The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

Thanks for the notes and comments of concern. Imogen ("Iggy" to her intimates) is doing better and better. I'm again posting from her digs at Long Island College Hospital. An exciting evening of rattle, bottle, and a finely calibrated electronic scale, which puts the Ig-weight at an impressive new high of 10 lb. 11 oz. With her quietly intense gaze and demure post-feeding belches, she's become the darling of the pediatrics ward.

The extra-good news is that our stay here is not going to be quite as long as first predicted -- she gets sprung on Sunday, and we may yet get to take an abbreviated version of our countryside holiday with her grandparents and aunt and uncle. Seems, at this point, to be almost too good to be true. Which just goes to illustrate how much one's sense of good fortune is largely a matter of perspective.

And now I'm going to sleep in a pull-out chair. Which, in my current state, will be as good as a king-sized bed. Context is, indeed, everything.