Spring break

Roughly 790 years ago, the Mongols rode roughshod over most of Central Asia, toppling a series of local petty chiefdoms and finally sacking the powerful city of Baghdad in 1258. They rolled the Abbasid caliph up in a carpet and trampled him to death (supposedly so that his blood wouldn't be on their hands), and installed themselves as rulers: as il-Khans, or descendants of the Great Khan.

Just last week, they continued their conquest, taking my week by storm as I tried to familiarize myself with Ulugh Beg, with the surviving leaves of the Great Mongol Shahnama, and with the artistic patronage of Shahrukh, and Baysunghur. I was, simply put, routed. And thus, friends, the abrupt lack of posts. When you're struggling with Mongols, your blog often suffers.

But, as Diderot wrote long ago, “it’s for my friends as well as myself that I read, reflect, write, meditate, listen, look, and feel; in their absence, my devotion relates everything to them.” So worry not, distant reader: it's never personal. I'd write every day, if I could.

Because, goodness knows, a certain 9-month-old keeps providing quality material. Ever since celebrating her ninth monthday in style (with a great package from Grandma, and a lovely new blanket croched by her nanny), she's been scooting about with elan. Yesterday she climbed her first stair, and she's mastered the often-overlooked art of call-and-response raspberries. In short, she's a lot of fun.

Which is nice news, because we took our most ambitious family drive thus far this past weekend. Driving at night isn't much of a problem, as Cleo's happy to snooze in her womblike carseat, but driving by day - well, it can crimp a young girl's style. And so we covered what we could, before she made it clear that a prolonged squirm - at a gas station; at a breakfast joint that felt like it was pulled from a Cormac McCarthy novel - was in order. Even so, there were a few moments where we simply had to ask her to be patient for 10 or 15 minutes.

Patience, of course, is not a baby's forte, even if you try to prompt it with a new set of rattles and mini tambourines. But in this case, as we rolled up to our destination, we were helped out by an unexpected source: a local radio station that seemed to base its playlist more or less entirely on L.'s tastes as a younger woman. Jessie's Girl? Check. Late-1980s Prince? Sure thing. And so, as I drove, she sat in back and sang to Cleo, who watched, and listened... and then fell asleep, making the last leg of a long trip as easy as pie.

All happy families, it turns out, are thus not the same. Some, at least, find their musical ideals writ large on the airwaves as they roll along with a weary baby snoring gently, head tilted.