I am reminded of the gift my mom brought this summer: A tiny T shirt with a festive invitation that says "Party, My Crib, 3a.m.!" Papaya isn't in her crib yet, but she is having a party. Of course it's not quite 3 in the morning, so she must be preparing for the party... you know setting out napkins, chilling the whine. This girl can move. I get something knobby in the right hip bone, at the same time something jabs me in in the left rib. And the butt roles across my belly are quite a sight. Even her hiccups are a visible phenomenon.

Brain stall. I've sat here for five minutes and tried to proofread my paragraph. Thoughts in my head: "Is it a paragraph, or have I changed subjects midway? Is there a point to my statements or do I need to make a concluding sentence? Why isn't there a single comfortable chair in this entire house? Who left the cup on the sofa? What was I doing?" I may be out of bed, and unable to sleep, I may have come downstairs and cleared junk mail from my account, but clearly none of this is evidence of my being awake. My iMac should have one more editing tool: In psychedelic colors, typed phrases could be highlighted signifying "Babbling Fool: Do Not Publish."