Moses, Isaac, Mary, and You

At night, at the end of each feeding, I roll you gently into the crook of my arm and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. As I rise, the boppy pillow falls on the floor and Luxy, curled below the bed, stirs slightly in her sleep. I walk past the Pack N Play at the end of our bed, out into the hallway where light from a lamp at the bottom of the stairs casts a slightly blue glow over everything. I pause in the hallway, always, to look at you asleep. Your neck unhinged and slack, showing more of your soft throat than I ever see during the day, your lashes dark and fanned out in the tiny shallows below your eyes. I want to kiss you but I don't because I want even more not to disturb you. Instead I creep into the nursery, past the bassinet and the bookshelf, and I lay you in your crib and zip the lime green sleeper up over your swaddled body. Then I pull a blanket half way up your body, to just below your chest, and I tuck it gently under your sides. Usually you begin to stir, just a little, nosing the air with closed eyes, and so I go quickly, pulling the door mostly-closed behind me.

I retrace my steps--down the hall and back into bed. And then usually my prayer is simple: that God grant you breath until the morning.

In the morning, Daddy and I will pick up the slack, watching your tiny chest rise and fall but also checking your nostrils for snot, clipping your nails, sticking a finger inside your rubber pants to see if the cloth inside is wet. We will let you stand on our thighs or raise you up until your back almost touches the ceiling. We will turn your head gently toward the nipple and we will read "Snuggle Puppy" and "Time for Bed" over and over again.

But night is the time of great faith. You are God's all of the time, of course, but night is when I have to give you over, fully and completely. It is not the same, of course, as putting your baby in a basket and then putting the basket in the Nile. It is not the same as putting your son on the altar as sacrifice. It is not the same as having to trust an angel instead of Clearblue Easy. But putting you into a separate room where I cannot hear each and every breath, it is an act of faith.

It is a practice. It is preparation for all that will follow.