from bed and rush into my sonâ€™s room half-a-dozen times an hour, until my husband has to physically restrain me, gently, soothing my hair back and whispering let the baby sleep, let the baby sleep. And so I wait, hearing the padding of bare feet pacing in the other room, stopping now and then to scratch nails again and again along the rungs of the wooden crib until the child wakes screaming, screaming for the unbearable seconds it takes for me to leap out of bed and fly to the other room. Morning comes and I look like my own mother now, heavy bags beneath each eye, the faint capillary bruising that no amount of soaking with tea bags can erase. The child looks old, too, a tiny, toothless bald old man in blue pajamas covered in teddy bears. I scoop him up in lead-weight arms and carry him into the sunlit kitchen, where we eat breakfast together and I rock him into his first nap of the day.