It’s raining, y’all, and my voice has gone froggy, so I’m hiding out in my hotel room, wearing pajamas and waiting for comfort food. Thank god for ice skating on the TV tonight, and also for the balm of adorable babies. Maddie’s hard to take a bad shot of, although I’ve managed a few that were jostly and poorly framed. This one makes me go all eeeee inside, though; almost as good as this or this.

St. Louis was a kid trip. First Charlie and the Nightbear, then my near-daughter Hope and all her cousins. I was there when Hope was born, so when I say I saw her first, well, I am not kidding. Her daddy Anthony was up near Kirsten’s head, doing some hand-holding and encouragement, but I was right in the scrum of nurses below, so I knew Hope was a redhead before anyone knew she had a nose.

She’s a lucky kid: Irish hair and Italian eyes and skin. Our friend Sha, who’s got ginger hair and the coloring to match, would crawl on her belly through the desert (wearing SPF garments, of course) for that sunkissed skin. Hope’s a sweet kid, too; polite and funny and gentle and about as glitterpink-princessy as they come. They don’t girl any girlier than our little peanut.

She’s very opinionated, as well, especially on matters of clothing. “No skirts, mommy, only dresses,” she used to tell Kirsten. Now that she’s six, she’s broadened her palette and her list of acceptable garments, but for years, Kirsten would amuse me by pulling unworn adorables from Hope’s closet and lamenting that they hadn’t passed muster.

She’s also very popular. When Kirsten meets up with other parents from Hope’s class, the mothers of the little boys always lean in and confide that: “Jacob/Henry/Hugo/Dylan/Max just loves Hope. He says he wants to marry her.” And Kirsten feels bad, because often, she hasn’t heard word one about that prospective suitor. Hope is a heartbreaker already, blithe and kind and oblivious to the tiny stars in the eyes of her schoolmates.

Here’s my Capucine in SF last winter, sitting outside the Bi-Rite Market after a trip to Dolores Park. (It’s best if I don’t dwell on the stunning groceries or the sunny February day). And that little niblet in front of her? Why that’s Archie, 11 months and 8 pounds ago.