The Touch

This is my friend Penny.

Penny's pretty cute.

Okay, Penny's really cute.

Plus Penny loves geography.

I can never keep my hands off of Young Penny's tootsie-toes. 

The girl's got great tootsie-toes.

 

And Mistah Schleckah? Oh he loves those little babies.

He loves to take the tiny babies on walks, to show them the local flora and fauna.

Mostly flora.

Oh, the fun those two had.

We could hear the wee one laughing out loud from up on the deck.

And Penny was having fun too.

But none of that is important right now. What is important is Young Penny was pooped, and needed a nap, and no one -- nobody -- could get her to sleep.

Enter -- da-ta-da-da! -- me.

I have The Touch. I am able to get the wee tiny lads and lasses to sleep by slinging them over my forearm, walking them up and down the street, and comforting them with the sound of my voice reassuring them everything's gonna be allright, and a gentle, but firm, and very specific circular back rub.

And I am always successful.

Success?

Oh, you better believe it.

Penny's dad and I were talking about my prow-ass -- well, I was. He may or may not have been listening. I said, "I am so good at getting those babies to sleep!" He said, "She doesn't look that comfortable." I said, "What are you talking about? This is my patent-pending over-the-arm-baby-carry. She's *totally* comfortable! She's drooling down my arm!" He countered, "She's tired."

He's wrong, though. It has nothing to do with tiredness. It has to do with one thing and one thing only.

I've got The Touch.