Splayed across the bed. I mean literally diagonally A-CROSS the bed. Baby’s body (how?) contorted into a sharp crescent. I am the hammer, she is the sickle. We conjure a particular communist symbol. This is not a game of lie-down Pictionary, it is me at 4 am wondering, how does an 80-centimeter long thing colonises an entire 5 by 6 feet of a queen-size bed? Where, underneath that 8-kg load of buttery smooth skin and milky innocence, did we miss a burgeoning Napoleon, who has within months, expanded her territory from a cot in a corner, to cot right beside our beds, to now lying right in our bed between us. My tongue caught a bit of dinner in the gap of my upper tooth, I had horrifyingly dozed off without brushing my teeth. The last thing I remember was nursing the baby to her heart’s content, but she didn’t sleep immediately after. She was bursting to babble. My 10-month-old who refuses to crawl but could rival a preacher at a Charismatic church speaking in tongue. Amidst these cute-nothings my tired mind caught a glint of an…accusation? “Mother, do you actually take 10 hours to get work done?” “Why don’t you ever leave office on time?” she seemed to imply in the self-possessed language of babes. I dutifully gave her an account of my day. Our bodies were both straight as a rod before we woke up in this accidental splay of performance art. My bladder is bursting. The baby made a sound and stirred, I whipped out my right breast within seconds, a reflex to pacify her royal highness. She rolled away, this time opting for her thumb instead. Ah, perhaps she is her own person after all.
