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Phil says Violet's talking much better. I guess it's true; it just happens so gradually I don't get a shock of it. Today while we were eating our strangely timed lunch/dinner (dunch?) at the table, Violet said "Mama I want sippy cup with milk on it! From refrigerator! REFRIGERATOR!" That is not a sentence that could have come out of her a few months ago.

Now we're home and even though she's blue-circled from tiredness, she's not giving up. She is manipulating the remote control, hoping to make "Dragon Tales" come on. Sorry, Violet, that is the VCR's remote control, and the VCR doesn't even work anymore. Now she has sat down on the rug, she's gone and gotten Pinky, and she's set him up on the rug next to her. She puts her arm around Pinky. Now she grabs him by the throat and takes him to the bookshelf. Now she's sitting on the milk crate of CDs. Why do we have our CDs in a milk crate anyway? Pathetic. Soft music is playing on the radio, and we're all sitting staring into space. Phil's mouth is open 1.5 centimeters. We are all smudgy with tiredness, but when we tried to lie down and sleep, Violet kept prying Phil's eyes open and screaming "Goodbyes!" (which she thinks means "surprise!")

Now she has grabbed Phil's hand. "Sit over here," she instructs.

"Now what?" says Daddy.

"Sit like this, sit like this!" They face the window.

"Should we face the bus?" Phil asks, as the 21 Hayes goes by outside. "My, what tiny toes you have!" he says admiringly, twiddling her sweet pink feet. She squirms away.

"Watch TV?" she suggests. Phil doesn't take the hint. "You a baby now," she tells him. "You a baby." She stuffs Pinky into his shirt. Then she puts him in his hoodie hood. Phil's face is impassive. "Walk little baby, walk!" she demands of Pinky, then runs in a circle around Phil.

The whoopee cushion is out. She steps on it. Sometimes when she does this, she will make a shocked face and exclaim "I faht," or perhaps "My butt! Faht!" But now she just treads on it silently.