Curious Baby Quotes

everybody he knew was going quietly mad from being tied on a leash that was too short.

Wallace travelled independently and was challenged every step. He had no government or military support system. He had little cash — he earned enough to survive by sending natural history specimens to his agent in London for sale to collectors and museums. He had visceral moments of excitement when he discovered a beautiful new butterfly or adopted a baby orangutan he had just orphaned by shooting its mother. He lived simply, often in the rainforest on isolated islands, in a manner completely different to the expected behavior of other Western explorers and colonials.

Vulvas aren’t dainty. They can eat a penis and push out a baby.

Upon the occasion of history's first manned flight - in the 1780's aboard the Montgolfier brothers' hot-air balloons - someone asked Franklin what use he saw in such frivolity. "What use," he replied, "is a newborn baby?

We don’t know each other, but I know that you must be very special. I can’t be there today, to watch my baby boy promise his love to you, but there are a few things that I think I might say to you if I were. First, thank you for loving my son. Of all my boys, Travis is the most tender hearted. He is also the strongest. He will love you with everything he has for as long as you let him. Tragedies in life sometimes change us, but some things never change. A boy without a mother is a very curious creature. If Travis is anything like his father, and I know that he is, he’s a deep ocean of fragility, protected by a thick wall of swear words and feigned indifference. A Maddox boy will take you all the way to the edge, but if you go with him, he’ll follow you anywhere. I wish more than anything that I could be there today. I wish I could see his face when he takes this step with you, and that I could stand there with my husband and experience this day with all of you. I think that’s one of the things I’ll miss the most. But today isn’t about me. You reading this letter means that my son loves you. And when a Maddox boy falls in love, he loves forever. Please give my baby boy a kiss for me. My wish for both of you is that the biggest fight you have is over who is the most forgiving. Love, Diane

When oranges came in, a curious proceeding was gone through. Miss Jenkyns did not like to cut the fruit, for, as she observed, the juice all ran out nobody knew where, sucking [only I think she used some more recondite word] was in fact the only way of enjoying oranges; but then there was the unpleasant association with a ceremony frequently gone through by little babies; and so, after dessert, in orange season, Miss Jenkyns and Miss Matty used to rise up, possess themselves each of an orange in silence, and withdraw to the privacy of their own rooms to indulge in sucking oranges.

These Cro-Magnon people were identical to us: they had the same physique, the same brain, the same looks. And, unlike all previous hominids who roamed the earth, they could choke on food. That may seem a trifling point, but the slight evolutionary change that pushed man's larynx deeper into his throat, and thus made choking a possibility, also brought with it the possibility of sophisticated, well articulated speech. Other mammals have no contact between their air passages and oesophagi. They can breathe and swallow at the same time, and there is no possibility of food going down the wrong way. But with Homo sapiens food and drink must pass over the larynx on the way to the gullet and thus there is a constant risk that some will be inadvertently inhaled. In modern humans, the lowered larynx isn't in position from birth. It descends sometime between the ages of three and five months - curiously, the precise period when babies are likely to suffer from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. At all events, the descended larynx explains why you can speak and your dog cannot.

People can't anticipate how much they'll miss the natural world until they are deprived of it. I have read about submarine crewmen who haunt the sonar room, listening to whale songs and colonies of snapping shrimp. Submarine captains dispense 'periscope liberty'- a chance to gaze at clouds and birds and coastlines and remind themselves that the natural world still exists. I once met a man who told me that after landing in Christchurch, New Zealand, after a winter at the South Pole research station, he and his companions spent a couple days just wandering around staring in awe at flowers and trees. At one point, one of them spotted a woman pushing a stroller. 'A baby!' he shouted, and they all rushed across the street to see. The woman turned the stroller and ran.

It was babies I loved looking at, the little Lords, sensuous delights of pudgy flesh and fluids. For at least three years I was awash in milk and poop and piss and spit-up and sweat and tears. It was paradise. It was exhausting. It was boring. It was sweet, exciting, and sometimes, curiously, very lonely.

The woman had gone down on her knees and was shuffling slowly across the cruel ground towards the group of crosses: the dead baby rocked on her back. When she reached the tallest cross she unhooked the child and held the face against the wood and afterwards the loins: then she crossed herself, not as ordinary Catholics do, but in a curious and complicated pattern which included the nose and ears. Did she expect a miracle? And if she did, why should it not be granted her? the priest wondered. Faith, one was told, could move mountains, and here was faith--faith in the spittle that healed the blind man and the voice that raised the dead. The evening star was out: it hung low down over the edge of the plateau: it looked as if it was within reach: and a small hot wind stirred. The priest found himself watching the child for some movement. When none came, it was as if God had missed an opportunity. The woman sat down, and taking a lump of sugar from her bundle, began to eat, and the child lay quiet at the foot of the cross. Why, after all, should we expect God to punish the innocent with more life?

What turned babies, fragile and curious, into Shermans? Into Ollies? Into men who could not interact with a new thing without wanting to dominate it? What order of events did Vern need to disrupt in the lives of the millions upon millions who woke up every morning proud to be Americans? What made someone love lies? She saw that cursed flag on the hunter's T-shirt and wondered if he know about the glut of traumas that define this nation's founding. Had he fallen so in love with the myth of belonging that he thought the corpses of his imaginary foes were worthwhile sacrifices toward barbecues, megachurches, bandannas, and hot dogs? The primary freedoms this nation protected were the ones to own and annihilate.

I knw that babies stare at me cuz they're curious or whatever, but I still kinda want to fight them. #RudeAssBaby

• Reality is a curious thing. Truth is not as solid and universal as any of us would like it to be; selfishness guides perception, and perception invites justification. The physical image in the mirror, if not pleasing, can be altered by the mere brush of fingers through hair. And so it is true that we can manipulate our own reality. We can persuade, even deceive. We can make others view us in dishonest ways. We can hide selfishness with charity, make a craving for acceptance into magnanimity, and amplify our smile to coerce a hesitant lover. The world is illusion, and often delusion, as victors write the histories and the children who die quietly under the stamp of a triumphant army never really existed. The robber baron becomes philanthropist in the final analysis, by bequeathing only that for which he had no more use. The king who sends young men and women to die becomes beneficent with the kiss of a baby. Every problem becomes a problem of perception to those who understand that reality, in reality, is what you make reality to be. This is the way of the world, but it is not the only way.

Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child! One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first moment. On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from it — fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what Annette was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the present and — the future.

Poppy shifted where she sat, then asked curiously, “Have you ever regretted never finding someone else to love, Rune? Have you ever regretted, in all this time, never kissing anyone else but me? Never loving anyone else? Never filling the jar I gave you?” “No,” I replied honestly. “And I have loved, baby. I love my family. I love my work. I love my friends and all the people that I’ve met on my adventures. I have a good and happy life, Poppymin. And I love, and I have loved with a full heart … you, baby. I’ve never stopped loving you. You were enough to last a lifetime.” I sighed. “And my jar was filled … it was filled along with yours. There were no more kisses to be collected.” Turning Poppy’s face to look at me, my hand under her chin, I said, “These lips are yours, Poppymin. I promised them to you years ago; nothing’s changed.” Poppy’s face broke into a contented smile and she whispered, “Just as these lips are yours, Rune. They were always yours and yours alone.

A number of visitors called this morning,' Finchley announced with some pride. He took a tray from a waiting footman and displayed it as if it were a baby. Sure enough there was a little heap of cardboard bits, embossed with the names of nobility, acquaintances, friends and the purely curious.

Why do you love books so much?” It wasn’t a hostile question, like I was jealous of those firm, colorful spines that beheld so much wonder between their…pages. I was genuinely curious. Dash said, “From the time I was a baby, my mom took me to the library at least once a week. Librarians were like Mary Poppins to me. They always knew how to match a book to my mood or to whatever I was going through at the time. I could always find peace in books.” “And escape?” “Escape, sure. But it wasn’t so much about getting away, as going to. You can go anywhere in a book. Books are adventure. Knowledge. Possibility. Magic.

They won't fit in your truck," I argued. That only made him laugh. "Baby, have you seen the back seat of my truck?" Baby? Baby? No, I hadn't but I was suddenly very curious.

Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

I am fortunately an entirely handsome devil and appear even younger than twenty-nine. I look like a clean cut youth, a boy next door, and a good egg, and my mother stated at one time that I have the face of a heaven's angel. I have the eyes of an attractive marsupial, and I have baby-soft and white skin, and a fair complexion. I do not even have to shave, and I have finely styled hair without any of dandruff's unsightly itching or flaking. I keep my hair perfectly groomed, neat, and short at all times. I have exceptionally attractive ears.

The British investigators know what butchers have long known: If you want people to feel comfortable about dead bodies, cut them into pieces. A cow carcass is upsetting; a brisket is dinner. A human leg has no face, no eyes, no hands that once held babies or stroked a lover’s cheek. It’s difficult to associate it with the living person from which it came. The anonymity of body parts facilitates the necessary dissociations of cadaveric research: This is not a person. This is just tissue. It has no feelings, and no one has feelings for it. It’s okay to do things to it which, were it a sentient being, would constitute torture.

The end, the tale of what happened to the Trojan women when Troy fell, comes from a play by Sophocles’ fellow playwright, Euripides. It is a curious contrast to the martial spirit of the Aeneid. To Virgil as to all Roman poets, war was the noblest and most glorious of human activities. Four hundred years before Virgil a Greek poet looked at it differently. What was the end of that far-famed war? Euripides seems to ask. Just this, a ruined town, a dead baby, a few wretched women.

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

Ty and Livvy were the last to come say good-bye to Jules; Livvy embraced him fiercely, and Ty gave him a soft, shy smile. Julian wondered where Kit was. He'd been glued to Ty's and Livvy's sides the whole time they'd been in London, but he appeared to have vanished for the family farewell. "I've got something for you," Ty said. He held out a box, which Julian took with some surprise. Ty was absolutely punctual about Christmas and birthday presents, but he rarely gave gifs spontaneously. Curious, Julian popped open the top of the box to find a set of colored pencils. He didn't know the brand, but they looked pristine and unused. "Where did you get these?" "Fleet Street," said Ty. "I went out early this morning." An ache of love pressed against the back of Julian's throat. It reminded him of when Ty was a baby, serious and quiet. He hadn't been able to go to sleep for a long time without someone holding him, and though Julian had been very small himself, he remembered holding Ty while he fell asleep, all round wrists and straight black hair and long lashes. He'd felt so much love for his brother even then it had been like an explosion in his heart. "Thanks. I've missed drawing," Julian said, and tucked the box into his duffel bag. He didn't fuss; Ty didn't like fuss, but Julian made his tone as warm as he could, and Ty beamed. Jules thought of Livvy, the night before, the way she'd kissed his forehead. Her thank-you. This was Ty's.

Do not act so friendly, Savannah. You are a celebrity. We will have enough attention drawn to us. They are our neighbors. Try not to scare them to death, will you? Savannah took his arm, grinning up at him teasingly. "You look as fierce as a member of the Mafia. No wonder our neighbors are staring.People tend to be curious.Wouldn't you be if someone moved in next door to you?" "I don't abide next-door neighbors. When humans consider building in the vicinity of one of my homes, the neighborhood is suddenly inundated with wolves.It works every time." He sounded menacing. Savannah laughed at him. "You're such a baby,Gregori. Scared of a little company." "You scare me to death, woman. Because of you I find myself doing things I know are totally insane. Staying in a house built in a crowded city below sea level.Neighbors on top of us.Human butchers surrounding us." "Like I'm supposed to believe that would scare you," she said smugly,knowing his only worry was for her safety, not his.They turned a corner and headed toward the famous Bourbon Street. "Try to look less conspicuous," he instructed. A dog barked, rushed to the end of its lead,and bared its teeth. Gregori turned his head and hissed, exposing white fangs. The dog stopped its aggression instantly,yelped in alarm, and retreated whining. "What are you doing?" Savannah demanded, outraged. "Getting a feel for the place," he said absently, his mind clearly on other matters, his senses tuned to the world around him. "Everyone is crazy here, Savannah.You are going to fit right in." He ruffled her hair affectionately.

They slid closer to the berserker, their guns up and ready. "Alexander," the one on the left said. "Where's your monster?" He didn't say it in a contemptuous way-merely a curious one. "I am my monster, baby." she told him. "And my monster is me." She grinned and winked at him. "So you're looking at it.

This poem is a witness to the rape of Shurpanaka. This poem smears Rama for his suspicious mind. This poem was once forced into suttee. This poem is now taking her revenge. This poem is addicted to eating beef. This poem knows the castes of all the thirty-three million Hindu Gods. This poem got court summons for switching the castes of Gods. This poem once dated Karna who was sure he was no test-tube baby. This poem is not curious about who-was-the-father. This poem is horizontally flipped. This poem is a plagiarised version. This poem is selectively chosen. This poem is running paternity tests on Hindutva.

The older Kit gets, the less confident he feels judging other people as spouses or parents. These days, driving past the home of the Naked Hemp Society, he finds himself more curious than contemptuous about their easily ridiculed New Age ways. Why shouldn't they nurse their babies till age four? Why shouldn't they want to keep their children away from factory-farmed meats, from clothing soaked in fire-retardant chemicals, from dull-witted burned-out public school teachers whose tenure is all too easily approved? Why not frolic naked in the sprinkler---under the full moon, perhaps? Why not turn one's family into a small nurturing country protected by a virtual moat?

my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now." "No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away." "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward." "Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it." "I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I

It was like being alive twice, seeing the world twice, and the new vision came through the eyes of a small, curious, unstoppable being who had never seen it before. We had our own little mindfulness coach, reminding us that when all else fails us in this life we can love our own toes, or the velvet coolness of a dog's ear, or his downy fur. People told us how we would fall in love with our baby, but not how through him we would fall in love with everything else again too.

As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. At present, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that the first cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anesthetic air of a hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided, one day in the summer of 1860, that their first baby should be born in a hospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I am about to set down will never be known.

At last they came to the lower slopes of the great mountains. Here she met a wild and bedraggled boy. He stumbled across her when she had stopped to rest and suckle the baby. The boy stared at the unlikely pair for a moment, then seated himself on the ground at a respectful distance, obviously preparing to converse. He was the strangest looking boy she had ever seen. Evidently a changeling like herself, for he was tall and straight with long slender limbs, but his hair was golden like the sun and his eyes a deep blue like the sky. He looked to be about fifteen years old, not quite a man, yet man enough to survive. She guessed he must have originated from the fabled district of Shor, in the far south, where it was rumoured that all the people were changelings, and all golden-haired. Astelle tensed, fully expecting Torking to deliver one of his pain bolts to the curious boy, but the child seemed unperturbed, and simply carried on suckling. This boy's attention was obviously not deemed as a threat. She relaxed and smiled at the youth. He returned the smile, white teeth startling against his tanned and dirty face. ‘Why are you travelling all alone?’ he asked. Encouraged by Torking's mindwhispers, Astelle managed to concoct a story very close to the truth. ‘As you can see, my child is rather unusual,’ she explained. ‘I could not bear to raise him among mortals who would constantly deride and insult him – and his father has left me, so I had no choice but to run from my tribe.’ Sympathy appeared in the deep blue eyes. ‘I understand that very well,’ he said. ‘I am an escaped slave. I was captured in infancy, and have no memory of my own people, but all my life I have been mocked and abused because I am different. My name is Bren. I would like to travel with you, if you don't mind. I could take care of you both.’ ‘Keep him,’ Torking mindwhispered. ‘He will be useful to fish and hunt for us. But do not tell him that I speak to you.’ Astelle smiled. ‘Thank you Bren,’ she said. ‘I will be glad of your company. I am called Astelle.’ ‘A Faen name...’ he said wonderingly. They began to climb the mountains of Clor.

So—there were still four hundred scabs, and it was painful to think of them as scabs because they were just like the others, but they were frightened. They were frightened because they were hungry now, but if they lost their jobs they would be hungrier, and winter was coming. Winter haunted them all because there was only scrub cotton to pick for awhile, maybe a few oranges now and then, maybe not anything. There were colds and flu and pneumonia, and babies being born and unborn, and school, and shoes wearing out. There were old men and women dying, and sometimes the young died before their time. Babies died. Life was just a little thing to them: a shrunken breast, a colorless tent wall in their curious sight, hunger without name and explanation, pain, and the dark. Sometimes in the short winter days, the mothers looked at old magazines and saw ads for milk and pretty blankets and lacy pillows, and insurance for your baby’s education, and sometimes they found articles about how to care for a baby, and they knew why their babies died. They knew anyway. Often they wondered why their babies did not die, how they could survive without all the things necessary to babies in the outside world.

You look beautiful, Rena." Gently he laid a hand on the mound of her belly. His sister, he thought as wonder and pride mixed together. His baby sister. "I can't get used to it," he murmured. Serena put her hand on his. "You don't have a great deal more time to get used to it." She felt the baby move under their joined hands and grinned as Alan's gaze dropped to them. "He or she is impatient to begin." Tilting her head, she studied Alan's face. "Dad's suddenly gotten it into his head there might be two...I wonder who might have planted that seed?" His eyes smiled as he lifted them to his sister's. "It was purely a defensive maneuver." "Mmm-hmm." Turning, she held out both hands. "You must be Shelby. I'm glad you could come." Shelby felt the warmth, more carefres than Alan's, the welcome, less curious than Caine's. "So am I.I've been wanting to meet the woman who broke Alan's nose." With a muffled chuckle, Serena jerked her head toward Caine. "It was supposed to be his." She narrowed her eyes a moment as Caine dipped his hands into his pockets and grinned. "It should have been his. Come on in and meet the rest of the family," she continued as she tucked her arm through Shelby's. "God,I hope Alan prepared you." "In his own way." "If you start to feel overwhelmed, just shoot me a look. These days all I have to do is sigh to distract Dad's attention for an hour and a half.

The pro-life movement has not won the public argument-and, arguably, it hasn't really tried. The message of abortion as a moral evil, as an affront to the loving God who made humanity in His own image, has proven curiously ineffective. Why? For one thing, that message seems wildly inconsistent with the politics otherwise practiced by those who claim the "pro-life" mantle If one is driven to electoral advocacy by the conviction that mankind bears the image of God, why stop at opposing abortion? What about the shunning of refugees? What about the forced separation of babies from their mothers? What about the hollowing out of programs that feed hungry kids? What about the lifelong incarceration of nonviolent offenders and the wrongful execution of the innocent?

Soph?” Valentine’s voice called softly from the corridor. A moment later, a knock sounded on the door, and a moment after that, Val pushed the door open. Slowly—slowly enough she might have hastened to an innocent posture if she’d been, say, kissing the breath out of her guest. “Is the prodigy asleep yet?” “You were a prodigy,” she said, rising from the hearth. “Though now you’re just prodigiously bothersome. Lord Sindal was coming by to collect Kit for a night among you fellows.” “We fellows?” Val’s brows crashed down. “We fellows took turns the livelong freezing day, carrying that malodorous, noisy, drooling little bundle of joy inside our very coats. You should be missing him so badly you can’t let him out of your sight for at least a week of nights.” “Ignore your brother, my lady.” Vim rose off the hearth, and to Sophie’s eyes, looked very tall as he glared at Valentine. “We will be pleased to enjoy My Lord Baby’s company for the night, won’t we, Lord Valentine?” Valentine was not a stupid man, though he could be as pigheaded as any Windham male. Marriage was apparently having a salubrious effect on his manners, though. “If Sophie says I’ll be pleased to spend the night with that dratted baby, then pleased I shall be. Coming, Sindal?” And then, then, Vim kissed her. On the forehead, his eyes open and staring at Valentine the entire lingering moment of the kiss. “Sleep well, Sophie. We’ll take good care of Kit.” He lifted the cradle and departed. Sophie pushed the nappies at Valentine, ignored her brother’s puzzled, concerned, and curious looks, and pointed at the door without saying one more word. ***

The day wore on.While yet Rycca slept, Dragon did all the things she had said he would do-paced back and forth, contemplated mayhem,and even honed his blade on the whetstone from the stable.All except being oblivious to her,for that he could never manage. But when she awoke,sitting up heavy-lidded, her mouth so full and soft it was all he could do not to crawl back into bed with her,he put aside such pursuits and controlled himself admirably well,so he thought. Yet in the midst of preparing a meal for them from the provisions in the pantry of the lodge,he was stopped by Rycca's hand settling upon his. "Dragon," she said softly, "if you add any more salt to that stew, we will need a barrel of water and more to drink with it." He looked down, saw that she was right, and cursed under his breath. Dumping out the spoiled stew, he started over. They ate late but they did eat.He was quite determined she would do so,and for once she seemed to have a decent appetite. "I'm glad to see your stomach is better," he said as she was finishing. She looked up,startled. "What makes you say that?" "You haven't seemed able to eat regularly of late." "Oh,well,you know...so many changes...travel...all that." He nodded,reached for his goblet, and damn near knocked it over as a sudden thought roared through him. "Rycca?" She rose quickly,gathering up the dishes. His hand lashed out, closing on her wrist. Gently but inexorably, he returned her to her seat. Without taking his eyes from her,he asked, "Is there something you should tell me?" "Something...?" "I ask myself what sort of changes may cause a woman to be afflicted with an uneasy stomach and it occurs to me I've been a damned idiot." "Not so! You could never be that." "Oh,really? How otherwise would I fail to notice that your courses have not come of late? Or is that also due to travel,wife?" "Some women are not all that regular." "Some women do not concern me.You do,Rycca. I swear,if you are with child and have not told me, I will-" She squared her shoulders,lifted her head,and met his eyes hard on. "Will what?" "What? Will what? Does that mean-" "I'm sorry,Dragon." Truly repentant, Rycca sighed deeply. "I was going to tell you.I was just waiting for a calmer time.I didn't want you to worry more." Still grappling with what she had just revealed,he stared at her in astonishment. "You mean worry that my wife and our child are bait for a murderous traitor?" "I know you're angry and you have a right to be.But if I had told you, we wouldn't be here now." "Damn right we wouldn't be!" He got up from the table so abruptly that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor.Ignoring it,Dragon paced back and forth,glaring at her. Rycca waited,trusting the storm to pass. As she did,she counted silently, curious to see just how long it would take her husband to grasp fully what he had discovered. Nine...ten... "We're going to have a baby." Not long at all. She nodded happily. "Yes,we are, and you're going to be a wonderful father." He walked back to the table,picked her up out of her chair,held her high against his chest,and stared at her. "My God-" Rycca laughed. "You can't possibly be surprised.It's not as though we haven't been doing our best to make this happen." "True,but still it's absolutely incredible." Very gently,she touched his face. "Perhaps we think of miracles wrongly. They're supposed to be extraordinarily rare but in fact they're as commonplace as a bouquet of wildflowers plucked by a warrior...or a woman having a baby." Dragon sat down with her still in his arms and held her very close.He swallowed several times and said nothing. Both could have remained contentedly like that for a long while, but only a few minutes passed before they were interrupted. The raven lit on the sill of the open window just long enough to catch their attention,then she was gone into the bloodred glare of the dying day.

Reality is a curious thing. Truth is not as solid and universal as any of us would like it to be; selfishness guides perception, and perception invites justification. The physical image in the mirror, if not pleasing, can be altered by the mere brush of fingers through hair. And so it is true that we can manipulate our own reality. We can persuade, even deceive. We can make others view us in dishonest ways. We can hide selfishness with charity, make a craving for acceptance into magnanimity, and amplify our smile to coerce a hesitant lover. The world is illusion, and often delusion, as victors write the histories and the children who die quietly under the stamp of a triumphant army never really existed. The robber baron becomes philanthropist in the final analysis, by bequeathing only that for which he had no more use. The king who sends young men and women to die becomes beneficent with the kiss of a baby. Every problem becomes a problem of perception to those who understand that reality, in reality, is what you make reality to be. This

I open the back door of my car for Ginger to buckle the baby in. She smiles and goes to it. I spin around and I'm face-to-face with Logan Kilgore. “Hey, good lookin',” he says, leaning against my door to block my path. “What do you want?” I ask, cracking a slight smile as I wait. He's wearing a dirty, Auburn Football t-shirt, worn out jeans and the same bedraggled baseball cap he always wears. His hair is sticking out just around the edges of the cap in messy twigs and the occasional curl. His curious eyes are dancing around like maybe he's in a very good mood. Despite the obvious, he's kind of beautiful, a little. “Not a thing,” he tells me before turning to walk away. “...was just passing through, wanted to say hello. See you.” I watch him amble away. Ginger shuts Chucky in and opens the door across from mine. She stops before getting in to look up at Logan too. “He's kind of charming,” she tells me, giggling a little. “No offense, but you thought Doug was charming,” I tell her, skeptically. “Good point,” she agrees, before getting into the car.

She keeps her fingers on Faye’s face. Faye closes her eyes against tears. When she opens them Julie is still looking at her. She’s smiling a wonderful smile. Way past twenty. She takes Faye’s hands.“‘Then tell them to look closely at men’s faces. Tell them to stand perfectly still, for time, and to look into the face of a man. A man’s face has nothing on it. Look closely. Tell them to look. And not at what the faces do–men’s faces never stop moving–they’re like antennae. But all the faces do is move through different configurations of blankness.’ Faye looks for Julie’s eyes in the mirror. Julie says, ‘Tell them there are no holes for your fingers in the masks of men. Tell them how could you ever even hope to have what you can’t grab onto.’ Julie turns her makeup chair and looks up at Faye. ‘That’s when I love you, if I love you,’ she whispers, running a finger down her white powdered cheek, reaching to trace an angled line of white onto Faye’s own face. 'Is when your face moves into expression. Try to look out from yourself, different, all the time. Tell people that you know your face is at least pretty at rest.’ 'You asked me once how poems informed me,’ she says. Almost a whisper–her microphone voice. 'And you asked whether we, us, depended on the game, to even be. Baby?’–lifting Faye’s face with one finger under the chin–'Remember? Remember the ocean? Our dawn ocean, that we loved? We loved it because it was like us, Faye. That whole ocean was obvious. We were looking at something obvious, the whole time.’ She pinches a nipple, too softly for Faye even to feel. 'Oceans are only oceans when they move,’ Julie whispers. 'Waves are what keep oceans from just being very big puddles. Oceans are just their waves. And every wave in the ocean is finally going to meet what it moves toward, and break. The whole thing we looked at, the whole time you asked, was obvious. It was obvious and a poem because it was us. See things like that, Faye. Your own face, moving into expression. A wave, breaking on a rock, giving up its shape in a gesture that expresses that shape. See?’ It wasn’t at the beach that Faye had asked about the future. It was in Los Angeles. And what about the anomalous wave that came out of nowhere and broke on itself? Julie is looking at Faye. 'See?’ Faye’s eyes are open. They get wide. 'You don’t like my face at rest?

... as the cover falls my hawk makes a curious, bewitching movement. She twitches her head to one side then turns it upside down and continues to regard me with the tip of her beak pointing at the ceiling. I am astonished. I've seen this head-turning before. Baby falcons do it when they play. But goshawks? Really? I pull a sheet of paper towards me, tear a long strip from one side, scrunch it into a ball, and offer it to the hawk in my fingers. She grabs it with her beak, It crunches. She likes the sound. She crunches it again and then lets it drop, turning her head upside down as it hits the floor. I pick it up and offer it to her again. She grabs it and bites it very gently over and over again: gnam gnam gnam. She looks like a glove puppet, a Punch and Judy crocodile. Her eyes are narrowed in bird-laughter. I am laughing too. I roll a magazine into a tube and peer at her through it as if it were a telescope. She ducks her head to look at me through the hole. She pushes her beak into it as far as it will go, biting the empty air inside. Putting my mouth to my side of my paper telescope I boom into it: 'Hello, Mabel.' She pulls her beak free. All the feathers on her forehead are raised. She shakes her tail rapidly from side to side and shivers with happiness.

When the sun had set and darkness sheltered her from the eyes of the curious, Ruth Ben Shoushan walked into the sea, the nameless infant tight against her breast, until she stood waist-deep. She unwrapped him, throwing the swaddling cloth over her head. His brown eyes blinked at her, and his small fists, free of constriction, punched at the air. “Sorry, my little one,” she said gently, and then thrust him under the dark surface. The water closed around him, touching every inch of his flesh. She had a firm grip around his upper arm. She let go. The water had to take him. She looked down at the small, struggling form, her face determined, even as she sobbed. The swell rose and slapped against her. The tug of the receding wave was about to pull the infant away. Ruti reached out and grasped him firmly in her two hands. As she lifted him from the sea, water sluiced off his bare, shining skin in a shower of brightness. She held him up to the stars. The roar in her head was louder now than the surf. She cried out, into the wind, speaking the words for the infant in her hands. “Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad.” Then she drew the cloth from her head and wrapped the baby. All over Aragon that night, Jews were being forced to the baptismal font, driven to conversion by fear of exile. Ruti, exultant, defiant, had made a Gentile into a Jew. Because his mother was not Jewish, a ritual immersion had been necessary. And now it was done.

It is the story of God.” God’s real name is Charlie, he told us. He was born in York, Pennsylvania, in 1776, in the summer of the signing, when temperatures were high as rockets and humid as seas. Charlie was the son of a poor miller, a mean man with a gammy leg and a spray of powder burns over his right temple from the war. When Charlie was just becoming something more than a boy, he went out into the creaking, old-growth forest to collect firewood. He came upon a stream that fell away, suddenly, into the earth. Charlie wanted to see where the water went. He leaned down and peered in. A spark. An alien pulse of light. He stared, transfixed, as every star, every galaxy in the universe flicked across his vision. The rings of Jupiter. The broken, sunburned back of Mars. Sights no human had ever captured with their eyes. And, just as suddenly, the feeling of every cell of every living organism hovering just beneath his fingertips, like piano keys. He could touch each one, if he wanted. He could control them. There are some who insist Charlie was simply lucky. That anyone who happened to walk by that stream on that morning, curious enough to lean over the odd water gushing into the ground, would be made God. They are wrong. Charlie was God before he was even born. It was only a matter of him finding out. Charlie lives in every generation. When he dies, he is reborn nine months later, a baby God. At any moment, you might meet him. He has been a Confederate soldier. He has been a bank teller. He has sat behind an oak desk in wire-rimmed glasses and a day’s growth of beard graying his cheeks. He has cooked dinner for his mother. He has driven to the ocean. He has fallen in love.

I remember every detail of it, you insignificant cow,” Morwen panted, affecting a crooked grin that failed to convey the same confidence it had before. “You screamed. You cried and blubbered like a baby before you died.” “It won’t work,” said Jenny. “You can’t rile me anymore.” “No? You should have seen your handsome Howard Carson after our vamp got through with him,” Morwen went on. For all her venom, she looked as though she might pass out at any moment. The trip through the wall had left several gashes along her arms, and her eyes appeared to be having difficulty focusing. “You could barely recognize his butchered corpse in the end,” she hissed. “We pitched what was left into the fire like greasy table scraps.” Jenny did not rise to the bait. She only drifted slowly to a stop, looming over Morwen. Morwen gripped her dark dagger so tightly her knuckles whitened. She lashed out wildly at the specter, but the blade met nothing more substantial than moonlight. The effort cost the nixie her balance, and she collapsed again onto the carpet. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” said Jenny calmly. “Not being able to make contact.” She reached down and easily plucked the blade out of Morwen’s grasp. She shifted the weapon from one hand to the other, regarding the dark metal curiously. The solidity of the thing sat at odds with her translucent fingers. Morwen pushed herself up with great difficulty, swaying to an unsteady slouch on one knee. The fight had left the nixie, but not her fury. Her dress was torn and she had plaster ground into her hair. Her voice was hollow. “Just get it over with.” “It is over,” said Jenny. She dropped the blade onto the carpet behind her with a soft thump. Morwen narrowed her eyes. “Don’t waste your pity on me, ghost,” she spat. “I won’t,” said Jenny. “Nor any fear nor fury. I’m done with you, Morwen. My friends, however . . . are not. Mr. Jackaby?” Jackaby stepped forward. He unwound the chain from his hand as he moved around toward Morwen. “Done with me?” Morwen spat. “You only exist because of me, ghost! You’re nothing but a ripple in my wake, you worthless trash. I made you!” “You didn’t make me,” Jenny said gently. “I made myself, and I will continue to make myself forever after. What you did to me? That made you. It made you a murderer and it made you a monster. They buried the girl you killed, Morwen. I’m the spirit you couldn’t kill. You have no power over me.

How did you convince her to remarry you?” Tomas asked curiously, drawing Radcliffe from his thoughts. Making a face, he admitted, “I had to draw up a contract stating that I would never again condescend to her. That I would discuss business with her on a daily basis were she interested, and…” “And?” He sighed unhappily. “And that I would take her to my club dressed as a man.” Tomas gave a start. “What?” “Shh,” Radcliffe cautioned, glancing nervously around to be sure that they had not been overheard. No one seemed to be paying attention to them. Most of the guests were casting expectant glances toward the back of the church, hoping to spot the brides who should have been there by now. Glancing back to Tomas, he nodded. “She was quite adamant about seeing the club. It seems she was jealous of Beth’s getting with those ‘hallowed halls’-her words, not mine-and she was determined to see inside for herself.” “Have you taken her there yet?” “Nay, nay. I managed to put her off for quite some time, and then by the time she lost her patience with my stalling, she was with child and did not think the smoky atmosphere would be good for the baby. I am hoping by the time it is born and she is up and about again, she will have forgotten-“ A faint shriek from outside the church made him pause and stiffen in alarm. “That sounded like Charlie.” Turning, he hurried toward the back of the church with Tomas on his heel. Crashing through the church doors, they both froze at the top of the steps and gaped at the spectacle taking place on the street below. Charlie and Beth, in all their wedding finery, were in the midst of attacking what appeared to be a street vendor. Flowers were flying through the air as they both pummeled the man with their bouquets and shouted at him furiously. “Have I mentioned, Radcliffe, how little I appreciate the effect your wife has had on mine?” Tomas murmured suddenly, and Radcliffe glanced at him with amazement. “My wife? Good Lord, Tomas, you cannot blame Beth’s sudden change on Charlie. They grew up together, for God’s sake. After twenty years of influence, she was not like this.” Tomas frowned. “I had not thought of that. What do you suppose did it, then?” Radcliffe grinned slightly. “The only new thing in her life is you.” Tomas was gaping over that truth when Stokes slipped out of the church to join them. “Oh, dear. Lady Charlie and Lady Beth are hardly in the condition for that sort of behavior.

Inside McClintic Sphere was swinging his ass off. His skin was hard, as if it were part of the skull: every vein and whisker on that head stood out sharp and clear under the green baby spot: you could see the twin lines running down from either side of his lower lip, etched in by the force of his embouchure, looking like extensions of his mustache. He blew a hand-carved ivory alto saxophone with a 4 ½ reed and the sound was like nothing any of them had heard before. The usual divisions prevailed: collegians did not dig, and left after an average of 1 ½ sets. Personnel from other groups, either with a night off or taking a long break from somewhere crosstown or uptown, listened hard, trying to dig. 'I am still thinking,’ they would say if you asked. People at the bar all looked as if they did dig in the sense of understand, approve of, empathize with: but this was probably only because people who prefer to stand at the bar have, universally, an inscrutable look… …The group on the stand had no piano: it was bass, drums, McClintic and a boy he had found in the Ozarks who blew a natural horn in F. The drummer was a group man who avoided pyrotechnics, which may have irritated the college crowd. The bass was small and evil-looking and his eyes were yellow with pinpoints in the center. He talked to his instrument. It was taller than he was and didn’t seem to be listening. Horn and alto together favored sixths and minor fourths and when this happened it was like a knife fight or tug of war: the sound was consonant but as if cross-purposes were in the air. The solos of McClintic Sphere were something else. There were people around, mostly those who wrote for Downbeat magazine or the liners of LP records, who seemed to feel he played disregarding chord changes completely. They talked a great deal about soul and the anti-intellectual and the rising rhythms of African nationalism. It was a new conception, they said, and some of them said: Bird Lives. Since the soul of Charlie Parker had dissolved away into a hostile March wind nearly a year before, a great deal of nonsense had been spoken and written about him. Much more was to come, some is still being written today. He was the greatest alto on the postwar scene and when he left it some curious negative will–a reluctance and refusal to believe in the final, cold fact–possessed the lunatic fringe to scrawl in every subway station, on sidewalks, in pissoirs, the denial: Bird Lives. So that among the people in the V-Note that night were, at a conservative estimate, a dreamy 10 per cent who had not got the word, and saw in McClintic Sphere a kind of reincarnation.

Listen, he said vehemently. Somebody's going to have to say what they really mean and then do what they say they will. All this lying. All this bullshit and pretending. It's just wasting lives, wasting time, everything's just a waste. She was looking at him curiously. That's just the way people are. The way the world is. What are you trying to do, fix the world? I don't want to fix the world. Fuck the world. Just the little part of it that I have to live on. You and that old man. Folks starting babies andd walking off like that's got nothing to do with them. People walking off while you're asleep and never coming back. Leaving a note. A Goddamned note. Old people living a half mile apart and wanting to see each other and dying without doing it. Now that's crazy for you. That's what's crazy.

safely connected world: inclusiveness, willingness to repair, scaffolding, and support in struggling. This model allows people to develop security, flexibility, and coherent working models of attachment, through inclusiveness (responding to the entire range of their experience, and staying curious about internal needs, wants, desires, and beliefs, which fosters a relaxed approach to psychological exploration); a willingness to repair disruptions (as we as therapists take ownership of our own parts, while being appropriately transparent, which allows the client to learn and expect that disruption doesn’t disrupt the underlying solid therapeutic connection); scaffolding (helping the client to find the necessary baby steps in accessing their inner world, translating that into words, linking what’s going on inside their self-system with the intersubjective presence of the therapist); and support the client in a willingness to struggle (actively engaging, setting limits, making room for protest, all while staying connected through the conflict).

When she was a girl, Eleanor had completely believed the tale. That Zephyr brought her back from Africa with him, a pearl that he'd swallowed, that had remained hidden deep within his jaw when he was shot, skinned, sold, and shipped, during the decades his pelt was put on proud display at the big house and through his subsequent repair to reduced circumstances at the Lake House. It was there, one day, when the tiger's head was tilted just so, that the pearl rolled out of his lifeless mouth and became lost in the long weave of the library carpet. It was trodden on, bypassed, and all but forgotten, until one dark night, while the household slept, it was found by fairies on a mission of theft. They took the pearl deep into the woods, where it was laid on a bed of leaves, studied and pondered and tentatively stroked, before being stolen by a bird, who mistook it for an egg. High in the treetops, the pearl began to grow and grow and grow, until the bird became frightened that her own eggs would be crushed and she rolled the argent orb back down the side of the tree, where it landed with a soft thud on a bed of leaf fall. There, in the light of the full moon, surrounded by curious fairy folk, the egg began to hatch and a baby emerged. The fairies gathered nectar to feed her and took turns rocking the babe to sleep, but soon no amount of nectar was enough, and even fairy magic could not keep the child content. A meeting was held and it was decided the woods were no place for a human child and she must be returned to the house, laid on the doorstep in a wrap of woven leaves. As far as Eleanor was concerned, it explained everything: why she felt such an affinity with the woods, why she'd always been able to glimpse the fairies in the meadows where other people saw only grass, why birds had gathered on the ledge outside the nursery window when she was an infant. It also explained the fierce tiger rage that welled up inside her at times, that made her spit and scream and stomp, so that Nanny Bruen hissed and told her she'd come to no good if she didn't learn to control herself. Mr. Llewellyn, on the other hand, said there were worse things in life than a temper, that it only proved one had an opinion. And a pulse, he added, the alternative to which was dire! He said a girl like Eleanor would do well to keep the coals of her impudence warm, for society would seek to cool them soon enough.

Lucia's abuela chortled, and her mother gave him a playful smack on the arm. But he could see both were pleased. They flanked him as if to escort him to the table. But before they could herd him in that direction, he politely asked permission to give Sanchia the present he'd brought. Identical curious looks sprang into each of the women's eyes, and they stepped back, but crowded behind him to watch the show. Pepe wove through the press of people to kneel before Sanchia and held out the dolly, wrapped in the colorful knitted blanket. Since receiving it, he hadn't peeled back the covering to see Senora Thompson's handiwork, and he was almost as curious as the child. With one finger, the girl traced a line of yellow yarn knitted into the blanket, as if she'd never seen anything so sunny. She looked up at her sister for permission to open the present. At Lucia's nod and encouraging smile, she slowly unwrapped the bundle. The baby lay in splendor, wearing a pink gown and a matching cap and booties. Wonder brightened the little girl's thin, solemn face. She whispered in Lucia's ear, too softly for Pepe to hear. But Lucia's gentle, "Si Sanchia" made her grab the doll to her chest and rock her back and forth.

A rhyming Nativity narrative. "The donkey who carried Mary to the Nativity calmly focuses on feelings of wonderment surrounding the child’s birth. With huge eyes...the little donkey is utterly adorable. Lines like “a bit of tingle-my-toes. / That’s how the evergreen / smelled to me, / a bit of fresh pine to my nose” offer opportunities for caregivers to extend the reading to sensory activities, though the scent of pine doesn’t seem historically accurate. An uncluttered stable features friendly, curious barn animals that greet baby Jesus along with the three Wise Men. Told in verse, the tale evokes a tender, pleasant mood. ...“I lifted my head / above His hay bed // …and sang of this morning of grace.” Jesus, referred to as “the Baby” and “the Babe,” is tan-skinned, as are his parents. Two of the Wise Men are light-skinned, while one is darker-skinned. A gentle, spare tale, part bedtime story, part Christmas fare. (Picture book. 2-5)" Kirkus Reviews

What turned babies, fragile and curious, into Shermans? Into Ollies? Into men who could not interact with a new thing without wanting to dominate it?

With the absence of subsidized childcare, paid federal parental leave, and rampant pregnancy discrimination, young women who have had a healthy amount of class advantages are left to ask themselves if they want to effectively lose them—because that’s what parenthood in the United States will ultimately entail: If they want to partake in a different kind of labor that will offer them fewer legal protections, limited pay, increased hours, increased personal financial burdens, and with zero support from the institutions to which they have dedicated expanding days and increased workloads. In this increasing neoliberal cultural terrain, where everyone is encouraged to optimize themselves for the best employment, the strongest partnerships, the most successful path, what strategically middle-class, somewhat self-aware woman wants to do more work for less money? If it wasn’t parenthood we were talking about but a white-collar job, Sheryl Sandberg would tell these young women to lean out. The pragmatics of having a baby are fundamentally incompatible with the dominant cultural messages surrounding economic security, class ascension, and performance aimed at women of these particular socioeconomic backgrounds. This is the tension that underlies many of these waffling motherhood essays and, I think, what young, professional, child-curious people are looking to reconcile when they click on these “Should I, a Middle-Class Woman Who Went to NYU, Have a Baby and Fuck Up This Good Thing?” headlines. But what often awaits them is a contemplation of “choice” and very seldom an expanded structural critique. They are placated into the numbing mantra that having children is “a personal choice,” encouraging increased individual reflection on what is actually a raging systemic failure that relies on women’s free labor. But structuring the conversation of having children around personal autonomy and lone circumstances also successfully eclipses the identification of parenthood as labor in the first place.

My blood pressure is fine, you freak,” she muttered. “Well, your ankles were really puffy last night and–” “They’re just fat,” she cut him off hotly, drawing a few curious stares from the nurses behind the desk. She looked up at the ceiling and contrived to lower her voice. “They’re just fat because I’m fat, because I’m carrying your big fat baby. Now stop fussing.

Yes, I suppose so,” said Lord Pomfret. “Though I admit I did not kiss old women in cottages, or young women either. In fact no one till I met you, Sally. I don’t count Rosina.” “And who on earth is Rosina?” said his countess, curious but quite unmoved by his confession. “One of my best friends,” said Lord Pomfret. “She was cook and everything else in the house my father had in Italy and she looked after it when he was in England. She was rather kind to me when I was a boy. I think she was sorry for me not having a mother. She married the inn-keeper’s son and has twelve children. I believe I’m godfather to one of them, but I couldn’t get out to the christening, so the Sindaco, a sort of Mayor, took my place. I rather think he was the baby’s father.” “Gillie! you never told me that before,” said his wife indignantly. “Did they call the baby Gillie? Or I suppose it would be Giglio.” “Certainly not,” said Lord Pomfret. “They called it Antonio after the local poacher. I daresay he was its father too. You never know.

Curious now, she glanced to its contents and this time did squeal with delight when she saw all the cages holding the furry friends she'd rescued, mended and adopted over the years. At least, the ones that hadn't been released back to the wild: Osborn the three-legged goat, Lowrans the blind wildcat, Grisell the baby cow who couldn't walk when she first saw her and now could but was still quite wobbly on her feet, and of course Brodie the bunny, and her earless little fox.

Life would be more straightforward if we knew what we needed to find out, if we were told at birth exactly what we need to know to be happy. But in a complex world, it’s impossible to know what might be useful in the future. It’s important, therefore, to spread our cognitive bets. Curious people take risks, try things out, allow themselves to become productively distracted. They know that something they learn by chance today may well come in useful tomorrow or spark a new way of thinking about an entirely different problem. The more unpredictable the environment, the more important a seemingly unnecessary breadth and depth of knowledge become. Humans have always had to deal with complexity; felling a woolly mammoth is not simple. But now that we live in larger, more varied, faster-changing societies than ever before, curiosity is more important—and more rewarding—than it has ever been. This applies to who we need to know, as well as what. Another striking thing about Leonardo’s list is how many house visits he will have to make. His curiosity makes him highly sociable. Montaigne wrote of how travel to different regions and countries allows us to “rub and polish our brains” against others, and Leonardo seems keen to polish his brain against as many others as possible. Out of the fifteen tasks in the complete list, at least eight involve consultations with other people, and two involve other people’s books. It is easy to imagine Leonardo eagerly approaching each expert, intent on drawing out their knowledge, beginning each conversation with “Dimmi. . . .” People who are deeply curious are more likely to be good at collaboration. They seek out new acquaintances and allies in the process of building their stock of cultural knowledge. In the next chapter we’ll look more closely at the curiosity of babies and children and at why some of them are more likely than others to grow into adults who share Leonardo’s passionate curiosity. * Perceptual curiosity, which diversive curiosity encompasses, refers specifically to the seeking out of physical experience—it is what drives people up mountains and down rivers, just to see what’s there. * Of course, one obvious way to reduce the danger of firearms is to restrict their availability, but that debate is beyond the scope of this book. I use guns here simply as an extreme example of the power of diversive curiosity.

I call this the “essential self.” Melvin’s essential self was born a curious, fascinated, playful little creature, like every healthy baby. After forty-five years, it still contained powerful urges toward individuality, exploration, spontaneity, and joy. But by repressing these urges for years and years, Melvin’s social self had lost access to them. It was inevitable that Melvin would also lose his true path, because while his social self was the vehicle carrying him through life, it was cut off from his essential self, which had all the navigational equipment that pointed toward his North Star.

a Frenchman might say after sipping a smooth red wine: C’est le petit Jésus en culotte de velours! It’s the baby Jesus in velvet shorts! What!? Relax, it’s just the French way of saying “It’s the tops!” (a Roaring Twenties flapper might’ve said, “It’s the cat’s pajamas!”) or it goes down easy, like God in velvet shorts—or underpants, depending on who’s translating. You get the idea, although getting the idea doesn’t make it any less curious. My secret fantasy is to see an American presidential candidate slip up and use that expression on the stump: “Winning Connecticut would be the baby Jesus in velvet shorts!” Not only would his career be over, but I swear, I’d probably make a map of France, right then and there. French and the Middle-Aged Mind Middle age is that perplexing time of life when we hear two voices calling us, one saying, Why not?

I can't get it why did I name my book series, I'm talking about "The Life Of One kid". I'm talking about the last word "Kid"?? Aren't your curious I'm with British Accent and putting "Kid" the American word for child the last? I'm also curious I still don't know, I really don't know why. Child sounds like a baby maybe that's all, kid sounds like a child in aobut 7-8 years old!

How curious, after all, is the way in which we moderns think about our world! And it is all so novel, too. The cosmology underlying our mental processes is but three centuries old a mere infant in the history of thought and yet we cling to it with the same embarrassed zeal with which a young father fondles his new-born baby. Like him, we are ignorant enough of its precise nature ; like him, we nevertheless take it piously to be ours and allow it a subtly pervasive and unhindered control over our thinking.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry Go to sleepy, little baby When you wake, you shall have All the pretty little horses Way down yonder in the meadow Lies a poor little lambie Bees and butterflies, picking out its eyes...

Luke was welcomed by the brothers and drawn in with friendly approval. The conversation quickly turned to missions and commands as they compared notes, trying to figure out if they had mutual friends or had served in common battle arenas at the same time. Then more women began to arrive and Luke watched curiously as the men greeted each one as if she could be a sister or girlfriend. When Paige came out of her quarters with the new baby, the tot was passed around from man to man, each of whom took her close and affectionately, praised her beauty and snuggled her like any fond uncle might. Her son, Christopher, was soon riding on various shoulders while Paige was being embraced. Brie came in from the RV behind the bar, her home until her house was finished, and damned if each one of those men didn’t have his hands all over her belly like he’d been the one to put that baby in there. After a quick feel, they’d compliment Mike on his excellent potency. “You got her cooking a good one here, brother,” Josh said. “Baby, you are more gorgeous than ever!” said Tom. Then came Vanessa and Nikki and the whole process was repeated again, with bone-rattling hugs and sloppy kisses. It was a whole new experience for Luke. Even in his own family of biological brothers, he hadn’t seen anything like it. But it interested him, the way these men behaved toward each other’s women, as though it was expected. As if they idolized each other’s wives as much as their own, treating them with a fondness that was hardly superficial; an intimacy that was at once deep and completely respectful. The trust was implicit; the affection appeared genuine. The security they felt in their relationships was obvious. Luke had never lived in this kind of world. Preacher

It couldn’t have been that bad that he had to hurt you, Leo.” “Oh no, it was bad. It was the fucking first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan bad, Jax.” Day paced as he listened to his brother go on about God accepting responsibility for his own actions. “Jax, don’t get me wrong, I’m highly pissed off with my partner. I’m pissed off to the highest of pisstivity. But I still have to know that he’s okay. That crazy brother of his really landed some hard blows on him and God didn’t fight back at all.” “Because it’s his baby brother. That I do get,” Jax said softly. “But I can’t check on him, Leo, because believe me, there is nothing here to clue me in on where he may have went.” Jax paused before speaking again. “I must say I’m curious how he got all that heavy furniture out of here if he was in as bad a shape as you say.” “Well, that wouldn’t be too hard to do. A lot of people owe God favors—both of us actually. If God called someone for help, they’d drop everything and come to help.” Day took a deep breath. “The same as I would if he had called me.” Day’s voice was strained from the hurt in his chest and he had no doubt that Jax was picking up on it. “That asshole,” Jax snapped. “Whoa, big brother. Don’t go cursing away your do-gooder image. You know you’re not a vulgar-language type of person…leave that for us heathens.” Day laughed humorlessly. Day heard his brother laugh an irritated chuckle at him for trying to lighten the situation. “Fine. But, after he apologizes numerous times, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” Jax said. Day did smile that time. He had no doubt his brother would do just that.

And she began to weep, dropping her head onto her forearms and rocking backwards and forwards in that curious motion that is perhaps a subconscious attempt to mimic the movement that brings comfort to a tiny baby. That we should in moments of sorrow seek to return to a time when the harshness of the world could be forfended by the simple reassurances of our parents; that we should do that …

The Adopted Baby A young married couple learned early on they could not have children naturally so they decided to adopt. They had to go through quite a lengthy process, but one day they received great news.  Their adoption had gone through and they were to get a baby boy.  The young couple was overjoyed. A few days later they stopped by a community college and enrolled in a Japanese language night class. The clerk that registered the couple was curious and asked, “I’m just wondering why you want to study Japanese?” “Well, we just adopted a Japanese baby,” the father said, “and when he gets old enough to talk we want to be able to understand him.

Clever Comebacks to Catcalls Situation: You are walking down the hall, and someone tells you he’s so ready for that jelly. Or you are strolling down the street and some construction worker on his lunch break says, “Come on, baby, lemme see you smile.” What can you answer? 1. Join the twenty-first century. 2. Try to imagine how little I care. 3. Have you had your brain checked? I think the warranty has run out. 4. I can’t get angry at you today. It’s Be Kind to Animals Week. 5. Didn’t I dissect you in Biology class? 6. Did you take your medication today? 7. I’ll try smiling—if you try being smarter. 8. I’m curious, did your mother raise all of her children to be sexists, or did she single you out? And some extras, for specific situations: If he says, “If I could see you naked, I’d die happy,” then you say, “If I could see you naked, I’d die laughing.” And if he says, “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” answer, “Do not enter.” And if he calls down the street as you ignore him, “Hey, baby, don’t be rude!” reply, “I’m not being rude. You’re just insignificant.” And if he says, “Can I see you sometime?” say, “How about never? Is never good for you?” —written by me and Nora, after some serious Internet research.1 Approximate date: October of junior year.

The baby. Deep, deep inside of her the baby was moving. It was just a flutter. So curious. So light. Then it came again. She gasped. “What is it?” He was over her instantly. She shook her head. “The baby.” “My God!” His voice was harsh, rasping. “Is it all right? Did—” “No, no! It’s fine. He’s moving! I can feel the baby. It’s so strange!” His palm moved over her abdomen. “I can’t feel it!” he said. She shook her head again. The darkness cast shadows over them both. “No, you can’t feel him, not yet. It’s just inside. I think it takes time to feel the movement from the outside. But—oh, there again! He’s alive, he’s moving, he’s kicking, he’s …” “He’s what?” Jeremy said. His palm still lay gently against her flesh. “He’s real!” she breathed. “He’s real, he’s going to be born, he’s going to live.

You aren't there anymore, Nikki. You're here.' He paused, then added, 'With me.' 'No, I'm not,' she said, lifting her head and wiping her face. 'I'm always there, with her at that lake. I'm always on the dock where I watched my baby sister die.

As much as I wasn't sure if I wanted babies in general, something shifted when I wanted his. Not gonna lie; I am kind of curious about what a mini version of me could do with his bone structure and ability to do mental math.

The message of abortion as a moral evil, as an affront to the loving God who made humanity in His own image, has proven curiously ineffective. Why? For one thing, that message seems wildly inconsistent with the politics otherwise practiced by those who claim the “pro-life” mantle. If one is driven to electoral advocacy by the conviction that mankind bears the image of God, why stop at opposing abortion? What about the shunning of refugees? What about the forced separation of babies from their mothers? What about the hollowing out of programs that feed hungry kids? What about the lifelong incarceration of nonviolent offenders and the wrongful execution of the innocent? What about the Darwinist health-care system that prices out sick people and denies treatment to poor people and produces the developed world’s highest maternal mortality rate? What about the fact that, in 2020, guns had become the number one cause of death for children in the United States?

Very curious, dear. But so sad about poor Sir Reuben. I must write a few lines to Lady Levy; I used to know her quite well, you know, dear, down in Hampshire, when she was a girl. Christine Ford, she was then, and I remember so well the dreadful trouble there was about her marrying a Jew. That was before he made his money, of course, in that oil business out in America. The family wanted her to marry Julian Freke, who did so well afterwards and was connected with the family, but she fell in love with this Mr. Levy and eloped with him. He was very handsome, then, you know, dear, in a foreign-looking way, but he hadn’t any means, and the Fords didn’t like his religion. Of course we’re all Jews nowadays and they wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d pretended to be something else, like that Mr. Simons we met at Mrs. Porchester’s, who always tells everybody that he got his nose in Italy at the Renaissance, and claims to be descended somehow or other from La Bella Simonetta—so foolish, you know, dear—as if anybody believed it; and I’m sure some Jews are very good people, and personally I’d much rather they believed something, though of course it must be very inconvenient, what with not working on Saturdays and circumcising the poor little babies and everything depending on the new moon and that funny kind of meat they have with such a slang-sounding name, and never being able to have bacon for breakfast.

Once a year on a midsummer night that could not be foretold, a curious plant called the night-blooming cereus would decide to undrape its petals. It was said, among the colored people in the small-town South who followed such things and made a ritual of its arrival, that if you looked hard enough, you could see the face of the baby Jesus in the folds of the bloom.

They couldn’t be that dumb, could they?   Eamon had stopped moving and was giving the burrows an assessing glance. He looked over his shoulder and tilted his head at the dark hole.   Yep, they could be that dumb. Shea mouthed a curse.   That’s why Buck was so all fired curious about the damn things. He thought their people might be in them.   He backed out of the latest one and shook his head at Eamon.   To those unfamiliar with the shadow beetle, it would have made sense to seek shelter in one of the smaller tunnels. The shadow beetle was too big to follow. It would seem like the safest place if you didn’t know about the hundreds, possibly thousands, of eggs filled with ravenous baby shadow beetles, just waiting to hatch.   Buck straightened and pointed at the tunnel he just checked, making the sign for tracks. It was no bigger than waist high and only about two feet across. He’d found several footprints in the dirt in front of it.   They shared looks of equal distaste.   None of them wanted to head down into the dark. Eamon rolled his eyes up to the sky as if to say ‘why me?’ while Buck rested one arm against the stone and covered his eyes.   Eamon crouched to the side and cupped his hands around his mouth whispering as loud as he could into the dark, “Vale? Anyone? Are you alive down there?

Why would I wish to marry you? Perhaps it is your looks, which utterly charm me. Or your wit, which seduces me. Or your mind, for which I feel a powerful, unbridled lust. Or perhaps it is the simple fact that I like you, that I enjoy talking with you and being with you, that I enjoy kissing you and would love nothing better than to do a great deal more than kiss you. Or perhaps it is that I have a hankering to see what you will look like and to know what you will be like at the age of thirty and forty and fifty and on upward until death do us part. Or perhaps I am curious to discover what sort of babies we may create together. Or perhaps it is that I have never, ever entertained these thoughts before in connection with any woman or even not in connection with any specific woman. I believe I must be in love with you, Eunice. Head over ears. Is that the correct expression?

Lee Colton, however, a skinny somber-looking boy of four, slipped out of the bed he shared with another boy and followed at a canny distance. Curious where the mean fat lady was taking the crying baby, he continued to follow them. He tiptoed through another room of beds, and then down a long hallway, past a heavy mahogany wardrobe. Further down, at the end of the hallway, there was a door

When Constance was born she was welcomed with enthusiasm by both her parents — it was delightful to have a little girl — but when her second daughter arrived Mrs. Ayrton was disappointed. Her third daughter was a disaster (there was no other word for it in Mrs. Ayrton’s opinion) for not only was the child of the wrong sex but she was positively ugly; a thin puling baby with a curiously broad forehead and no hair at all. Mrs. Ayrton took one look at the new arrival and then turned her head and wept. “She’s a nice little baby,” said the nurse. “No,” said Mrs. Ayrton between her sobs. “Perhaps it will be a boy next time.” “No,” said Mrs. Ayrton. She had made up her mind there was to be no “next time.” Three babies in three years was enough. If she could have been certain that the next one would be a son … but it might be a girl … she was not going to risk it.

Observation is the basis of the Montessori approach. As part of my Montessori training, we observed babies and young children for 250+ hours.

But, in my opinion, the most horrifying part of Anna’s experience isn’t what happens to her physically, but how the people around her react: how her doctors dismiss and ignore her, expecting her to suffer through her pain for the good of her baby without any concern for whether her body can handle it; how her husband assumes she’s either making up or exaggerating her symptoms. I’m afraid I didn’t have to exaggerate these reactions at all. They’re all too real. The tendency to assume that women can’t be trusted to accurately convey their symptoms comes from the historical diagnosis of “hysteria,” which was once thought to be a medical condition said to only affect women. Doctors were taught that women were inherently liars, unreliable, or hysterical hypochondriacs. In some cases, they were even believed to be possessed. And these beliefs have persisted, even after the diagnosis of hysteria was proven to be nonsense. To this day doctors prescribe less pain medication to women than they do to men, they take longer to diagnose us with illness, and they’re more likely to send us home in the middle of a medical emergency like a heart attack. Unfortunately, all these prejudices disproportionately affect women of color. If you’re ever curious about why the maternal mortality rate in the United States is so high—particularly among Black women—these are good places to start. Doctors don’t understand our bodies, they don’t believe us about our symptoms, and they ignore us when we try to tell them we’re in pain.

Sometime after dinner, we reached the deserted spot whereon, in summertime, pleasure seekers sought the sun and waves. Without speaking, I led the way down a rocky declivity to a narrow inlet left by the ebbed tide, finally indicated a deep, smooth pool banked around by curious, porous looking rocks. “That’s Brimstone Pool itself,” I explained, glancing up to find Tarp’s lean face within two inches of my own. “I dived in from here, swam right across, and back again, Eva followed a moment or two afterwards…” “Uh-huh, Tarp said pensively, then he stooped and stared into the Pool. It was perfectly clear, but it plainly had nothing in it beyond a few baby crabs and shrimps. Finally he wetted his lips with it. “Normal sea water all right,” he sighed; then as he stared around on the rocks fringing the Pool, he began to frown. “Say,” he breathed, “these rocks aren’t normal. They’re—meteoric!” he finished, kicking one of them. “Large amounts of iron and pumice in them.” I looked at him in surprise. “But I thought you knew that, Tarp! Don’t you remember the meteor of 1942 which fell near Atlantic City? It landed here and broke up—wasn’t very big. All around this Pool is where it dropped. These very rocks are the exploded parts of it—according to Doctor Grantham, anyway, Eva’s father. Hence the name Brimstone Pool.” “Idiot that I am!

Corrie's birth resonated in Britain, and Australia gained some of the liveliest publicity since the battle of El Alamein. In the thick of war, this clearly ruffled the London Daily Telegraph who published a local rhymester's verse in their columns: Hush-a-bye Platypus, Pride of the Zoo Baby shall figure in Nature's Who's Who, Mummy will fondle and Daddy will brag While all the zoologists' tongues are a-wag. Shush, little mammal, you're nor all that smart, This is no time to expect a star part, Sleep—and remove that smirk off your bill We are making more history than you ever will. 'Australian jungle fighters', huffed the paper 'will doubtless agree'.

It is curious that we talk so little about the flavour of formula, given that it is the main food many babies taste for that crucial first year.

Be a proud Stay at Home Mom, be grateful, breathe deeply, live healthfully, look stylish, be end- lessly curious, follow your bliss, be present, keep it simple, love yourself, dare greatly, and . . . do it all over again. Every single day.

So, you’re Shea’s cousin?” Buck asked as the fire crackled and popped. “You must have known her when she was young. Got any good stories?”   Shea lifted her head and glared at Buck. “What kind of question is that?”   He spread his hands and shrugged. “What? I’m just trying to make conversation. Get to know the other pathfinder in our midst. You’re always such a mystery. You can’t blame me for being curious.”   “I’d be interested to learn whether she’s always been this grumpy,” Eamon said.   “Grumpy? I’m not grumpy.”   “Oh yes, you are,” Trenton said. “You get this frown on your face, and then the next thing you know, you’re questioning how someone has survived in the world this long. To their face.”   “Wait, wait,” Buck said. “My favorite is when she asks if they were dropped on their head as a baby.”   “She still does that?” Reece asked.   “Yup, and this was when she was masquerading as a man and a scout. Asked the leader of a war party that, and then when he said no told him that was a pity, because maybe being dropped on his head would have knocked some sense into him.”   The rest of the group laughed.   “Did you really do that?” Fallon asked in a low voice next to her ear. Shea’s shoulders tried to reach her ears as she looked away. That was answer enough. A warm chuckle feathered through her hair. Shea rolled her eyes. Yes, laugh it up. In her defense, that man had wanted to take the warband right through a nest of gravers when she had specifically told him it was a bad idea. It wasn’t her fault that he’d gotten so upset at her words that he’d tried to prove her wrong and nearly ended up dead in the process.   They laughed about it now, but at the time Eamon had been furious over her insubordination. The only thing that had saved her tail, was that the man had been so shaken he had forgotten all about her insults. The nice thing was that he hadn’t questioned any of her advice for the rest of their journey.   She frowned. She could kind of see why they thought she was grumpy.

She curls tightly to me kissing me on the lips and cheeks, her body skin to skin to mine, she’s kind of- like- a hyper puppy… you know- wet nose, big sad eyes, giving you lots of unwanted wet kisses, and can’t sit in one place for too long. Now she is pulling on my necklace, the one I am always wearing has my dad’s wedding ring hanging from it-a thin silver chain and the gold band hanging from it, a gift dad gives me- saying- ‘He loves me more than mom, that I am the love of his life.’ Yet sis tugs gently to get my full attention. I ask here- ‘Why are you not wearing your undies?’ And she baby- talks without missing a beat- ‘Be- because you don’t at night so-o why should I’s.’ I knew not too long from now she would be running around the house stark-naked like always, saying it’s because I sleep this way. I am sure mom will say I am a bad role model, but yet there are far worse things she has done, things that mom and dad never need to know about, things that I can even remember right now. If she wants to be in my bad nude, will- I guess that’s okay…? She is just trying to be like me, and that’s sweet. I have saved her butt many times when she has done bad things. I have been like a mom to her, ever since she was born if I wanted to be or not. And she has been there for me when I was a nobody. Yeah, she’s the best pain in the butt a girl can have. ‘Mommy says you have to get up soon, her hand covering her eyes as she walks my room and sees both of us.’ Her breath smells like toothpaste, as she kisses us good morning, and she stumbles over all the stuff lying on the floor and it’s not until I push sis off me that I realize how badly I’m shaking. Mom, she has one of those green face masks sped up, which is some scary-looking crap, pulls she has curlers in her hair. Yet that’s not what’s got me traumatized. ‘It’s Friday,’ I say confused. I thought we were going to the rusty anchor today? Mom said- ‘I thought you didn’t like doing that Karly that you’re too grown up to be with your mommy and Daddy and sissy… always- yes we are all going this upcoming weekend, glad to see you want to go.’ I said- ‘Oh- okay?’ Mom- ‘Karly are you feeling, okay? Are you not your usual descent and moody self? Me- ‘Yah I am a fine mom.’ I have no idea how I got home last night, or what I did or didn’t do. It’s like it never happened, yet I think it did… didn’t it? Maybe I drink too much? Mom said- ‘Um-hum- come on you two bare cuddle bugs it’s getting late.’ Then- I remember getting in the car, with the girls and the fighting it was all coming back to me, as I see my sis run into her room, leaving her nighty behind on my bed. I knew that something looked different about her when I looked her over, I am starting to remember what Ray did to her last night. Yet she seems to be taking it so well- so strange. I have no idea what happened to Jenny or Maddie or Liv, and just thinking about it makes me awful sick, pissed, and yet so worried. I put my feet on the ground, first on my fuzzy shaggy throw rug, and then I step forward feeling the hard would under my feet. The cold wood reminds me. When I was younger, I would lie on the floor all summer wishing I have some friends to spend my time with. Back then my only friend was my sis and my horse, I’m curious to do the same thing now, and reflect a bit on what the heck is going on- and also on how things have changed, I know my sis will be another half hour getting ready. And with me, all I have to do is jump in my outfit laying there on the floor. My skin feels so cold yet, yet on the inside, I feel scorching. Like- photos on Instagram, all these snapshots start scrolling, row after row in my mind. Seeing bits and pieces of what went down last night. My, I- phone starts vibrating on top of my bed until it falls off the edge hitting me square in the face making me jump two feet in the air. I reach for it and slide my finger over the cracked screen.

Wouldn’t you like to see what I bought for you? Aren’t you just a little curious?” He was, but he couldn’t let her know that. She’d pounce on that weakness and use it against him. “How about we make a deal,” she proposed as they neared his office, which she knew he had every intention of locking himself in. “No deals, Taryn.” “That’s a shame,” she said as she slid down his back, exhaling a heavy sigh. “It means I went to Victoria’s Secret for nothing.” She watched in satisfaction as he stopped still with his hand on the doorknob. “Victoria’s Secret?” he repeated without turning. “Yeah, but never mind.” She went to return to the kitchen, but then he spoke. “Out of curiosity…” She twirled to see that he was still facing the office door. “Well, I bought this kinky little baby-doll, all black lace like the one I tried on that time when I was tormenting you.” He cleared his throat. “Black lace?” “Yeah.” She took a few steps toward the kitchen, knowing what was coming next. “What was this deal you had in mind?” he called after her as he finally turned. He was well aware that she had played him, but only an idiot would miss out on this. She faced him and shrugged. “I was just going to propose that if you try to enjoy yourself and celebrate your birthday with us, then later—for one whole hour—I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. I’ll be kind of like your sex toy.” His cock jerked and quickly began to harden. “Anything I want?

Children are mentoring their parents and older generations to actively begin to make major changes, in evidence of glaring environmental and social issues that previous generations have taken too long to address. They feel the urgency for change because they know the long-term consequences that affect their future. Be curious and listen to their passionate messages and educated calls-to-action. Let yourself be inspired to contribute to change as best you can.

Is that what other weres smell like to vampires?” I frowned. “I guess. They smelled like normal weres to me.” “But not like you,” Taylor said. “Your smell… you smell so good.” “You smell good to me too, baby,” I murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. I wanted to add that she smelled hot—like she was in need. All evening her scent had been driving me crazy—that warm feminine spice that let me know her pussy was wet and ready to be fucked—to be bred. But I held back—I wanted her to come to me, not the other way around. She blushed, her pale cheeks going pink. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I wonder why you smell and taste so different from other weres.” I shrugged. “Who knows? So you didn’t like that guy’s blood?” She made a face. “It was awful. Like tasting dirty motor oil and sweat mixed together.” “What’s mine like?” I asked curiously. She’d been drinking from me for almost a month but this was the first time we’d really had this conversation. Her face lit up. “It’s amazing. Like some kind of really rare, delicious liquor—it warms me up from the inside out. It’s kind of like drinking liquid sunshine.” I barked a laugh. “You’re making me think I should sell the stuff. If everybody liked it as much as you I’d be a millionaire inside a month.” “Don’t you dare,” she said with mock severity. “You’re mine—I don’t want anyone else drinking from you. Ever.” The possessiveness in her voice sent a thrill through me and made my cock even harder. God, I loved to hear her talk like that—like we belonged to each other. Like we would be together forever. “I’m all yours,” I promised her, squeezing her hand again. “As long as you remember you’re mine too.

Factfulness is … recognizing when a category is being used in an explanation, and remembering that categories can be misleading. We can’t stop generalization and we shouldn’t even try. What we should try to do is to avoid generalizing incorrectly. To control the generalization instinct, question your categories. • Look for differences within groups. Especially when the groups are large, look for ways to split them into smaller, more precise categories. And … • Look for similarities across groups. If you find striking similarities between different groups, consider whether your categories are relevant. But also … • Look for differences across groups. Do not assume that what applies for one group (e.g., you and other people living on Level 4 or unconscious soldiers) applies for another (e.g., people not living on Level 4 or sleeping babies). • Beware of “the majority.” The majority just means more than half. Ask whether it means 51 percent, 99 percent, or something in between. • Beware of vivid examples. Vivid images are easier to recall but they might be the exception rather than the rule. • Assume people are not idiots. When something looks strange, be curious and humble, and think, In what way is this a smart solution?

The challenge with hidden racism in the shape of discrimination is that although it exists in most countries and within humanity at large, it is not a normal state of being. Do you ever see young children and babies of various skin colours and cultures rejecting each other on the playground? If anything, they tend to get curious and come close to discover their differences, or they simply don’t notice any. If a child ever does discriminate or reject another child because of her or his colour or cultural origin, it is always due to a learned behaviour. Racism is an insidious cultural disease. We take it in, like air based on our environment. All types of racism are taught. None of us are born judging each other. Judgement is a taught behaviour.

Is it the baby?’ ‘Yes. It quickens.’ Sarah beamed. Without asking for permission, she placed her palm on Elsie’s belly. A curious sensation: Sarah’s heat on the surface of her skin; the child pushing back on the wet, slippery side within. Horrible, in fact. One Bainbridge on the outside, one locked away behind flesh, and she was no more than a thin barrier, a wall through which they could communicate. She looked down at the black crêpe of her dress and at Sarah’s gloved hand, grey against it. She had the strangest feeling that it was not her stomach at all – not any more. It was only a shell. She was a shell, and another body, a foreign body, was growing inside.

We don’t know each other, but I know that you must be very special. I can’t be there today, to watch my baby boy promise his love to you, but there are a few things that I think I might say to you if I were. First, thank you for loving my son. Of all my boys, Travis is the most tender hearted. He is also the strongest. He will love you with everything he has for as long as you let him. Tragedies in life sometimes change us, but some things never change. A boy without a mother is a very curious creature. If Travis is anything like his father, and I know that he is, he’s a deep ocean of fragility, protected by a thick wall of swear words and feigned indifference. A Maddox boy will take you all the way to the edge, but if you go with him, he’ll follow you anywhere. I wish more than anything that I could be there today. I wish I could see his face when he takes this step with you, and that I could stand there with my husband and experience this day with all of you. I think that’s one of the things I’ll miss the most. But today isn’t about me. You reading this letter means that my son loves you. And when a Maddox boy falls in love, he loves forever. Please give my baby boy a kiss for me. My wish for both of you is that the biggest fight you have is over who is the most forgiving. Love,

For You To Succeed In Anything, Have A Baby Mindset, It's A Curious And Fearless Mindset.

I've got him, sir." "No problems, were there?" "No, sir- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. "Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall. "Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever.

Alex dragged her gaze away from the visuals to regard Nika curiously. “Each one of these points of view—they’re all you?” “Yes. And each one is mentally connected to the others, and to this instance. To me.” Her eyes drifted back to the frames. “How many were there?” “To start? Eight thousand.” Alex blinked. “Eight THOUSAND? Can all Asterions do this? Can you teach—” Caleb reached over and touched Alex’s arm. “No, baby. You’re not splitting yourself into eight thousand shards. The universe is barely surviving one of you.

This preeminence of fear over hope is older than modern humans. We see it in animals and we see it in newborn babies who haven’t developed the more advanced parts of the brain yet. Throughout the natural world, there are a few rewards for creatures that take a risk. But mostly they aren’t as big as the penalties. Nature favors the cautious.

Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a