it's late

It's late. At least by Dylan standards.

You're currently in the next room, standing in your crib and crying for "daddy".

You were sound asleep when I went in for the customary nighttime check. After a very fussy evening you cried yourself to sleep three hours ago. Unfortunately, you also managed to poop. The room stunk.

I made the decision to get you into a new diaper.

It went pretty well, all things considered, with a very minimum of fussing until Mom -- who had been holding a tiny flashlight in my aid -- left the room while I slid your feet back into your jammies and zipped you up.

I got you back into the regular routine -- snuggled up in my arms listening to me sing your three songs -- which I stretched out extra-long until you had been still and comfy for a convincing while.

I told you it was night-night time and moved to place you in the crib. You curled your little self around me like never before, resisting, squeezing my rib cage with your knees and elbows so tightly you may have stayed there even had I let go.

I felt as precious to you as you are to me.

dad