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5:00 p.m. Wed., June 17, 2009. As Leo slept this morning in his basket chair I was in awe of his precious pink and cream beauty. He'd been asleep for almost two hours and he was just beginning to stir.

Three times in thirty minutes he lifted his arms to the sides of his head and stretched, big time, arching his back and extending both arms and legs as far as they could go, pressing his tiny cream and pink ears beneath his tiny cream and pink arms, his hands behind his head, one tiny foot and its tiny cream and pink toes emerging from under his light summer baby blue blanket, squinting though never once opening his eyes, and pouting and pursing his pink lips till they were full and fat and the pink tip of his tiny tongue peeked out between them.

The second time he did all this he accompanied it with a grunt.

"Uhh."

Then a kind of whine.

"Mmmm."

Back to sleep the baby boy returned.

The third time there was again the grunt and again the whine and then Leo opened his mouth and made an unhappy face and a cry.

"Waaa!"

Back to sleep once more the baby boy returned.

One tiny cream and pink knee was visible, free of its baby blue cover, his right arm and hand at rest at his side, his left arm and hand, tiny fingers in a tender curl, at rest on the ever so slight and regular rise and fall of his breast as he breathed.

As I watched my grandson sleep he lifted one arm and for a moment held his hand in the air before he lowered his hand and arm gently to its natural position of rest at his side.

A sound—

"Mmm."

He didn't wake.

Now as I am about to post these observations he is waking again, from yet another nap, in his vibrating chair, his eyes fixed on me in an even, steady, soft gaze, his green binky bobbing, just slightly, in his mouth.

Recognition!

He smiles.

He stirs.

The effort required is too great, his cream and pink eyelids too heavy, the ceiling fan, revolving on slow, on very slow, too hypnotic.

Leo sleeps again.