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WELL, YOU KNOW, DEAR READER, I couldn't keep my hands off those letters--that boxful of letters my mother saved for decades, and then gave back to me before she died. But time travel can be SO disconcerting. At mid-afternoon I am planning a wedding--(D)'s mother is anxiously waiting to hear what color her dress should be...and a few hours later I'm writing to my mother:

It's a beautiful Monday morning...I woke my two sleeping children (littlest one already up) to get ready for school, and got them dressed, breakfasted and out the door in 20 minutes.
Tomorrow evening (J) and (B) are coming for supper, so I need to get the house cleaned today. It's awful. And get groceries. Make phone calls.
(C) is playing happily in the basement. I can hear her chattering to herself. She wants every day to play with the Barbie dolls. She plays and plays with them. But one day she decided to dismember them--very easily done. (S) was horrified and also furious! Well, we put them back together and scolded (C) fiercely. Now she plays very carefully with them. But still we never get them out until after (S) leaves for school and make sure to put them all neatly back before (C) goes for her nap.

And then, Reader Dear, the phone rings, and it's (S).
And she's not worried about her Barbies anymore because she's got herself a real live doll, but he's been cranky and she doesn't know why.

I'm afraid all this bouncing around through time is giving me sequential whiplash.

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