Joshua is a crucible.

Today, things got so desperate (after a night of just about the worst crying I could imagine -- so bad, I yelled Jesus Christ!, and not as a prayer) that I began trying to reason with him. Have you ever tried to reason with a colicky baby? Well, it's somewhat like banging your head against a table. Actually, banging your head against a table would probably be better.

So it went like this:

"Josh, I am trying. I am trying to raise you on my own. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a single mother? Do you? Why won't you help me at all? Why won't you cut me some slack? Just a little tiny bit... and I promise not to smother you with a pillow."

"Josh, I'm going to put you in the swing. Pretend you like it. No, pretend harder."

"Do you want me to go to jail? Do you? Keep it up, son. Keep it up."

"Please, baby, please. Just go to sleep. It's so nice there. I can't figure out what you need. You're fed, your diaper is clean, you've been rocked, swaddled, cuddled, sung to, bounced, taken for a walk in the stroller, taken for a ride in the car, given gripe water and nursed until my nipples shrivelled up. Why does NOTHING make you happy?!"

Fortunately, fussy babies tend to develop into intellectual giants and Nobel prize winners. Albert Einstein was a nightmare. Marie Curie was an infant abomination. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s mama almost threw him out the window. (This is what I tell myself, anyway, because I gave up trying to reason with a screaming newborn.) Joshua is just developing his lung capacity so that when he's preaching to thousands, or yelling above the other members of Parliament when he's Prime Minister, he will be heard. Yes, my boy is making sure he gets himself heard.