1. I run a bath that goes up to Alec's neck. It's more for something to do than for washing. He lounges against my feet, held securely between my calves, and marvels at a braid of water leaping from a jug. He slaps the water with his hands, blinking at the drops in his face. I blow bubbles larger than he is -- my grandmother taught me how to make them through the ring of my thumb and finger. I wonder who taught her?
2. At breakfast Alec used the last of his bibs. I put a wash on, and then out on the line. By lunchtime they are dry enough to use again.
3. Alec gets in a rage about his last feed and then won't settle. I sit on the edge of the bed and bounce until he quiets. It feels really good, and I can see why he likes it so much.
