There I was, with my freshly born daughter carefully swaddled in a blanket not too stretchy and not too stiff. Awash in the awareness that executing this tiny straitjacket maneuver is not easy, yet it is a skill I’m gradually reclaiming. And though her eyelids were heavy, her eyes were staring back at me like placid pools. In that moment, I was reflecting on the difficult decision of whether to swing and sing her to sleep, or to relish this long look for many more minutes. I, the uber-competent father, leading his child in whatever direction his benevolence dictates.
And then she squinted the corner of her left eye, and with the sound of 27 Waffle House squeeze ketchup bottles losing traction on their contents, she filled her diaper and fell soundly to sleep.