This baby has rules,
and rule number one:
sleep only occurs
on a warm human.
The bassinet? Absolutely not.
The sofa? A bold mistake.
The floor is lava,
the mattress a fake.
He latches like Velcro,
a tiny little monkey,
glued to mom, dad,
or occasionally both.
Set him down gently—
oh, you dared?
The nap is revoked.
Sir must be held.
Arms falling asleep,
back starting to ache,
we don’t move a muscle
for nap’s fragile sake.
Because in his dreams
(where milk rivers flow),
the safest place on Earth
is the people he knows.
And someday he’ll wiggle,
walk, run, and roam—
but for now,
we are his home.
