Julie says that Lyla, butt wet with lake water and possibly pee, sat on her lap minutes before the photo was taken. I will vouch for this explanation.
Remember when Hannibal Lecter caused the patient in the adjacent cell to swallow his own tongue just by whispering God-knows-what to him? Julie got Lyla to sleep on the beach for two hours using a similar technique.
Hopefully her next pregnancy craving won't be fava beans and a nice chianti.
We drive home tomorrow, all in one shot. Lyla entertained everyone at the cabin until 10:00 PM, when her parents, not her, began to fall apart. We're back at the hotel now, and Lyla is asleep after zero seconds of crying. I get the feeling that tonight's little angel will become tomorrow's keening banshee in need of a roadside exorcism.
Nothing is packed yet. We had this lofty plan to have everything ready so that tomorrow morning would only entail breakfast, departure, and maybe some jolly whistling. Instead it will be a morning of cramming and stuffing and rearranging, like a morbidly obese Tetris game. There will be sweat and swearing and probably some tears.
But I'm not thinking about that now. I'm thinking about this:
And I'm thinking about a nice chianti once we're home.
Your dogs miss you.
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