“What matters now, Jesse, is that you fall asleep easily tonight and do not wake up when I put you down into your crib,” I think as I enter my apartment. Your nanny Peeka hands you over to me. She tells me about your day together, where you went, whom you visited, how you ate and napped. All good. I know what I need to do now: feed you, bathe you, put you in a diaper and PJs, warm a bottle, give you your bottle, sing to you and get you into your crib. There’s a little time to play, so I lie down on the sofa and put you on my chest, us in mutual gaze. I bounce you on my belly and bend my knees and slide you down my thighs. I hold you above me in the air, bring you down to my lips and kiss you. You laugh and wiggle. I make raspberries on your checks. I return you to my chest. We rest, mellow on oxytocin.

It’s time to make you dinner. I will eat later. I put you in our pale green Jerry chest carrier, facing me. You turn your head to the side to see what I am doing. I get an ice cube tray from the freezer. Each section is a portion of chicken stew I have made for your dinners with the food mill new parents are raving about. We use it to make our own baby foods.

I melt and warm the cubes of chicken stew as you watch from my chest. I put you in your high chair and present you with a taste on your spoon. You pull it off the spoon with your lips, and reject it. What’s going on here? You liked it last night. I wait. I talk to you, say please eat your chicken stew. You are not eating it.

I hop up, go to the refrigerator, get an egg and beat it. You are getting sleepy. You’re hungry and now fussy, too. I scramble the egg. You eat it with delight.

I clear the sink and fill it with warm water for your bath. You like your bath. I wrap you in your hooded towel, dry you and check your bottom for rash. I give you a fresh diaper and pull PJs onto your arms and legs. I carry you on my hip as I go to the stove where your bottle is in a pot of warm water. We go to the rocking chair your mother stained and oiled the night before she went into labor. You suck the bottle fast and your eyes fall closed. I sit, breathe.

I tighten my abs, rising inch by inch with you in my arms. We walk to your crib. I put you down, carrying you like a cloud. I get you to the sheet and reach for the blanket. You cry out. I rock you with my hand. You quiet. I think you are asleep. I step away from the crib. You wake.

I put you in our chest carrier now, and tie it snug behind my back, hoping you will fall asleep as I do the dishes. You do. I bring you back to your crib, still on my chest in the carrier. I lower the rail and bend over, lowering you, still in the carrier, to the sheet. I reach behind my back, undo the knot that keeps us attached and slip out of the Snuggly. You are lying on top of it. I leave you there and watch your chest rise and fall, rise and fall. I listen to you breathe. You are sleeping. I wait to be sure. You are. I leave the side of the crib, go to the door and turn the knob slowly because if I do it fast, it clicks too loudly. I go into the hall; close the door quietly. I listen.

I have gotten you to sleep. I will retrieve the chest carrier later.

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Prompt: What matters now.