Here's Sophia at eleven months, cutting her fangs on a stegosaur.
Where did the last eleven months go? Just yesterday I was catching her, bloody and slick with amniotic gush; walking in the thick, heavy rain, carrying grilled salmon to the hospital for Ruth; showing Nikos the wrinkled wriggling bundle of his sister.
How many nappies, jars of muck, midnight cries, stumblings and burpy smiles? How many words, new dresses and mouths full of sand?
It's all a blink; a lightning flash. What just happened?
(Thomas Mann and Marcel Proust would have had a field day with this parental temporality.)