Layla was crying a bit louder than normal and Maggie and I had figured out that this was the “I have a dirty diaper” cry, so with my wife still running late I did my fatherly best to deal with one of the more unpleasant chores of caring for a newborn.

Entering the nursery and leaving Mama in the kitchen, I picked up Layla from her crib and could tell instantly that Layla’s cry was indeed the “I have a dirty diaper” cry, so I moved Layla over to the changing table and located a clean cotton diaper. As I tried to remember the proper procedure and folding and so on, I noticed that she had become very still, which was a big deviation from the kicking and fussiness that was the standard drill for diaper changing time.

Not really connecting the dots, I did my best with the diaper and then held Layla to my chest as I carried her out to see Mama Vermillion. Now I know Layla loves her daddy, but I wasn’t usually the preferred caregiver. It was usually Maggie and Mama who got all the cooing and nose-pinching and giggling, but tonight it was like Layla was discovering something new about me.