E 'night when he starts dancing and it happens every time I start to wake up: just beginning to move, to contract and stretch the limbs, my typical urletti to issue, dad takes me quickly in the arms, trying to prevent tears imminent and overwhelming, I raised from the cradle and puts me on her pillow, her head against his well-secured and a pacifier in his mouth. His immediate goal is to make me fall asleep again before it's too late, or before I explode into inconsolable crying. Its ultimate aim is rather to delay my feeds, lengthening the waiting time between one and the other.
And so, every two hours and every night, me and dad dance a dance on the bed whose choreography is as follows: I spit the dummy and he brings back to me, I too turn his face to the pillow and he puts her back in a half, I'm like an unexpected smile and he - won at that point fatigue - smiles at me.
Everything always goes on for an hour, that does not give up until Dad and I prepare the milk.
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