<

...which were punctuated with the bombastic trill of the doorbell, shrieking just outside Clara Jane's room, followed by the idiot dogs, leaping into action to protect! The! House! From! The! Doorbell!

8 AM. Naked and asleep on the toilet. They're here.

Eventually Clara Jane found her way into her high chair, and I sat beside her, pretending to feed her breakfast when she can feed herself just fine. I just needed some time for the coffee to hit my system. And that's when the flash erupted. Like I'm Britney fucking Spears, feeding my spawn at 8:12 AM on a Saturday morning. Except Britney looks slightly less homeless than I did at the time in my holey yoga pants, worn-thin maternity t-shirt, pendulous braless tits, bird's nest hair and eyes encrustulated with eye boogers.

"What are you doing?" I asked, but I was so incoherant that it probably sounds more like, "Please, kick me in the groin. I like it."

"I have so many photos of Clara Jane, but I don't have any of the two of you together," my MIL explained. "Smile!" *poof*

Great. Just great. I can already imagine how this is going to transpire. Next time my in-laws get together with the rest of the extended family, they'll pull out the photos of their trip to St. Louis to visit "the kids". Oh, look! There's Clara Jane at the pumpkin patch. How sweet! And there she is, hugging Chloe the Basset hound. Aw! A baby and a Basset hound - it's insulin shock printed on Kodak paper! And here ... here's Clara Jane, sharing a pear and some Cheerios with a homeless lady who wandered into her house. She muttered something about the hurting, the hurting and the voices. We didn't catch her name, so we just call her Vera.

For the record, we spent eight hours with them. The only time I was photographed was when I was half-asleep with starlings nesting in my hair and breasts resting quietly on my knees. Also for the record, I did eventually put on a bra, but the rest of my look remained for the duration of the day.

Once I finally got my bearings, I decided to show my MIL the proofs for Clara Jane's 18-month photos, which I got yesterday. In the last photo, I pointed out that Clara Jane's disassembling the wicker chaise lounge. Really, she'd just pulled a few strands of wicker loose, but I like the idea of my child taking apart the furniture while she's having her portrait taken.

"When my dad was demented, he used to tear apart furniture, too. He didn't know where he was or what he was doing. That was right before he died," said my MIL.

To which I replied, "Hi. My name is Vera. Would you like to borrow some of my brain pills?"

(Rough morning aside, we actually had a pretty good day. Having the little whirling dirvish really eases a lot of the social pressure. I even had a conversation with my FIL. A conversation! An exchange of ideas! In which both people talk and listen! That's never happened! We talked about vegetables and concluded that yes, they are good.)