It feels like I'm playing a game of musical chairs. And the chairs are the number of hours I have each night to sleep; sometimes there are more chairs and sometimes there are less. And each time the music stops—or a babe cries or wakes—a chair or two or three get pulled away. And then the sun is rising and light fills the house and it's another night passed. And another day welcomed waking tired and pressing on through the morning and afternoon and evening daydreaming about a night of sleeping soundly.