this is an ode to my babyphone. or rather to one particular ex-piece (
ex because deceased) of my ex-babyphone (
ex because not been used as such for years due to a) the waves not being good for babies and b) being able (unsurprisingly) to hear the babies just fine without any electronic equipment).
the night-light though... that little piece of magic. it has been with me since the very first days of isabelle's life, when i discovered that although it did not provide enough light to change a nappy in the dead of night (especially if the hands doing the changing were inexperienced, the temperature in the bedroom sub-polar and the brain commanding the hands dead), it did give off just the right amount of light for reading in bed
without waking up the baby.
i am one of those people who cannot go to sleep without having read something. whether it's the user manual of my toilet brush or a treatise on ancient greek metre, it matters not at all. as long as i read
something. so the night-light has been a saviour, and i have dragged it with me to every single overnight address we have been to in the last four and a half years.
when antoine came along, and isabelle began her slow migration to the other room, as one baby body replaced another, my faithful night-light remained. until the fateful day .... when antoine learnt to turn over, and discovered my secret.
that boy knows treasure when he sees it. for a brief but passionate moment, he adored the night-light...
...and drooled over it. to death. i know one is not allowed to cry over a piece of electronic equipment, and yet that is just what i did. so much more than a few wires, this little white box had been my main-stay, my muse, my pacifier, my sanity.
now it was gone. and i disconsolate. then, a while ago, staying with a friend at the beach-house, i heard her say she might take a candle to bed... to read.
oh, i know how dangerous it is. especially with the mosquito-net hanging over us. but i am ever so careful. and aware. and in love. with the soft candle-light drawing gentle shadow plays on my son's sleeping face. with the flame in the glass, dancing to the rhythms of the night-time breeze. with the sun-like rays of light on the wooden boards of our bedroom; with the scent of beeswax mixed with that of sun-bleached sheets and mama-milk. and blowing out the candle, every night, the smell of smoke my last memory.
