Thus far Mica’s life has, I think, been pretty good. There’s been between one and three adults around since she was born, all happy to hold her and snuggle her and basically attend to her every need. She has her moods, like any baby, but most of her cries are single, peremptory calls, which Dave and I like to interpret as her yelling “Service!”


If she were capable of more advanced cognitive modeling, I suspect she’d say that the accommodations here are adequate, the food pretty good, but the service somewhat lacking. She’s occasionally set down despite her explicit objections; the smaller servants are erratic and inefficient; and even the larger servants, although clearly trying, make obvious mistakes — one of them, for example, consistently fails to lactate.


At this stage she’s more of a human critter than a full-blown person. She seems to have two primary states: “Everything’s All Right” and “Something’s Wrong,” with perhaps a very, very narrow band of “Yellow Alert” in between the two. None of this keeps her parents from indulging in long periods of baby-gazing, or from melting into adoration every time one of those enigmatic proto-smiles flickers across her face.