Monday in through the looking glass.

You are curled up in my lap, and together we watch the sun rise and slowly overtake the glow of streetlights. The room is dark, the world is quiet, just you and me.

Later I set you on the handlebars, my arms on either side as if in an embrace, and we sing and gently click-click-click our way through the sleepy, leafy streets to the library. You look back at me in awe as the librarian sings and reads and dances.

Later yet you lean into me as we sit under the shade of an umbrella and watch the 90s buses roll by. Little birds come to peck at the muffin crumbs that have dribbled to the ground from our laps, and we watch them too.

At the grocery store you reach for a pumpkin and break into smile as I hold it up so you can hear its hollow thump. We slowly amble home, you strapped to my chest, bags of groceries precariously balanced in the stroller.

Monday.