I know why the bough broke

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top,
when the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
and down will come baby - cradle and all.

Anyone else wonder what a baby is doing up in a tree? Or how they got the cradle up there? Not to mention what ever happens to the baby when he plummets to the earth?
After years and years of hearing/singing this seemingly sadistic lullabye I have finally figured out the hidden meaning - the analogy behind it that makes sense of it all. And I happened upon it under the very circumstances it of which it speaks.
Picture with me if you will:
It is 4:40am. I went to bed at 2am, yet here baby is -- crying and fussing again. So I feed him. Burp him. Change his nappy.
Still awake.
So I rock.
Rock and rock. And bounce. Bounce and rock. And rock some more. And bounce more. Bounce and rock. Rock and bounce. And bounce. And rock. And rock. And rock.
And finally his eyes close. So I gently stand up. But his eyes flutter open. So I rock again. And rock and rock. Finally his eyes close again. Now I ever so carefully, ever so slowly stand up. Eyes are still closed. Good. I step towards his crib. Eyes pop open.
I start furiously rocking. Rocking. Bouncing. And now shushing. Maybe shushing will help. No. Back to rocking. Rocking and bouncing. Now swaying. Now swaying while bouncing.
Slowly his lids start sagging. He fights it. But my rocking is persuasive and he succumbs. I keep rocking. I've learned. I rock as I walk - slowly, slowly toward the crib. His eyelids flutter -- I stop and rock harder. Eyelids stop fluttering. I continue creeping towards the crib. Made it. Now to lay him down...
I start lowering him: eyes open.
Rock, rock, rock.
I set him down: eyes open.
Rock, rock, rock.
I get him down, eyes closed, but now I have to get my hands out from underneath him: eyes open.
Rock, rock, rock.
I get him down, get my hands out from underneath him, eyes are still closed, but then I stub my toe. And even though I make a Hurculean effort not to curse out loud, the stubbing of my toe jostles the crib: eyes open.
Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock.
Last attempt. I'm impatient now. I rock until his eyes close. I keep rocking while carefully lowering, but I already know it's no good. I'm not going in slowly enough. His eyes are going to pop open any second. I go for it anyway. I lay him down. Eyes open. I pull my hands out. I don't care. The bough has broken.

I realize now that the lullabye craftily conceals from the child what the parent is really saying. And they must be a nicer parent than I, because my lullabye would go like this:

I'm holding you, trying to get you to sleep.
Every time you whimper I rock you like mad;
Finally I've had it, so I just set you down,
And whether or not you cry, I'm going to bed.