B linking away the fog of sleep, I stared down at my watch: 4:30 a.m. The last time I’d looked, it was 2:30 a.m. Before that, midnight. My four-month-old infant was sick, and his shrieks cut through the predawn silence like a siren. I hadn’t slept through the night for over a week, and my husband, feverish and passed out on the bed next to me, was in no condition to help. I dragged myself out of bed, picked up my son, and walked out of the bedroom to avoid waking my husband. I started pacing and rocking my infant in the living room to try to calm him down, which was futile since his nose was plugged up, he couldn’t sleep, and the nasal aspirator I was using just made him mad. He was also due for an immunization shot at nine that morning, which meant that in addition to surviving the day on limited sleep, I would also have to get dressed, try not to look like I’d been attacked by a flock of wild birds, and deal with his meltdown after getting a needle later that day