Godspeed, little man

What I most looked forward to after moving to NOLA: little blonde head nestled in a crib in my bedroom, fast asleep.

Sometimes it pays to be careful what you ask for. After an active morning cooking, reading, toppling cars from atop boxes and crates, stuffing soft cows into stockpots, etc., lunch was over and naptime arrived. What did not arrive, however, when the little darling was dropped at my house, was the miraculous sleep-inducer -- that aid to which so many millions owe their parent-era sleep: the PACIFIER. Knowing the hour was approaching when I would reach deep to honor the nap hour without the time-honored talisman, I was prepared for a little foreplay in order that we, baby and I, could, cooperatively, get the toddler to take a nap. Books can be read, and appreciated, without a pacifier. Songs can be sung, and enjoyed, without a pacifier. Babes may be rocked, without a pacifier. Heads will not rest on maternal shoulders, however, nor will eyes roll back in anticipation of momentary somnolence, without a pacifier. The distance from the rocker to the crib, without a pacifier, looms as the far-away surface of Black Lake without gillyweed. While he would, in theory, become horizontal for minutes, his wails would draw me back in to find him sitting, blankets awry, and as I contemplated him and our situation, he would slowly work a conspiratorial grin across his small face, which, of course, precipitated another pick-up and rocking session.
An hour later, after 8 books, 10 lullabies, much, much, much rocking, twice down and twice again up for more books, little towhead yawned and closed his eyes for the count and during my respite at last I sit before this screen. Ready for something funny? I miss him.