Went to my sister's in-laws' house. Lots of Cubist and African art; Mrs. In-law tried to give three year old Glamor Girl cranberry juice and gingerbread men in a miniature artisan tea set. They are planning a cross-country trek and had piles of books that, while in perfect condition and not from any library, looked at least thirty years old, detailing the Grand Canyon and other tourist attractions. Mr. In-law excused himself to work on his “project,” which he explained was a map cabinet for the van. Occasionally we heard a rotary saw shrieking in the distance after that. Mrs. In-law showed me an Indian cookbook and described a time in her life when that was all she’d cook, and I vaguely recalled my sister relating to me some trauma her husband experienced as a teenager when all his mother would cook was Indian food—something about undercooked meat in a lot of gravy. Mrs. In-law played so delicately and kindly with Glamor Girl she was chirpingly showing her all the toys upstairs usually reserved for the grandchildren.

Upon my return home I found the double loaf of bread I’d baked this morning shredded into gooey pieces all over the downstairs; the shepherd had been let out of the mudroom somehow. “Oh my God!” I yelled, and Mr. Crazy kept asking “Who’s your God?” the whole rest of the evening. I was so irritated I left the shep outside (where he was already, having slunk out of the house when I opened the door) and when we all went outside again, I noticed he was frothing at the mouth and rubbing his face on the ground. Apparently the loaf of bread had compacted into a glue-like layer on the roof of his mouth. It seemed like such divine justice that I could not help howling with laughter (the dog looked terribly embarrassed); I took a stick and pried it out, and the dog ate it all over again off the ground!

Crazy Girl, the baby, is a disaster because she had no nap, but I am determined to keep her awake until 8:00 PM. She is trying to eat the keyboard.

It occurred to me today, that no matter how much things change, babies will always stay the same-- barring some massive genetic shift in our make-up, at any rate. They’ll always need naps, they’ll always reach out to grasp you finger in the same way, they’ll always wriggle and squirm and cry when they’re frustrated, they’ll always want milk. If you plopped a baby from three hundred years ago in my lap I’d know how to take care of it, only because that baby would be much like the baby I’m holding now. These thoughts came to me when looking at a black-and-white photograph of Mrs. In-law's father holding her brother as a baby, and I noted he was holding him exactly like I hold Wild Girl, and this strange, spooky feeling came over me. I know Mrs. In-law's father was killed not long after that picture was taken, and it then occurred to me that this man, though he died young, has many great-grandchildren, and through them, he’s still alive.