The family has decided that I'm cute. Apparently I was not cute immediately after I was born. I infer this from the way Daddy would look at his feet and change the subject whenever anyone asked if he wanted a picture taken of me. But now that my head is no longer misshapen, suddenly I'm everybody's buddy.

Sycophants. The worst part is that they all want to kiss me now. First, have these people not heard of germ theory? Second, I'm in full on nursing mode, which means that I'm assuming anything that comes near my cheek is a nipple. Ever take a sip of your orange juice when you meant to drink from the milk glass instead? Change milk to "nipple" and orange juice to "Daddy's nose," and you'll get a sense of what I'm talking about here.

By the way, if you want to get a look at a poor baby trying to sleep while some overly sentimental boob tries to capture the moment, you can see my picture here.

My parents seem to think that this rubber pacifier will somehow convince me that I'm not hungry. I don't see any of them picking up the plastic apples in the fake fruit bowl and gnawing on them around dinner time, however. They must mistake my physical immaturity for stupidity. I'd cook a meal for myself if I could just get these treacherous hands to cooperate. They even foil my attempts to find sustenance from the pacifier; they creep up my chest and grab it from my mouth, entirely against my will. My only recourse is to cry, which I'm getting quite good at. I find that a shrill screech just as Mommy and Daddy have drifted off to sleep stimulates the most amusing response. I will begin a series of decibel and pitch experiments this evening.