aquarians think that they are the most special people on Earth. Coupled with their creativity, Aquarians can sometimes think that they are God’s gift to the universe.”

True. So true. She’s also God’s gift to me.

The other night as we were playing with our new Wii, Girl let the f-word fly. She had lost to Boy again, in her favorite Wii sport, bowling.

We had banned her from Wii boxing because after a loss there, she started flinging the nunchucks at Boy, fists pumping, turning the virtual into reality. She does not lose gracefully, especially not to her smug older brother.

Boy and I just looked at each other in shock when we heard Girl spew out the f-word, and I bit the insides of my cheeks so as not to laugh. Yes, I am a bad mother — I thought it was funny. But I am not such a bad mother that I let her know I thought it was funny.

“Ooooooh, you said a really bad word,” Boy said.

“Yes, that’s a really bad word,” I agreed.

That sent her crying into the other room. How could I convey the severity of the word without explaining its meaning?

“If you were at school and said that word, you would be sent to the principal’s office,” I told Girl. “And you’d have to flip your card to red,” the worst conduct grade there is, an unimaginable consequence for Girl, who’s been on green every day of kindergarten so far.

In “A Christmas Story,” which we just watched, Ralphie is punished with a bar of Lifebuoy soap in his mouth for saying the f-word. I don’t think I could even squirt a little body wash on Girl’s tongue — it seems a tad Medieval to me.

Like Ralphie, I’m sure Girl picked up that word from home, even though we try hard not to swear in front of the kids. But apparently, not hard enough. The thing is, she said the f-word just like I do, accentuating the hard “k” at the end. And for the same reason — when you want to punch someone in the face, but can’t.

Girl lost her first tooth tonight. And by lost, I really mean lost. It was hanging by a thread all day, and I should have just yanked it out, but I didn’t. She went to a princess party tonight with her best friend at a dance studio. And when I went to pick her up, I had one really sad princess on my hands.

“I lost my tooooooth,” she wailed. “I can’t find it!” Everyone in the dance studio had been looking for Girl’s tooth, but no luck. White floors, white walls, dozens of girl feet shuffling around — it could be anywhere. Girl calmed down enough to do her routine for the parents, but her heart wasn’t into it. Her mind was on her tooth.

Somehow she got the idea that we should look for it at home. “Maybe it’s in your tutu,” her friend suggested. Which gave me an idea.

You see, I know where the tooth fairy hides her stash of teeth. Yes, this was Girl’s first tooth. But I know where the old Boy teeth are.

So when we got home, I went into the special little drawer on my dresser where the ultra-sound pictures and baby teeth live. And I found a tooth in a baggy that could pass for a tiny bottom tooth. Man do teeth look dried up after three years.

As I helped Girl squeeze out of her too-tight tutu, I dug my hand into my pocket and grabbed the tiny tooth, then hid it in the bathroom rug. “Hey what’s that?” I asked. “MY TOOTH!!!” Girl cried, then ran off to tell everybody.

All I can say is, it’s a big world. There’s got to be somebody else besides Girl tonight sleeping with a used tooth under her pillow.