Here is something I jotted down yesterday:
It’s 22:59 hours into the day. I have travelled only from home to Baby’s house, back to home, and one return journey to Plymouth. The sofa holds me in a comfortable scoop, while fire blazes in the wood burner. A faint crusted badge of Baby sick adorns my jumper. Her best trick today was dragging a flannel from the clothes airer to slap my face in a vigorous replication of the act of washing. Also, we have danced, so, whatever else has happened, the day has not been wasted. Baby babbles in sound, we don’t yet share a spoken language. When she is tired she rests on my lap, head lolling into the curve of my shoulder. A bubble of sick pops out. ‘Uh-oh,’ she smirks, eyes closing.