We sent in our United States Census forms this week, like most of you. (And if you haven’t, get on it, mister.) I take a geeky pleasure in this decennial bit of Americana: There’s something pleasing about a government action that remains so pure–counting–and a process that goes back to 1790, without a single break for war or strife or anything else.

This past year, as you probably know, my household grew, from two to three. Person three, age 1, will of course be counted, same as us. But the instructions on the form leapt out at me:

Count all people, including babies, who live and sleep here most of the time.

Clearly, people forget to include their babies. I understand it, sort of: It takes awhile to think of a newborn as a fully established person, because he doesn’t walk or talk. Apparently, though, for some people, a baby is somewhere in between: More than a pet, less than a drinking buddy.