Sunday morning

4:30 a.m.: Wake up to singing, Norah's newest trick. It's not a real song, of course, but she says "La la la boooooo" and other such sounds in her sweet little voice. And then I give her a bottle full of last night's wine and she goes to sleep.

Ha! No! I get up and we play! Duh! This is what I get for letting her crash at 6:30 last night - her tiny internal alarm says 10 hours is IT, and I know it, but I watched her drift off with her little face all smushed into my shoulder anyway. What. An. Idiot.

Norah's passed out at this point, though, so I have time to get some work done and pull myself together for the arrivals of my mother, who's been with my dad, and my sister, who's been on the highway with Max the Airedale. Kate's staying the week, as next weekend we're going south to help my grandmother throw a dinner party. Sixteen olds and a baby - Norah's cheeks will be purple with pinchmarks after this is over.

So everyone's coming, and I must tango with the vaccuum and waltz with the Windex, although I don't know why I bother - Max and Astrid will have the place in pieces in about ten minutes. I meant to do it last night, but get this, I had a DATE. Rob grilled me a steak and poured me the aforementioned wine and we ate at the dining table like grownups do. That kid, he's GOOD.