Well, it looks like Joey has graduated to high-needs baby. Or, as my mom puts it, a “rotten little baby.” I don’t think that’s entirely fair (and I should concede that she isn’t saying it in an angry way), but she says that he has colic. I don’t know. It does seem as though he has reflux—got to go to the doctor when we get home!—but it still seems to me possible that he just hates California. He needs to be held all the time, and will wake from a sound sleep to howl with rage if I try to put him in the cosleeper. At the same time, I think that he’s largely just frustrated by the things that he can’t do. He’s sweet and funny and interested—yesterday I got him to stick his tongue out at me when I did the same to him. This morning I was trying to get some work done on the computer and laid him on his back about eighteen inches away from me on the bed; he immediately started kicking, rolled onto his side, dragged himself over to me, and started making expectant goldfish faces. I am tired, proud, and a little overwhelmed.