Because she seems to write about him, as evidenced by this*:

I have a dear friend whose child of fifteen months screams. Screams with a fervor forgotten by those grown-ups not undergoing electroshock therapy. Screams when breakfast is not placed before him fast enough. Screams when, finished with his breakfast, he wishes to be freed from his high-chair restraints, so that he might roam about and possibly bang on the piano. Screams when his tired mama attempts to wrest him from the piano keys, screams in joy at breaking from her grasp, screams as he runs out the door headlong into sharp objects and pits of mud. Screaming is often a fact of life for a fifteen-month-old child, and it must be tolerated, to a point, for it is primal and necessary.

*From The Three-Martini Playdate: A Practical Guide to Happy Parenting. Yes, I’m reading it. No, I didn’t buy it; it was a gift. Yes, it is funny. V. funny, in fact. No, I do not indulge in three martinis during my playdates. I have thought about it, however. Especially now that we have entered the fifteenth month and Conal has decided to channel Nigel Tufnel and turn his inner amp up to 11.
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