By: Lauren Spagnoletti
I was frustrated to have to calm him for a second time that night, when so many hours lay ahead of us before morning light. But he crawled into my lap and snuggled his head between my breast and arm. He belonged in the curve of my seated body. I rocked him back and forth and inhaled deeply the smell of his floppy hair. “Mama, ribbit song,” he said. Normally I would have refused, in service of our treacherous sleep training ritual. But tonight I sang about frogs on logs, and we both smiled as his eyes turned to slits.