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Baby J has an issue.

He can see things (the colors! The colors! The possibilities!), but he can't quite get to them. Sometimes I put him down and he leans towards things in anticipation.

But he can't crawl, so he can't get to them. There they are, arrayed before him: shiny with pretty colors, seductive with edges that might taste good, and parts that would make loud noises if clanged against something else. But alas for the tastiness and the noise-making potential: they're out of his reach.

We might as well have named him Tantalus.

And he wants those things, he really does. I feel bad that he can't get to them quite yet.

I imagine it would be quite difficult to reach into thin air every day and watch your desires dissolve before you into the ether.

But I've been in a bad mood all day, so this may be more of a reflection on my own personal mental health. I'm sure there's a disorder somewhere where you assign tensions you feel to your baby and then try to solve them vicariously. If there is, I probably have it.

I'll complain about that next.

Someday, his therapist will thank me.