I’m quite groggy this morning. I was out late last night seeing a movie and an hour after I fell asleep Gertrude woke up and decided it was time to play. If you want to understand true fear, stare into the eyes of an alert baby at 1 a.m.

It’s like staring down the barrel of a Howitzer. You know that you don’t have a chance.

Now, I’m the dad in this situation. It’s my job to convince the baby to go back to sleep not because I’m afraid she’ll be crabby all day. I do it because I’m afraid I’ll be crabby all day.

I situate her, rub her back, snuggle with her, coo at her. No avail. She wiggles and squirms and gets angry and kicks and fidgets. Then she looks at me, gives me the raspberries and says “Uh-oh.”

Meanwhile I’m getting frustrated thinking about all the things I have to do in the morning and how difficult they will be when I’m looking at life through the fog of exhausted parenthood.

I love this baby. I really do. I love this child in ways I cannot describe. She brings out emotions in me that I never thought I’d feel. That I didn’t even dream were possible. When I look at her little sweet face I’m overcome by joy and happiness.

But that’s between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m. At 1 a.m. I’m frustrated with her. I feel horrible for being frustrated with her. She can’t help it that she’s wide-awake at this hour. It’s not her fault that her daddy took of the night before to have a beer and see a movie with friends. It’s not her fault that she didn’t get to play with him before bedtime or steal the book he and her sister were reading, just like every other night. And gosh darn it, here she is conveniently awake and whom does she find? Daddy! Why don’t we party papa? I’ll grab the beanie ferret and you make the funny voices. Come on!

I tried to convince her that daddy would be much more interesting in the morning. That daddy would love to wiggle and giggle with her during her favorite morning kids’ shows AT A REASONABLE HOUR.

I was just about at the end of my rope. I had tried everything I could to calm this baby down and convince her to sleep.

Then her mother picked her up, put her back in her crib and came back to bed. The baby started to cry. I started to get out of bed to go get her, but my wife grabbed my arm to stop me. She cried for five minutes. Then ten. Then . . . nothing.

I think she stopped breathing. I started to get out of bed. The hand on my arm again.

Two minutes later I hear a gentle little snore.

Huh. Put her back in bed and let her fall asleep on her own. I admit I had never thought of that. I’ll have to send that on in to Ann Landers.