Eve has rapidly cycled into the stage of precocious terrorism. She is a peril to others and herself, and is blissful, so blissfully unaware of the danger that awaits her at every errant roll or whole-body jerk. She cannot stand to be motionless; she craves movement, has to strain upwards, outwards, forwards, backwards, wherever there is wide open air, she is grappling with whatever currently has her in its grasp, be it straps or arms, desperate for freedom. She is captivated by bare stretches of wall, the faces of the people who love her, the spastic dancing of the Baby Einstein puppets - she pauses, with bated breath, and then releases her joy in a short explosion of delighted sound, tiny legs and arms flailing in the shockwave.
I take off my earrings as soon as I get home from work, remove necklaces, slide off rings. I grow multiple eyes, spare hands, ultra-hearing; my senses as I knew and used them so inadequate in the face of our new miniature spinning top.