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More bad news. At synagogue, I saw Nate, an old guy whose daughter’s pregnancy was two weeks ahead of Sarah’s. His daughter miscarried. Her cervix had basically opened up and the fetus came out early, which happens in about one percent of all pregnancies. I practically burst into tears right there in the sanctuary. Nate, who’d been giddy at the prospect of being grandfather just a month ago, now looked miserable. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could say to him.

That night, I held Sarah tight. But not too tight…

Our cushy little pregnant world, where the deepest problem to this point involved sharing the bathroom, exploded today. The phone rang at my desk, and it was Sarah, who had that amused-but-troubled ring to her voice. “You’ll never guess what happened. I just got exposed to chicken pox.”

The inside of my stomach dropped so fast, I checked my shoes for my lower intestines. Sarah is always showing off about how she’s never had chicken pox…

Three interesting developments this week:

1. My wife’s gross motor movements have gotten worse. Sarah has many strengths, but grace ain’t one of them. Her fingers are starting to swell, so it’s hard for her to hold onto things, and her vision sucks, which means every time I look over, she’s spilling soup or bumping into walls or poking herself in the eye. It’s like my own personal episode of the 1 1/2 Stooges.

2. She can’t remember a damn thing. Recently, she lost her driver’s license, and when I suggested looking in the black hole that has become our car, she insisted it wasn’t in there. I bet her a dollar…