In the Middle of the Night
In the middle of the night, I’m suddenly flush with fear that the baby is going to fall off of the bed. “You’re too close to the edge!,” I say, and try to scooch him back closer to my side. To the middle. He’s getting big, though, and requires some maneuvering.
In the process of trying to move him, I touch his face, and realize that there is something stuck to his cheeks. They feel wrong. Crunchy. Like something dried on them? Oh no, I think. He was sick on himself. It has dried on his cheeks.
I’m patting the little cheeks and lamenting that I’ve let all these bad things happen, when Matthew wakes up and tries to squirm out of my scooching, patting grasp, and says “What, what are you doing?”
You, giant baby in my bed, are not what you first appear to be.
Church Avenue Chomp 
That poor giant baby!
Marco sometimes (often?) complains that the kids are always first in my mind, and that he’s moved to third place. To which I snap, “It’s not a contest!”