It was another rough day yesterday, with an important realization.

Patrick, at this point in his life, has no interest in what I want.

He doesn't care if I want to hold him, or if I want to read. He's not worried about how badly I want him to smile, or how much I need him to smile at me. He's on his own schedule, this little, mysterious person who now lives in my house.

It's the first relationship I've ever had where (at this point in time) it's truly all about his needs. And Patrick's needs aren't going to coincide with "The Baby Book" by Dr. William Sears, or with the milestone guidelines set up by Parenting magazine.

So why am I surprised that this person has a personality independent of what I need from him?

It's been making me a little bonkers. It's why I can't shake the feeling that my baby doesn't like me. He's eight weeks, not fifteen years! So now I'm working on getting my heart to catch up with my brain. I KNOW I'm a good mommy. I KNOW my son loves and needs me. I KNOW that they cry because they just do, not because I'm failing at some unknown task.

I get all this stuff, with my brain.

But I can laugh a little bit. Here I am, fussing that my baby doesn't want me to hold him all the time. I'm fussing that he has moments of contentedness in his swing, sucking his hand, giving me time to read a chapter. Patrick, I'm finding, needs moments to himself to take it all in. Like his Mommy, perhaps he just needs some privacy to recover from the stimulation of life.

Damn all these hormones anyway.