When I was a child, I played with dolls but I wanted my own baby. As a teenager, I babysat other people’s kids but I wanted my own baby. (I nearly had one. But I didn’t). When I was 25, I got married and wanted a baby. But he wasn’t ready, so we waited. I
Look at me! Look at my babe! We’re wonderful, we’re fine! I’m chilled and coping and loving it – I’m relishing every moment. She’s a gem by day, an angel by night – she’s perfect in every way. She never cries, not really – (except when hungry, tired, cold, hot, scared, bored, windy, stuck, hurt).
A poem about my newborn baby…
She traces her finger over dark polished narrowboats: maroon, forest green, mustard yellow, deep red. “My life,” she explains, (bright red lips, bright red nails) “is lived out on my boat, making art; making food.” Then she leads us through to her Garden of Dreams – chairs are comically small; empty frames; engraved wood and