Last night the bun was snuffling and snorting in bed, and I leaned over to feed him. I pulled the covers down, but he was still underneath them. I began to panic: was he suffocating? Was he in distress? I pulled back what seemed like acres of cloth, but I still couldn’t find him and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t. He was making noise, and even though I felt him, somewhere under these blankets that had metamorphosed into “The Blob,” he was out of my reach. Panic rose to a fever pitch as I scrambled desperately to remove the cobwebs from my exhausted brain to see where the trouble was, which blanket was the problem, where my poor baby was, but I was teetering at the edge of completely irrational behavior as I struggled to unravel the nest of covers.

As I was doing this, I looked into his little sidecar bed. I had a complete mental break when I realized I had TWO babies, and only one was buried under mountains of unending fabric. I stopped. There he was, snuffling quietly to himself, tucked in just right, no blankets over his head, not even in my bed at all.

The second bun? That was the pillow I keep between my knees, buried deep in it’s cozy pillow case.

It was a very Wile E. Coyote moment, wrestling with a Roadrunner made out of dynamite while the real one sits back and watches calmly.

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