Sorry about that. This one was intended for the last post. I hate to overburden people with email.
My kids had the incredible fortune of suffering through those nine months of pregnancy that lead to having babies, if a couple is really, really lucky. And they were, as we say, poo, poo, poo.
And the other night I dropped by, as one might, to take a peak, because these guys are very little. And one of them is in my son's arms, very quiet, very peaceful, and my son perks up when he sees me and says, "Will you take him? I have to go . . ."
He hands off the baby who immediately wakes up, looks at me as if I am an alien, and begins to cry. I look left and right, no one there to tell me what to do. This being Chicago, the coldest day of the year, I project and wrap him in a blanket. He continues to cry and search with that little mouth. There are bottles around but they are capped, these little two ounce bottles.
I make the executive decision to wait for instructions on that, don't just feed. After all, maybe he just fed! We do the walking, the cooing, and it all feels natural, but he's still fussing. Then he turns his face into the blanket, a beautiful homemade blanket that my daughter-in-law's mother made for him, and immediately falls asleep. Boom. He's out.
This is the inevitability of sleep, I'm told by his grandfather. Inevitable at any age, when that moment comes, there's no resisting.