Natalie and I were enjoying a late breakfast, as is our custom -- which is to say, I was making my toast and nursing her in a sling -- when there was a knock at the front door this morning. Assuming it was one of my neighbors, I opened the door without looking, and was somewhat surprised to discover a nondescript gentleman in a three-piece suit with a notebook in his hand. "You look busy," he said, "but I'm from the FBI and we're doing a background check on one of your former neighbors who used to live next door." Envisioning a VERY awkward interview with the baby at the boob, I tried to dodge the bullet, truthfully saying that the same people had lived next door to us since we moved in. As I spoke, Natalie progressed from calmly eating to fussy head-bobbing. I made no effort to hide the breast-wrangling as I tried to help her get going again. The agent seemed undeterred and proceeded to explain that the person in question was the daughter of our current neighbors, and had indeed lived there in the time we had been next door. Desperate, I told him -- again, completely honestly -- that I really didn't know her. As Natalie wailed helpfully and I flapped my mammary in his general direction, he finally conceded that I probably wouldn't be able to help much, thanked us, and went on his way. Phew.
But really, first the IRS and now the FBI. Who's next?