Internal Combustion's Reminiscence of In Vitro Pulsations

Daytime sleep for babies is mighty fine, not just for their sanity but for mine! If Lyra doesn't sleep during the day, then come six o'clock there's hell to pay. Hell hath no fury like a baby scorned, and my toddler's scorn is red and horned; loud and unreasonable, screamingly so, devilish - capricious - infuriating, although it burns with no care for right or wrong, it shines twice as bright, so half as long.

So some food, a book and some sleep is ideal. But a building site next door? An ordeal. Well we could take our chances in the automobile.

Tuesday's trip to escape the construction of next-door's attempt at light-obstruction took us on an expanding locus with toddler sleep as our primary focus. Lyra, however, had other ideas, as befits a lady of her tender years. Transportation naming is her favourite game: there's no limit to the cars that she can name when they're all called "car" regardless of colour; it's a game that soon becomes duller than dull. Er.

Ironically, all those cars kept her awake when the car should be calming her, for f**k's sake, for the gentle low noise of the car on the road should remind her of her original abode in the heart of the womb, in that warmth so deep, with the heartbeat of mother suffusing her sleep.

But no, this urchin's for singing along to whatever she thinks is her favourite song.

Through the suburbs then forests and hills we glide out to Samford Valley, and Camp Mountain we ride along back-roads with animals off to the side, so it's animal noises we play, sleep denied.

There's a barrow of honey off the side there, how quaint. I'll stop off for a picture, to break up the trip.

Then some really dull music, Autechre? Mike Oldfield? Surely Mike Oldfield can loosen her grip?

An hour has passed, she has slipped her straps, and we've reached the end of a no-through road. There's no end to her strength in resistance to naps, but my determination has plateaued.

So we head back: 

"Oh look! There's a car. And a car! That's a car! And another one, look! There's a car! A car! Daddy! Look, there's a car! There's a car! There's a car! There's a f**k!"*

It's on Pickering Road, five minutes from home, that she finally loses her struggle. Her eyelids flutter, her head droops a little, and a left-turn allows her to snuggle.

* that's Lyra-talk for truck, unfortunately