Because my wife and I are neurotic, however, we’ve prepared my folks with a “little” list of stuff to remember and/or keep in mind as they care for our kid.

The list is three pages long.

Sure, it covers important stuff like medicine dosages (in the event that L gets sick), doctor phone numbers and pre-bed routine. It also touches upon moderately important things such as what L likes to eat, and completely ridiculous things such as the number of hours each day we’d like for her to be outside.

My wife and I treated the document like a manuscript; I wrote the first draft, she edited it (Track Changes turned on, of course), then we incorporated the edits together. As we wrote, we laughed at each other (and ourselves) repeatedly. Still, the thing is printed out and ready to hand over.

My poor parents deserve a medal. Here they are, doing us a favor, and we’ve totally spazzed on them. It’s not like they’re rookies with the whole parenthood thing; they did a damn fine job with me. Hopefully, they’ll see our list as an expression of love—both for L and for them (after all, we don’t want them having to worry about anything).

Mom and Dad, what we really mean to say is, “Thanks.”

But an essay this week on The New York Times “Motherlode” blog discusses a different kind of seven-year disillusionment: One with your kids.

The story, written by Alison Patton, is a candid look at the author’s realization (and subsequent disgust with the fact) that her children have picked up some of her worst attributes. Because this epiphany came for her right around the seven-year mark with each kid, she draws the parallel to the proverbial seven-year itch.

It’s an interesting—and bold—line of thinking, and definitely worth a read.

(Full disclosure x2: The Times is a client of mine, and a friend of mine helped Patton with her piece.)

While I could never see myself falling “out of love” with L or subseuquent children, I certainly can understand an ocean of guilt upon realizing one’s previously perfect and naïve little baby (or babies) has (or have) inherited some of the parts of yourself you hate most.

If, for instance, L is even remotely as obsessive-compulsive about stuff as I am, it will be very hard for me to forgive myself. If she flies off the handle as quickly, I, too, may go insane.

Patton’s bottom line, however, is a good one: No matter how “disappointed” some of these developments might make us, no-one is perfect—not us, not our spouses, and definitely not our kids. The sooner each and every one of us comes to terms with that notion, the better (and more forgiving) all of us will be.

I’ll spare you the details, but the story cites “current” psychological “research” that suggests kids generally come out the same, siblings or not. It also suggests that the current world economy has something to do with the fact that people are having fewer kids. Personally, I find both of these themes problematic.

For starters—again, as an only child—I can say that being raised without siblings puts you under a parental microscope, which creates all sorts of unique pressures today and down the road (the article tangentially alludes to this when it talks about caring for aging parents alone).

Only child-ness also makes it ten times harder to grasp the bonds between siblings. I see this play out every day when I witness my wife interact selflessly with her sisters.

She always considers their feelings; we only children inherently are far more self-centered.

I even take issue with the notion that the economy is the overriding factor in a trend toward fewer kids. What about the fact that many moms are having children later in life? What about the increasing incidence of miscarriages, fertility issues and other anthropological evidence that indicates we’re trying to grow families when we’re past baby-making prime?

We all face that simple thing called biology, you know. It’s a novel concept. Author Lauren Sandler, you should check it out.

For all of these reasons, Powergirl and I have vowed to make sure L has at least one sibling. And soon. If we can’t make her one, we’ll find another way. Because kid-hood is a terrible thing to experience alone.

The piece is about lessons we parents can teach our kids about how MLB umpire Jim Joyce stole a perfect game away from Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga this week. You don’t have to be a baseball fan (or even be familiar with baseball) to appreciate Posnanski’s conclusion.

Check it out.

My symptoms arrived Wednesday evening, following a long run at the gym. Her symptoms came on in full effect this afternoon, complete with sniffling, sneezing and a ton of snot.

At times, the poor child sounded like a purring cat when she breathed.

And the whole sleeping thing? Well, let’s just say she’s been in her crib for about three hours as I write this, and she’s awakened five times over that span (we were preparing for a long night).

Despite her first official illness, our little baby was her usually chipper self for most of the day. She army-crawled after the cordless phone. She giggled at me when I sang to her during mealtimes. She also tossed her usual squeals and grunts in the direction of the cat; no matter what’s going in L’s life, little Coomer always seems to elicit a smile.

Still, I couldn’t help but spend most of the evening feeling awful. I had the cold first; now L has it. The evidence is almost irrefutable: I made my baby sick.

The rational part of my brain understands that the more frequently she gets sick in these early stages, the better her immune system will be when she heads off to pre-school or kindergarten (or music class) and interacts with other kids (and their germs).

For my heart, however, this knowledge doesn’t make the reality any easier at all.

Here I sit, congested as all hell and blowing my nose like a banshee, yet all I can think about is my little girl tossing and turning in the next room. If there were a way to take on her germs, snot and congestion so she wouldn’t have to suffer, I’d do it without hesitation. I’m guessing this feeling is what parenthood is about.