Sun-burnt skin in a deep v, cheeks and nose and chin. Woke with a start to a dream of morning, this morning, and all the done things still needing to be done. One hundred and twenty finger sandwiches. Iced tea. Lemonaid.

Trying to catch up all week to slow down and catch up clean up and slow down. Hoping for that time when the things that hang are done and the ideas that pass are noted. Eleven squares of thrift-store fabric, varying sizes, still quite seperate and slightly undone.

Clean the study, put the gate up. Think of notes to write. Notes to write. Try to keep the dishes clean, try to avoid ants. Wash diapers. Wash clothes. Try to think of what to say. Try to think of how to put eleven squares together.

Paper plates. Paper cups. Knife for the watermelon. Tablecloth. Trying to remember how to hide what I am thinking. Trying to figure out when I lost that skill. Buy a cake: Glosta Rocks. Bowls for chips. Four bags of ice. Kiddy pool.

Fiesta gone, Viva! Viva! Me on the beach alone in a crowd eating a sausage from Ambie. Funny to think that anybody looking at me can see what I am thinking. Watch the greasy pole, watch the crowd. Try to make note of fashion.

Is it having a baby? Never being alone? There are a good number of things in anybody's head that don't need to come out. Moments of sadness. Distraction. Frustration. Things that are no less real if they are private. Things that are no more real if they show.

Abby miserable in the heat, heat rash and sweat. Can't sleep. Won't eat. Better after the rain, waking happy and kissing me again. She is learning from me how to be. Kissing and smiling and cooing in the back of her throat.

I am trying to be alone more often. Trying to have my feelings alone. Alone being with Abigail, of course. It hasn't done anybody any good to know what I am thinking. There are so many parts to life, so much to feel about. I am red like a lobster and my skin hurts. I have talked about hats with important people and they may know I don't care. That can't be nice for them.