And the Cat's in the Cradle

At the foot of my bed is a tiny holding pen for tiny people.  An abandoned burp-cloth lies over one side.  Over another is a friendly-dinosaur blanket, keeping only the cold plastic of the pen warm.  A discarded pacifier rests on top of a water-free, water-resistant cloth. Two legs of the pen are propped up on Steven King books, throwing the whole lot at an uneasy angle.

A jungle-themed swing sits, motionless, two feet from the books.  A friendly monkey invites no one to his solitary party.

It's like the life force has been drained from room.

Which it has.

That's right.  Little Milo is sleeping, right this very minute, in his crib.
In his bedroom.
Across the hall.
With the door shut.

It's a fact.  Little Milo's growing up.  First he moves out of our room.  Next thing you know....



Man, real tears, every time from that song.