bill of health at his follow-up doctor's appointment. I was happy and
relieved, but not a little surprised; he's been so fussy of late that
I had been chalking it up to him not feeling well. When I get him up
in the morning and change him out of his diaper and pajamas, and then
when I do the reverse in the evening, he cries and squirms
inconsolably like there's no tomorrow. Part of me just laughs it off,
for after I try in vain to call his name or stroke his face to get him
calmed down, I realize there's nothing I can do to make him feel
better.
But another part of me just goes out for the little guy, for I'm sure
life must be hard for him. Everything he seems to want to get his
hands on we take away from him. He's at our mercy in terms of moving
around. Far too often for his taste, he's stuffed into a stroller or
a car seat or a high chair, instead of being allowed to roam. And the
world is so complicated and new, it must wear the heck out of him just
to be awake for the eight hours a day that he's awake. So as much as
I can easily lose patience with the little guy when I'm doing
everything I can to take care of him and he's responding with wails,
haymakers, and convulsions, I'm also trying to empathize with his
plight. It ain't easy being 10 1/2 months old.
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