To my one year old, Ibrahim, water was like home. No one saw him more delighted than when he was splashing about in the shallow sea of his white, oval bath-tub. Naturally, his worst plight was being drawn out of water; a fish would flounder and fray less. As many times as I warned him in advance, he was still taken by indignant surprise when it was time to go. His eyes widened with fear, as he saw the bath towel approaching, and then he let out a loud spurt of angry tears as I picked him up, fighting with every ounce of his strength against my gripping hold. As I placed him on the changing mat, feeling betrayed, his voice gashed into the most painful sob, like a blade scraping through my forbearing heart. He wanted to stay in longer, but if I gave in to what he wanted he would fall sick. Watching him cry before me, I could only imagine how it looked from a higher place, when we resisted change.