Incomplete Communications
Bright little eyes darting around, actively seeking things to watch,. Fascinated by sunbeams dancing in the dust, or moving leaf shadows on the wall. Chasing the adults, unwilling to miss anything new and colourful.
Forehead wrinkling like an old lady as she concentrates on something which has held her attention, trying to walk, or when listening to one of Grandad’s stories. Sometimes her eyes suggest she understands more than a child of nine months should, and she’s laughing at my attempts to communicate.
A red-faced bawling bundle of hunger, impossible to divert until the biological imperative has been dealt with. That signal’s always clear. Strength ten.
Sleepy, floppy-limbed, milk-drunk. One of the few and treasured times she’ll happily lay back and be cuddled, instead of wriggling down to the floor to explore her ever-expanding world.
Angry, momentarily livid, wailing with frustration at our adult inability to understand what is bothering her. We’re not the only ones who can’t always get through.
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