She's thinking about smiling. Little flirtatious hints, as she lies in the bright daylight on the changing table and we laugh and sing and wiggle-waggle her ever-chubbier little limbs. She's happy, yes, but always the tongue is on the verge of sticking out: there's a boobie coming, right? Soon?
I've joined the local library at last. Mostly for the free DVDs, I admit. But they have a few older editions of classics, and I'm spending a lot of time on the couch now. There's a set of George Eliot from 1926: tiny volumes, bound in leather, set in clear well-spaced type on very thin miraculously white and opaque paper. Ideal for reading one-handed in poor light.
So much of our early gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the joy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our father's back in childhood; doubtless that joy is wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot; but it is gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only believe in the joy of childhood.
George Eliot, Adam Bede