My five am morning was starting to get to me. We sang and danced through the afternoon, but by eight Mary Poppins and I bore not a passing resemblence. Finally achieving bedtime I read her a story thinking of sleep, not the words I read. She listened while counting her money, silently placing each coin on the doona, stopping to interrupt my stream of sentences with a question: “Mummy, when was 1995?” I answered before thinking: “A year before you were born, honey.” Then it hit me. She’s younger than a coin. My baby, who can read and write, who can be such a pest and such a darling, is younger than a shiny, new coin.
I think she’s asleep now, after reading for a while. I’m going to go and kiss her cheek in the dark.