You would never have told them ahead of time that the prospect of taking kids to the zoo terrified you, and you were glad later that you did not because paradoxically, it was easy, and the clouds were even kind enough to finish their business early enough to allow you time to play outside.

A few hours later you recognize the familiarity of the geeky-auntie role. You have painted Zoë's fingernails bright blue, and in a move that will shock and amuse many of your local friends, photographic evidence of a toddler sitting in your lap (by choice!) has been gathered.

You have the distinct pleasure of letting someone else make you dinner. The kids have meltdowns and the conversation goes late; your toes have hooked themselves of their own accord onto the chair next to you, and you don't exactly remember when you decided you needed to be in the rocking chair, but it was right and necessary.

You stare at the Christmas lights while you talk, and just a gentle squeeze of your toes rocks the chair you're in. You don't notice the gentle glow in the room until it's pointed out to you, and you're even more surprised to learn that you're responsible. Some stories, it seems, cause you to fluoresce under Christmas lights.

When you finally stumble upstairs to sleep, a talky, snuggly Siamese cat is placed on your legs to remind you of home. The two of you will not move until sunrise, when you will follow the sun west yet again to another city, another time zone.