Hushabye, don't you cry.

There's a polyrhythm to walking a baby: steps forward in one time, vertical bouncing in another. After I put the baby down or give her back to one of her parents, I find myself still tending toward bouncing during each step. Today: cloth books from the bookstore. Raspberries on the forehead and cheeks. Lots of mutual fascination. Games of peekaboo. The exploration of windowcurtains and what lies beyond them. Namings: this is a flower; this is a vine. There is a house made of brick. There is a blue sky. There is a cat; do you see her? Shall we go to visit the baby in the mirror?

And now we will all be sleeping.