In the weeks before you were born I swam a lot and I imagined you swimming with me, in my swollen belly. So I am not surprised by how much you love the water, how your instincts kick in, literally, and you flap your arms and legs furiously, trying to swim the minute we hold you horizontal in the pool.
You even remind me of a little fish when you sleep, or rather when you try to fall asleep. But no ordinary fish, one of those red cellophane miracle fortune telling fishes that lays on your palm and twists and turns and flips, like a baby in a belly, to tell you your future. I wonder if maybe that is what you are trying to do, when you roll back and forth, and wriggle down the bed. I only wish I had a key, like the one that comes with the miracle fish, so that I could understand it all, this great puzzle of being a mother.