when the spirit says

It is 9:42 pm, and this baby should be sleeping.

We should be home already.

We should've made the eight o'clock train out of Ossining, and we should be already home in Harlem, and this baby should be sleeping, and I should be wearing much more comfortable pants.

This baby is not sleeping.

We did not make the eight o'clock train out of Ossining because if you're picking your way down two flights of stairs in stilettos and a tight dress, everybody wants to give you a hand, but if you're trying to carry a baby, a carriage, a diaper bag, and two full bags of who-knows-what, suddenly you're invisible.

Ask me how I know.

Honest with you, I wanted to cry as the train pulled away. I thought about calling my sister to come pick us up and sleeping the night on her lumpy couch. I thought about giving up on getting my nails or hair done for the next two weeks and calling a cab to get us home.

But then Benjamin burst out with one of his perfect baby laughs, and waved his tiny little fists at the people on the opposite platform, and I thought we just might make it after all. I put our stuff down and did not feel one ounce of bad about taking up an entire bench with it, pulled a bottle out of the diaper bag, and propped my feet up on the bottom of the carriage.

We did make it to the 8:45 train. And this time, when it pulled in, someone offered to push the carriage behind me so we didn't have to risk two trips. Benjamin and I settled in the back of the car, where there's windows so I wouldn't get motion sick, wedged the carriage as much out of the way as I could, sat back and closed my eyes.

The couple got on a few stops later. Tarrytown, maybe, or Dobbs Ferry. They looked travel tired, which is not the same as having a baby tired, but they held their backpacks on their laps, resting their chins on them, and they were watching Benjamin with interest. They wore masks so I couldn't see most of their faces, but their eyes both crinkled in a smiling way. Benjamin gurgled and drooled and tried to bounce himself in my lap, getting all worked up and showing off for his new friends.

They introduced themselves - he said he's a daycare teacher, and she does...something, I forget. They waved their hands and talked to Benjamin in the way that people do when they know babies. And I thought: perfect. He'll be too content with all this entertainment to melt down.

And then it was 9:41 pm.

And for some reason, tonight, that's the witching hour.

At 9:42, Benjamin starts to fuss in the way of a baby who has just realized that he should be somewhere quieter and cozier. He's not big enough to really whine yet, just little unhappy squeaks that work their way into a wail faster than a firehouse siren. I dig around in the diaper bag for another bottle. The couple are giving me pitying looks, which is at least better than anger. Honestly, the way some people will let their rage come out because a tired baby is crying - it's not good. And we're not the only ones in this train car.

There's no bottles left. We're still in the Bronx, too many stops from Harlem 125th. I start to do all the things I know won't work for him, but I've got to at least look like I'm trying - jiggling him, shushing him, patting his little back. I'm about to get up and take him to stand in between the train cars, even though that's not allowed, when I hear it.

You gotta sing when the spirit says sing

I can't see her mouth moving because of her mask, but she's got her eyes closed and her eyebrows up and this lady, the wife of the daycare teacher, she's rocking back and forth like she's just come into church.

You gotta sing when the spirit says sing

When the spirit says sing, you gotta sing right along

Sing when the spirit says sing

She opens her eyes and looks towards us, nodding her head in rhythm. Benjamin lets out an earsplitting squeal, and she just raises her voice and goes into a new verse:

You gotta shriek when the spirit says shriek, she sings at full volume, as I chuckle and Benjamin pauses at the sudden shake and jiggle in my body. That's definitely not a verse on the Raffi playlist.

I stand up and bounce Benjamin along to her singing, and her daycare teacher husband starts tapping a rhythm on his backpack, and before I know it, the train conductor is calling out for Yankee Stadium 153rd street, which is just one stop before Harlem, and I know that just maybe, me and this baby are going to make it home tonight.

The lady in the mask is winding down the song as Benjamin burrows his wet little nose into my neck and starts to settle, but she's still making up her own verses.

You gotta sleep when yo mama says sleep, she sings, winking at me.

You gotta sleep when yo mama says sleep,

'Cuz when yo mama says sleep,

she wants to sleep right along,

sleep when yo mama says sleep.

If only, I tell her. If only we'd made that eight o'clock train, we'd all be asleep right now.

But somehow, as the wheels squeal into 125th, I'm not at all mad that we're coming home late.