If you really want it...

Matt sits on my lap and begins swatting around, trying to touch the remote. His fingers graze it for a second, and his hand opens and closes, each time attempting to grasp just a bit more of that beloved plastic box than the last. He finally gets ahold of it, but lacks the dexterity to actually pull it toward his face and make it his own (by which, of course, I mean chewing and sucking and licking it to its veritable death). So instead, he gathers himself together and pitches his entire body forth, successfully mauling the blessed thing, and I permit him to slather it with his delighted saliva for a moment before placing it just out of his reach yet again.

Oh, to be a baby. To so desire something that it warrants your repeated attempts to acquire it. To pursue beyond your known abilities to achieve that which before was not possible.

This one's for you, Mom. Go take your GREs.