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Susannah Leah

 Our daughter is nine months old today.


Her middle name, Leah, comes from her belly buddy; Leah taught us this term, and I think she'd heard it in a surrogacy group. Having kids is a way of blowing up your life; your world contracts, and you become very, very familiar with one or two rooms of your house. But, also, having kids is a way of expanding your life; the new cast isn't just the kids themselves, but also the people who contribute to the child-rearing process (in ways that aren't always predictable).

Leah is quite tough, and she has a no-bullshit philosophy that I really admire. When she gave birth to Susie, she tangoed with an officious nurse, who insisted that use of a cell phone could create "problematic stimuli." Leah said, "I'll see the doctor now." Nurse: 0, Leah: 1. The cell phone came back out of hiding.

Leah dealt with preeclampsia, and she would send calm, matter-of-fact text messages about moments that sometimes seemed very frightening to me.

And--as my first child began to make his way into the world--Leah took a photo of me snoring nearby. (I could snore, because I wasn't in discomfort.) For the approximately thirty hours of Joshua's labor process, Leah didn't sleep, and, also, she has never complained about this.

My friend and I talk about several things--"Pup Patrol," "The Haunting of Bly Manor," the poor food-service at Gundersen Hospital, Christmas specials, the CW series "In the Dark." Mostly, though, we talk about true crime. We have differing thoughts on the Watts Family murders: That's OK. We have a shared interest in the Smiley Face Killer, and in Scott Peterson. (We're like the Hitchcock-invented neighbors who gather on the porch and daydream about the best way to "off" the postal carrier. Ah, well!)

It wasn't difficult to choose a middle name--once Marc and I knew we were having a little girl.

That's all for now.
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