It became one of those days.

Now, at dinnertime, is the first time where I could lay Lou down for more than five minutes without him crying. Daddy has actually come up with a nickname for it: "going Red Dwarf." His face--all of him, really, even his feet--gets almost maroon. I don't remember any of the older ones doing that.
So I had to have "help" with everything, meaning the Big Three's cooperation. It was, merciful God, generous in coming. Dale unloaded the dryer and took the basket into his parents' bedroom, as it was all ours anyway. Madeleine didn't complain while I managed to braid her hair, even though Louie went off before we were half done. Rachel has been understanding about not holding her little brother, a very quick way to get him hysterical. They have been patient with my short-temperedness and even tried to tidy up some.
Dear husband understood that enchiladas might not make it to the menu tonight because wrapping them takes two hands. While I do have a sling, there's no guarantee Lou will be in the mood for it.
When I finally got to lay him down, I did dishes. I can walk away from that to get him if necessary. He stayed asleep. I've sorted socks and wiped off the table, helped Rachel finish at the potty and disciplined Dale for practicing "karate" on the love seat. I even read the local newspaper.

I know these days of baby-craziness will end just like it has with the others. As I watch him with tear-smeared eyes, looking so cherubic as he (finally!) sleeps, I remember someone else's wise words. These are the longest days but the shortest years or my life. Someday sooner than I realize I'll watch him run away from me after a butterfly, or walk away to play with friends, or drive away to college. I'll wonder where my baby went. And be willing to trade almost anything for one more moment of holding my baby in my arms--including no shower, a sink of dirty dishes, and a pile of laundry yet to do.