Sleep. Must get sleep.

Young Master Reid is kicking the collective ass of his parents, and it isn't pretty, folks. I don't believe this is the full blown colic which so many parents speak of in hushed tones while shuddering. No, this is a baby whose got his days and night confused, who likes to sleep when the sun can wash over him and warm his home. This is a boy who is growing like a weed, and needs to eat gobs and gobs of breast milk, at least every twenty minutes, or so it feels.

It doesn't help that my job is kind of sucking right now. It's hard to say how much this is the aforementioned "how can I sit here typing while I've got a beautiful son at home?" syndrome, and how much is just the end of liking a job, or a certain kind of work. I hope, for our financial sake (as well as my boss's sanity) that it's mostly the former. But I'm getting my ass kicked here, too. K is having Reid kicking her ass 24-7, and I'm getting ass-kicked in two locations depending on the time of day, so we're a pair of ass-sore parents who wouldn't mind settling in for about 12 uninterrupted hours of sweet, blissful sleep.

Speaking of work, though, Reid's making a huge debut this evening, joining my office's going-away party for a quick premiere. We won't be able to put in the quality time, of course, on account of the boy's undying need to suckle breasts and sit awake while his bloodshot-eyed parents beg for some solace. But we'll pass the boy around, and smile while he sleeps in stranger's hands, experiencing that thorny combination of emotions we've wrestled with recently.

Perhaps its an extension of the feeling I have, when the boy is sleeping soundly during the day, that I must pick him up. I must seize this opportunity to hold his warm little body in my hands, and stare into his sleeping form as he breathes quiet sparrow-breaths. This is my son, you see. No second should pass with my hands empty and his body not being closely held, protected and loved.

This happens, too, when we have friends over and they hold him, smiling. He is like a smiling pill when he is held. The holders cannot resist feeling strangely uplifted when he is in their arms. He wields this power without discretion, and it seems almost that he is unaware of his great ability. But looking at the smiling holder, I want to snatch the boy back, and breathe in his cute smell and feel the surprising heft as he gains ounce after ounce, and set to smiling myself.

I'll try to contain myself tonight. K, who holds him a lot more, is excited about the prospect of having people hold the baby for a second, so that the two of us can stand next to each other, arms empty of baby for just a minute. I think this empty-arms sensation is probably overblown, but I'll try to give it a shot.