Mostly, I find Max charming. He is (and I say this from an entirely unbiased place) an attractive, happy, pleasant person who exudes joy and constantly makes us laugh. In contrast to all of this, however, we have begun a phase that falls well below a ten on the enjoyability scale for Ian and I. Yes, I am afraid that Max has learned the art of the temper tantrum. In this picture, he is mid-pterodactyl-like scream because I have just told him that he may not have any more cereal puffs. Note that his entire being, from the scalp on down, has turned red with the force of his ire.
Max has been tending to confine these fits of wrath to home, maintaining his facade of supernaturally mellow baby in the presence of grandparents, friends, and random passerby, and assuring that I will get no sympathy when I try to describe his dark side to others. A few days ago, however, his mask of angelic babyhood developed a crack, and an entire grocery store can now bear witness to my burden. When we passed the dairy aisle, Max suggested that we pick up some milk. ("Meek, Mama? Dada? Meek. Meek!") Since we already had two full gallons at home, Ian and I declined. Evidently disagreeing with our decision, Max immediately let out an unpleasantly high-pitched wail and began pounding the grocery cart handle. Other shoppers looked over in alarm, and upon spotting an irate baby instead of a wounded boar, gave us either an irritated glare or a sympathetic chuckle, depending on their temperaments. His tantrums are generally pretty short-lived (which is why we are keeping him, on a trial basis), and so he had stopped screaming by the time we got to the check-out stand, but he was still muttering to himself and letting out the occasional pained shriek all the way home in the car. Even when offered proof that we had plenty of milk in the fridge, he continued to look reproachful. Good, good times.