When signing hands must sleep

Aware that no sounds of rolly pollies were emanating from the playroom, nor the thrills and saccharin melodies from the primary-coloured toys, I go in search of my little boy and find him fast asleep on the alphabet mat, exhausted after a morning of signing, swallowing and therapy. A soft breeze is floating in through the three windows, causing the cream-coloured blinds to sway in and out, and has left his little hairs standing to attention like marching soldiers. I take the softest blanket from the chair beside him and cover him and he sleeps through, blissfully.