Let me tell you how it is sometimes. Sometimes, I come home from work and K and the baby are there, feeding or something. And the baby gets done with the feeding and I scoop him up into my arms and he nestles in there a little bit, because he's got a full belly and it makes him sleepy.

On these nights, the boy and I foster a connection because I can talk to him and gently bring him out of his sleep. Since his belly is full, he doesn't mind waking up and eyeballing everything around us for a little while. At six weeks, the boy has a wry grin like he's certain someone is trying to put one over on him. He shoots this grin around and then makes a surprised face while he stares up at the ceiling, near the lights and then looks back at me to see if I'm as interesting as everything else in his little world.

Together for a while we play little games, planting little zerberts on his feet and belly. He's not quite laughing yet, but he smiles and me makes an excited face if he's happy with what's happening.

If we have time, Reid and I sing and dance together. This is mostly me holding the boy and carefully jiggling around the room like a cautious dervish. And the songlist hasn't yet slid down into the world of Songs for KidsŪ because Reid is still so young. When he was in K's belly I would sing songs to him and we both agreed he was enjoying it. So now we sing whatever comes into my head. Last night we dredged up "Steven's Last Night in Town" and had a great time with the clarinet sounds and the long sustained notes. We ran around the house, the boy staring at the passing scenery and watching the big lips of his father waggle away endlessly. The third verse momentarily escaped me, though, and the delay was enough to shatter play time with a little shouting. We adjourned to the kitchen for a warm bath.

Shortly after the bath, we headed upstairs. With the boy in my arms, I experience everything slightly altered. All parents get frustrated, especially when their child is vexing them with any of a million unexplained behaviors (buy all the books you want; you won't believe a word when your baby is sitting there shouting and you don't know why). But frustrated or not, I sit there and hold the boy (shouting, squirming, crying, spitting up, whatever) and I think to myself, "Take care of your son, man." I know K does the same. You want to make him happier, calmer, sounder, safer. You're tired of the shouting, and there's exasperation on your face. But you just persevere.

Last night, after some initial unexplained shouting and a steadfast refusal to eat, things settled down. K and I were concerned that he wasn't eating. It was she who realized that by this age he could start going longer without eating (ideally during the sleeping-time, but that's a tough window to coordinate), and it had only been about 5 hours since his last big meal (he's a snacker most of the time). He was completely safe and just not hungry.

Once we realized that, we had a nice goodnight. Sometimes it's like this: I sit with the boy in the gliding rocker in the nursery. I hold him not too tight and try not to stimulate him with too much play. Our goal together is to get to sleep. He looks at me and yawns a beautiful yawn, because he wants to get some shuteye, even though he could just as easily shift into full-shout at a moment's notice. But his little yawn and my slow rocking pace are our non-verbal agreement: Let's get some shuteye, dad and son together. An hour of rocking, slow and steady like a ship at sea, and the boy seems asleep.

Sometimes, he really is, and down he goes into the bed that looks so big for him right now. Under the covers, making little noises of sleep and respiration, Reid ends another day on earth and prepares for the next. Sometimes, it is like that.