11 a.m.

Here I sit with a little lump on the floor behind me, having her morning snooze. She has gone to sleep only with chest-heaving sobs while I rubbed her back and patted her bum, so I have turned off the phone on my desk and am staying away from the noisy kitchen. She needs to sleep long enough for an attitude adjustment to be facilitated.

Her mother called me early this morning to ask if I would babysit for the day, and brought her over half-an-hour before the little chickie was due to take a bottle and a nap. Unfortunately, the need for those two essentials coincided with noticing that her mother had disappeared, so much distress ensued and she would have none of either.

Farmboy came in and carried her around for a while, took her for a walk outside, then handed her back to me so he could put his workboots on and head out to the field. I tried rocking her, singing, and so on and so forth, but she was inconsolable. Finally there was naught to be done but lay her down and let her cry herself to sleep. It didn’t take long, fortunately.

And now she has opened her eyes and is smiling at me, and seems not to think the bottle of milk is such a bad thing.

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“The day was so beautiful it hurt like an old tune.”
-- Nellie McClung, The Stream Runs Fast