We're in Rochester. The streetlights glow up from the snow. Looking at houses tomorrow, looking for the place that will contain our LIVES the next few years. (A container. tupperware? glass? aluminum foil?) Really tired after traveling, though Frances was a dream—well behaved, happy, having a good time. Right now I choose to believe the next babe is going to be the same. I choose not to lean on Murphy's Law, not to believe that just because this one is lovely the next one will be a maniac. I choose to believe that this is the kind of tot we create, though I know she actually has very little to do with me.