It's 4am and my husband just brought her in from her room. I can see her open, dark eyes and feel the wet tears on her face in the hushed pale gray of our bedroom. From the crook of my arm, our baby reaches one hand up to touch my cheek. I touch her cheek back. We look at each other in the soft nighttime morning light for what feels like a long time. I can make out her long eyelashes and serious mouth, a pensive look. When I'd put her to bed the previous evening, she was exhausted but still cried for a few minutes. I hate it when she lies in her bed and cries. The cat and I assumed a position near the baby's door, at a back window, where we watched bats catch mosquitoes in our new backyard. The crying ended after a few minutes. But at 4 it started up again; an insistent yelling call that she needed us. I don't know how to fix her process of learning to sleep, but I never want her to seriously believe that I won't be there for her, at least for a long, long time.