Ask me how I know a man is fully capable of leadership and I will tell you of a 3am morning, in a darkened nursery, rocking a baby with croup. His airways are swelled, he must sit upright. I rock and rock and rock, his body heavy with sleep, with relief, with me.
Once rest finds him, assuredly, I rise for the crib transfer. But he wakes with a jolt and the tears return. That terrible barky cough. I sit. I rock. I rock and rock and rock.
There is a moment where I must make a decision. My back itches, a seemingly minor thing. I beg the prickling to abate, I fix my mind on time spent elsewhere in a not-so-dark nursery with a not-so-sick baby snotting onto my bathrobe.
The itch sticks around.
I preach promises to yourself, recite mantras read in books. This too shall pass, you think, remembering the supine eves of my older son’s croup five years ago, the same boy that just yesterday announced with big eyes and a booming voice that he’ll be changing the world someday, but first he’ll need an extra banana.
The itch sticks around.
I try to reach around to my back, to re-position him, but again, the jolt. The cries. His fitful distress.
The itch sticks around.
Ask me how I know a man is a sheer force, a cyclone of strength, a pulsing power of subtle might, and I will tell you of the secret night in which the itch stayed on the back, the mother stayed in her rocker, and the long-suffering babe stayed fast asleep.
—
The next morning, two bananas for your son. He’ll be changing the world, after all.
Best to give him fuel for the trip.
