It was 3:30 a.m. I had a big job that day and had to be pulling out of the driveway by six. Our baby had been crying for too long and needed comforting. It was my turn. I really did not need this.

He was hot and rigid when I picked him up. Finally, finally, after a neck-cramping thirty minutes, he relaxed and surrendered to sleep on my shoulder. Any parent knows how carefully I placed him back in his crib and tucked in his blanket. I let both of my warm hands linger on his back for a last moment of comfort and then let him go. It was probably 4:30 now. I could have gone back to bed and stolen another hour of precious, beautiful sleep, but I did not.

I just stared. I remember resting my head on the crib rail marveling at the landscape of his ears and the perfection of his nose and eyelashes and cowlick. I could see his lips breastfeeding in his dreams. Like watching waves break on the shore, I was transfixed by the almost invisible pulsing of the blanket on his chest.

I wanted to save him from everything and could only hear the gods laughing.

I wondered if daddy lions ever paused to feel this or if this was a human-only moment.

Where was I getting the energy to not only keep my eyes open but to ponder the galaxy that was my son?

Why do we photograph our babies? I guess the simple answer is that we love them. It seems silly to say it out loud. But later, when we're wrestling with our camera settings, it will keep us going.