Just a snapshot from the 1970s. The youngest brother a mere infant. You in your bedroom, its open door at a right angle to the baby’s room, both at a the end of the hall. Dad carries him past your door, the tiny baby head cupped in his palm, the baby body extended along Dad’s forearm as if it were the branch of a tree. Dad had said he could do that, and you didn’t believe the baby would be small enough nor Dad’s arm large enough. Yet, there they are, casually headed to Mom in the baby’s room for a diaper change.