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Today, Tuesday, was the day my parents' housecleaner decided to come.

I say "decided," because my parents' housekeeper is somewhat mercurial. "She always comes," my parents told me, with a reluctance that hinted at their actual meaning. Which, in my understanding is that she does always come. But you never exactly know when that will be. And when she does come, you never really know what she'll do.

For example: people who actually read this blog might remember about my parents' cat, reputed to be at death's immediate inside doorstep. My parents' housecleaner, henceforth, MPHC, reported secretly to my mother that she had "laid her hands" on the cat -- I suppose in the name of God.

Anyway, defying all of my basic gut feelings and instincts, God seemed to side with MPHC. Aforementioned cat? Doin' fine, and lookin' good after losing about 8 pounds from her obese frame. The vet no longer can estimate her longevity using one hand alongside the word "weeks."

So, because Baby J isn't much for appliances, he and my mother and I holed up in what my father calls "the master suite" while MPHC and her various family members did a number on the house.

My mother and I were having a great time. We gave Baby J Wizard of Oz figurines to play with, along with a big wooden truck. ("Look!" said my mother, "UPS has brought you the lion you ordered!") He was into it, especially when MPHC brought up the mail and delivered Christmas cards and a box actually addressed to Baby J. He loved the box. We haven't opened his presents yet.

So there we were, sitting around the master suite, having a great time reading the cards and playing with the baby.

At a certain point, we handed him an envelope so he could crinkle it up and play with it. He's into textures now.

He folded it, he crumpled it, he chewed on it a bit (whatever, he's teething), and basically had a fine time.

But then we noticed that he was chewing something.

So I pulled the envelope out of his hot little hands, and noticed that the corner was totally missing. And the edges were wet.

And did I mention that he was chewing something?

"Try to get it out of his mouth!" my mother exclaimed, as I peered into his tiny mouth while trying to extract whatever might be inside.

For a second I saw a scrap of paper, and then it was gone, displaying swallowing capabilities seldom seen during his actual meals.

He beamed at us.

"Oh my God," I said, "he totally just ate the envelope."

Even as we laughed about the ridiculousness of our situation, we basically agreed that the snow was  probably the only reason CPS didn't materialize out of thin air to drag me away. I saved the envelope, though, just in case we needed it.

Now my main quandary is this: do I add "paper" to the chart of foods he's eaten? I'm still on the fence there.