I wait in the car with her while she naps. It has been a rough day for her, pocked with broken sleep and inadequate feeding. And then a visit to the doctor with all the probing and poking and weighing. She gave out and screamed, which is unlike her, at the end of her rope and desperate, finally, for some relief.
The wind shakes the car, and I nervously wait for it to wake her up. Why do we have to live in such a windy place? I grumble. Already the hot days have been combed away.
I remember the importance weather took on during the days when Beanie was sleeping poorly. He’s too hot. He’s too cold. The rain is waking him, no, the wind, no, the heater. But Teenie I let sleep in a swing of ten degrees, and it seems to make no difference.