Doctor Luigi Bonatti went down the marble staircase of the large old house he had inherited from his parents. It was on a quiet narrow cobblestone street in Rome.

He never was up so early in the morning, at five-thirty sharp, and he was very sleepy. Now at 42, he was starting to realize that besides his knowledge of medicine, he knew very little about life.

Yesterday was an exciting day. He had brought his firstborn, Angelo, from the clinic, but Angelo did not allow him to get a wink of sleep. He was fussy and cried and ate and slept, but Luigi was shaken out of his routine by the sudden change in what was his "organized" life.

Coffee would be the temporary fix, he thought, as he was to teach a class at the Faculty at 8:30. However, on second thought, despite all the

differences, he was happy.

Before Luisa and Angelo, his life had been too simple and empty. This morning he had regretted leaving the bed. Luisa looked like a Madonna, her abundant hair spilling on the pillow, and Angelo was an angel, cuddling against her. He had cried almost all night. He had great lungs, but he cried so loud and so long that Luigi was afraid that their neighbors had heard him also. No cuddling, walking, feeding, changing diapers, or cooing had calmed him. He had stopped at dawn when it was time to get up.

Dr. Bonatti remembered pacifiers. No, he had recently read an Avant-Garde article in a French Medical Journal and told his patients' parents and medical students that he was against them. Children would stay quiet after eating and with a diaper change, especially if they were warm and cuddled.

While drinking a cup of coffee, he thought about pacifiers. Where was the closest all-night pharmacy? Only about fifteen minutes away. He decided to stop on his way to the Medical School.

The clerk greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, Doctor; up so early?"

"We brought our baby home yesterday."

"Congratulations. How can I help you?"

"Do you have pacifiers?"

"Which type?

He did not want to admit ignorance; "Which is the most popular?"

"Different babies like different ones; our pacifiers have sold pretty well."

"How many types do you have?

"Right now, we have seven different ones; I will get them for you."

Luigi hid the bag in the trunk of the car.

He would not confess his weakness to his students or the patients' parents, but he would not discourage them from using pacifiers.

Doctor Bonatti had discovered after only one sleepless night that his son had already taught him a lesson, and for that, he was grateful.