The baby came over today, accompanied by its mother. It is still very small, but less red than it used to be, and the IR is back to her waifish self, except for additional puffiness around her face (but her face has always been a little puffy, from drugs and general somnolence). Stephen came over and tried to feed the baby pieces of grass. He cackled his leprachaun laugh when he was discovered. Not like the IR cares, although I guess she's feeding him all right. Naturally she's thrilled to breastfeed at every public opportunity: of course she doesn't bother putting the baby in her shirt or something, but just yanks her puffyish white breast out of her tank top and lights one of those lettuce cigarettes that Lillian smokes. Lillian did not recommend that the IR smoke the lettuce cigarettes around the baby--I think she specifically asked the IR if she was going to, in her most governessy possible voice--but the IR thinks it's fine if she and the baby are both outside in the fresh air. She likes to feed the baby on the benches facing the river, where people are always going running.

Today we got in trouble in the park because we were reading the baby some book about a cat who loses eight of its nine lives. This man in pleated khakis seriously walked up to us and tapped the IR on the shoulder and was like, "I don't think that's appropriate reading material for babies." The IR said, "It's a fucking baby, it doesn't understand shit. You know what I read to this baby to get it to sleep? Fucking Penthouse Confessions, man. And the frigging Story of O. And you know what? The baby doesn't fucking care." And it's true! The man looked chastened, but he might have also been indignant.

I like having the baby around. The IR dresses him like he's her little mascot, always in one color with maybe a little animal-hat. Today he was a tiny baby rooster, which doesn't make sense, really, because roosters aren't baby animals. But the baby makes a splendid, Carnevalesque, dwarfish human-rooster.