4:27 AM
All is quiet; the world sleeps.
4:28 AM
My wife jolts me awake; our son has managed to wet through EVERYTHING — onesie, PJs, sheet, mattress pad. I jump up and head over to help her. She extracts him, still sleeping yet moaning, from the crib and I start tossing out blankets, glow seahorse (“Fin”), pillows, etc.
4:30 AM
Landa is knee-deep in stripping off our child while I’m ankle-deep in stripping off the mattress, each of us tossing wet fabric into the wash pile.
4:32 AM
She re-assembles Keston into warm, dry diaper, onesie, and PJs as I put the finishing touches on the new mattress covering, lie it back down, and re-arrange the crib bumper.
4:33 AM
I help finish off the last of dressing my son, who is still asleep but awake enough to suck on a bottle while we toss limbs into holes in clothing and zip it up. He desperately wants to go back to sleep, thankfully.
4:34 AM
We lay the little boy back down in the now-dry crib and tuck him in with copious, fuzzy blankets and Fin playing soft lullabies. A few rhythmic pats on the back and his whining reduces to moaning and sucking on his bottle with a few sighs of happiness tossed in.
4:35 AM
I drop back into bed, pull up the covers, and just before my consciousness blinks out into oblivion, I think: “Damn — we’re getting good at this.”

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