I glanced over to see where the rasping sound was coming from only to find her wee fingers entwined within the willow. Her Moses basket is her safe place if she's not in someones arms. It's her comfort and security, except for the braided trunk that curves with a mind of it's own. Somehow her hand found it's loop. Although she hates the texture she continues to grab hold and fight with it. Exhausting herself. Still - she fights. She won't win. The handle isn't going anywhere. Eventually I turn her the other direction where she can no longer see it. Still - it won't be long until her arm rubs against it's rough texture. Then the fight will begin again. I do the same thing at times. No. I don't fight with the handle of a basket. I fight against circumstances, people, the past, regrets...myself. I don't like the way it makes me feel. Yet I keep grabbing hold and wrestling. Exhausting myself like it will somehow make a differenc