A head, downy as a baby mole’s underbelly, snuggles velvet under my chin. With each tiny puff of breath comes a mourning dove’s sigh: “Coo…coo…coo…coo.” The breath would not pass a milk breathalyzer test. A hand snarls and grips in my hair. A gray canvas sky, propped behind the row of houses across the street, waits for daubs of sunshine. A new neighbor launches a vicious hedge clippers attack on the shrubbery next door. I feel the tug of two emails that have been awaiting replies for two days. I, with the weight of a 9 lb-and-growing baby on my end, win the tug of war and remain rooted for just a moment longer.