Sweet script that was once reserved for bedtime stories, now chronicles tales of the bar I used to spend all hours of the nights in Brooklyn, New York City. I have ‘Baby’s’ tattooed on my upper left arm. In case I slide too far into the side of soft whispers beneath lullabies rather than loud yells over the music. What was once a body to let desire flock towards it, is now one to hold the desire swaddled and centre focused. Without intention, this piece nods a little towards the old (and somehow shamefully still occurring) mother-centric punny signage that one might find on a fridge, “Moms! Even when they’re wrong, they’re right!”. As she drinks and flirts and pretends she is untethered, she announces her baby’s all right. Forget the responsibility. Keeping a soft toy next to her baby to substitute her presence.