Last night when I put my baby to bed, I closed the door, walked downstairs and made sure that the “parent” end of my audio monitor was turned on. My eight-month-old son wasn’t wearing a booty that monitored his oxygen levels or a onesie that measured his sleep patterns. He didn’t have a circular sensor clipped near his tiny chest to chart his breathing, nor did he sleep on a crib sheet that sensed his movements. His ankle wasn’t strapped with a band that interpreted his mood to warn me if he’d be calm, fussy, or angry when he woke.
