We're late and 
I am losing the battle.
his will is stronger 
than mine,
now he is holding 
the toothbrush
except he is not brushing his teeth
instead his smearing
toothpaste across
the smiling mouth
of his fabric crocodile,
while all I can manage
is to watch
weighted by what's 
still required to do,
feeling my oversized tiredness
weigh upon the thin springs
of his undersized mattress.
Yet somehow
hours later we're driving,
moving through
icy streets,
journeying
through the still dark
two hours south
towards the hospital
where his mother is waiting
and I wake to a 
peace for what feels
the first time in days,
cocooned 
in the dark warmth of the car,
the radiator blowing
the radio quietly chatting.
His sleeping face behind
in the sliding lights
of the motorway,
eyes closed
and concentrated,
the same still face
of the baby we drove home 
on that first night.
Now, clutching the crocodile,
whose teeth
he so thoroughly cleaned,
loosening in his fingers
as he falls into sleep.
The one he carries 
through the world 
with absolute care,
much as I carry him
and in turn 
he carries me.
So we carry one another
in silence,
to that end,
when we will arrive
and he will awake,
to find us both
safely delivered.