My pager trilled one night around 3 a.m. I hustled into my bedroom to get it before my husband woke all the way up, popping a shrieking baby into a crib while I did. Her twin was already howling from the other crib. The night had been layers of bottles and diapers and bouncing and walking and rocking and inexplicable fussing broken up only by crying jags from one or both of them.
I silenced the pager and grabbed the phone and dialed, wandering to the hall where the babies were still audible, but somewhat muted.
“Doctor Rowland,” the resident began, “I’m so sorry to wake you. I have a question.”
I giggled, uncharacteristic but uncontrollable. Wake me up?
“What can I help you with?” I asked, begging for a problem I could solve.