I tumble through the days, not stopping to ask for directions. Moving through rooms, bumping gently into walls, careening absently. My arms encasing my precious cargo.
When she cries, the people of the world stop and turn, eyes wide, shocked at the sound. I am amoung them. The noise prickles my ears and back. She is an angry sight to behold. Red faced and furious at the confines of her tiny baby shaped prison. We shush her gently, the people of the world and I, reassuring in our clucks and croons. Singing "Old MacDonald" gently as the fury abates.
I find, by accident, that the baby is calm outside the house. Our ghosts sulk on the stairs, frowning and muttering to themselves. The weather is warm and I place her beneath the washing line. Her eyes follow the white squares of muslin floating prettliy on the breeze. A small frown moving accross her face when I pause between verses of her favourite nursery rhyme.
Our days become longer, but less routine. Sleep is snatched when we can find it. One day I am nestled cozily in a rabbit hole, the next between the drain pipe and the wall. I don't mind. It's a good skill to learn. My grandmother calls to say she used to sleep on a washing line and the image floats around my mind for weeks.
When the baby begins to sit up we truly stake our claim on the outside world. We take our blanket to the grassy part of the garden, near the burgandy bows of the acer tree and embed ourselves in the afternoon sunhine. She plays with ice cubes, lavishly exploring them with her mouth and toes. Frowning furiously when they melt until more are plopped into her cup by a passing seagull.
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