Last night the bug went to bed at eight after enjoying a warm, deep bath and dancing with her mom and dad to "Strawberry Fields Forever," and she slept until five thirty this morning. Of course, I kept waking up and listening for her, but I think it still counts as a full night's sleep.
Today I have nothing that I absolutely have to do, so first thing this morning I loaded the bug into the car and took her to Watson Mill Bridge State Park, a couple miles down the road. Why I thought leaving the house was a good idea I don't know. We hiked around a little, and dipped our feet in the cool water. Suddenly it got very, very hot and insanely humid, we were both sweating and for some reason covered with grass clippings that stuck to our sunscreened skin, and when I picked up the bug, our blanket, our backpack, and my knitting to head back to the car everything went wrong at once: the bug spit up, dropped her pacifier (which wasn't doing any good anyway), ate some grass she'd secreted away somewhere, started crying, and the guy who's supposed to be making our table walked by on his bum leg and said good morning.
I managed to find the car keys and get us home, only to discover that the dogs had eaten our beloved road atlas, and just now as I was writing this Wagner came over and deposited everything he'd consumed this morning—including Georgia and Florida and the U.S. driving-times map—on the floor next to me. The atlas was outdated.