Time becomes different as a parent. Michiko is six and a half weeks old. She changes each day. A weekend arrives, it’s like coming up for breath from the river of dog walks, work, dinner, a few hours in the evening together, and sleep. Then it’s the week again, a blur, moments strung together like blinking while riding the teacups at a fair: lights, people, movement, shut your eyes, a different snapshot, similar but not the same. It’s a pattern, a motion. What happened to this week? Where did it go? It’s in the yawns of a baby girl, the smell of laundry hung up to dry, walks when the sun is either rising or falling in the horizon.