Yesterday morning:

Matt and I are snuggled in bed, dozing, unwilling to leave the warm cocoon of blankets but vaguely aware that the alarm will be coming on soon.

"Happy anniversary, sweetie," I mumble.

There is a short pause, in which I wonder if he's asleep. "Um... It's Thursday, hon."

Thursday? I think. Don't be ridiculous. It can't be Thursday. Yesterday was- Wednesday. "Oh, shit..."

Yesterday sure felt like a Friday. I couldn't keep my mind on anything for more than a few minutes. I must have spent half the day in a semi-vegetative state.

So here we are. It's Friday. Again, sort of.

And Matt's and my fifth anniversary. Happy anniversary, sweetie!

I'd pinned my ultrasound pictures to the board in my office, since there are a handful of curious people here. Sometime after lunch, A. brought her sixteen-year-old son in to show the pictures to him.

Can you think of something that would be less exciting for a sixteen-year-old boy? No, me either.

I kind of feel sorry for A.'s sons. She's such a mother hen about them, whether or not they're present. She coos and clucks and delights in talking about how fast they've grown up and how proud she is of them and how she's crying herself to sleep because the older boy is getting ready to move out.

Yesterday was no different. "Look, D.! Such a tiny little thing now, and before Liz knows it, she'll be all grown up, as big as you are..."

One thing I have to give A.'s boys - however they behave when they're with their own friends, they're always frighteningly polite - almost formal - around adults. D. looked embarrassed and bored, but came a few steps further into the office to peer obediently at the pictures.

His stance changed, and he leaned closer. "Oh, wicked," he breathed. "You can see the skull!"

I laughed. "Yeah, that's the way the ultrasound works."

"Gruesome... Cool!"

When I told the story to Matt, I think he was a little indignant that someone would call our child "gruesome", but it was such a radical shift from D.'s usual silent, polite suffering of his mother's fussing that I couldn't help but laugh. And be relieved that he really is a normal sixteen-year-old underneath it all.

--Liz