Toby is fussing again. It is not yet a full cry, although it may become one soon. It is more like an urgent moan, over and over. Uhh, uhh, uhh. His face is twisted into a miserable grimace, and mine probably is too. I put him down on the living room floor to play with his toys, but he holds his arms up to me. Uhh, uhh, uhh. I help him stand up, letting him balance his weight on my shoulders. He is quiet for a moment. Maybe that's all he wanted  -- to stand up. Then he starts again. Uhh, uhh, uhh.

I look at the clock. Seven minutes have passed since I last looked at the clock. We're still an hour and forty-eight minutes from his next nap, which will inevitably last only thirty-two minutes. Thirty-two minutes of peace. Thirty-two minutes with no "uhh, uhh, uhh." I think I will tear my hair out. I think I will pick a fight with my husband. I think I will throw this baby out with the trash. How will I make it through the day? Even if I can make it through today, what about tomorrow? I feel the now-familiar panic rising through my body.

I can't do this anymore, I think. Then I remind myself, I have to do this. I am his mother. When Toby came home from the hospital, he seemed like the best baby in the world. He latched on perfectly (if painfully), he slept peacefully between feedings, and he never cried unless he was hungry. He was ridiculously good-looking; not a squished newborn, but a real person, with a gorgeous tuft of light-brown hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to really see me from the start. I was relieved. I knew a lot about babies, and I understood that what kind you got pretty much depended on the luck of the draw. After graduate school, I had worked as a social worker, doing in-home therapy with depressed new moms. I knew about "temperament" and how some babies had more trouble blocking out stimuli than others. I knew that some babies tend to be regular and predictable, and that others have no internal timetable. I knew that there were "hard" babies and "easy" babies, and I felt lucky. I thought I'd been handed an easy one. I was in for a surprise.

Sarah Trillin is a clinical social worker and mother who lives in rural New Jersey.

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