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In the past six weeks, though, shit's been flying through one of those busted windows. I nearly got smacked with a chrome barstool with a turquoise vinyl seat while passing through my living room on a particularly gusty day.

Stupid metaphors aside, here's what happened. First, we got a call from our friend Jo, who we hadn't talked to since last summer. We met Jo at the diner, where she occasionally waited tables on the weekend. Her partner's daughter is sitll waiting tables there every weekday, and it's not unusual to find at least one member of their family at the diner at any given time. She's also a carpenter, and she and B. had a deal where he would work on her corral of failing computers and in exchange she would do whatever she could to prevent our house from falling down in a heap of wood and dog hair. It was good to reconnect with her, but I didn't see it as a sign from the heavens, or a warning to be careful while walking past my busted window ... which I should probably ask Jo about fixing.

Around this same time I made a new friend on MySpace. Allison (as opposed to my other friend Allison, because most of my friends have the same name as other friends and it confuses the hell out of everyone, especially B.) and I live fairly close to each other and were comparing our local haunts. Lo and behold, she frequents the diner. Hey, how did this giant hamburger spatula get in through the window?

But last week, last week was the kicker. On Monday I was at Trader Joe's and as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Ron and Barb. Diner people. They're a delightful older couple who lunched there nearly daily. She's a teeny little thing who was obsessed with my pregnancy and later, my kid. He looks like he comes down the chimney every Christmas Eve. Obviously, they're adorable, and I've missed them. However, I was glad I didn't run into them in the store, as I'd forgotten their names.

But on Friday ... Clara Jane and I were walking into Trader Joe's once again when a tiny little woman came running out the door. She didn't have any items with her, and my first thought was that one of the many elderly shoppers had decided to make a break for it with a back truss stuffed full of Three Buck Chuck.

"Where in the world have you been?" the woman bellowed, attaching her tiny hands to my arm. It was Barb, and she wanted some answers, so much so that she abandoned her shopping cart, purse and her really old mother in the snack food aisle so as to catch me. "You need to come back to the diner, and bring this pretty little girl with you!"

Let me tell you, nothing strikes terror in my heart quite like being jumped by a 5-foot tall, 90-pound septugenarian dripping in diamonds at the Trader Joe's. My family's return to the diner on Saturday morning was motivated solely by fear. Well, fear and the ever-present quest for really good bacon.

The owner's brother and sister-in-law, who have worked weekends at the diner since the time of the dinosaurs spotted us as we walked through the door. They waited until we were seated at the counter before swooping on us. "Hey! How've you been? Long time!" the brother said. "Two coffees?" He seemed confused that I needed a few minutes to look at the menu, as I used to have it memorized. He remembered my usual drink order. Shouldn't I remember my usual Saturday breakfast order?

While we waited for our food, the owner came out. He patted my back and shook B.'s hand. Fawned over Clara Jane, and asked how we'd been before giving us the gossip on all the employees, both the current batch and the ones from our era who've since moved on.

Not once was the abruptness of our departure noted. Not once were we lectured. If anything, we were treated like maybe we'd decided after our last visit to take a few weeks off. No big deal. Nothing's changed.

Everything's changed. Some of our favorite employees have left. The walls are red. Instead of the beautiful candid photos of the staff that used to grace the walls, there's now equally beautiful photos of people getting tattooed. While I love it, I'm having trouble imagining Ron and Barb eating their egg salad sandwiches under them. They're now a Pepsi place instead of a Coke place.

But their bacon's still the best stuff to ever come off a pig. And the coffee's still perfect. "I can't remember the last time I had a cup of coffee without sugar or cream," B. told me as he sipped his third cup. "It doesn't need it. It's perfect just as it is."

The biggest change, of course, was the little kid perched on her own stool between us. Clara Jane was a basket case all last week, a situation that reached an ugly, screaming apex late Friday night. She refused to go to sleep, opting instead for over three hours of blood-curdling screaming. I'd hoped to use Friday night to catch up on my woefully low sleep resources, but instead B. and I were up with her until well after midnight. It was after 2 AM by the time I had calmed down enough to get a fitful little bit of sleep. When we walked into the diner, the three of us were exhausted and agitated, wondering what the hell has become of our sweet little girl, concerned that no one is ever, ever gonna sleep again! But once she was perched on that stool, she grew calm. She watched the action behind the counter, where two new-to-us cooks slung thick slices of French toast, poured pancake batter, and yelled, "Order up!" while she mindfully fidgeted with a red crayon the owner's brother had given her. For the first time in days, she was calm and quiet. Relaxed, happy. B. and I both wondered if she remembered the sounds and smells and if she felt like she was someplace where she belonged.