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complete with cooing babies and smiling, calm parents.
    In contrast, my wife still refers to that period as “the hateful years.” She says this tongue-in-cheek, of course, but I strongly doubt she wants to relive them any more than I do.
    By “hateful,” what Jane meant was this: There were moments when she hated practically everything. She hated how she looked and how she felt. She hated women whose breasts didn’t ache and women who still fit into their clothes. She hated how oily her skin became and hated the pimples that appeared for the first time since adolescence. But it was the lack of sleep that raised her ire most of all, and consequently, nothing irritated her more than hearing stories of other mothers whose infants slept through the night within weeks of leaving the hospital. In fact, she hated everyone who had the opportunity to sleep more than three hours at a stretch, and there were times, it seemed, that she even hated me for my role in all this. After all, I couldn’t breast-feed, and because of my long hours at the law firm, I had no choice but to sleep in the guest room occasionally so I could function at the office the next day. Though I’m certain that she understood this intellectually, it often didn’t seem that way.   “Good morning,” I might say when I saw her staggering into the kitchen. “How did the baby sleep?”
    Instead of answering, she would sigh impatiently as she moved toward the coffeepot.
    “Up a lot?” I’d ask tentatively.
    “You wouldn’t last a week.”
    On cue, the baby would start to cry. Jane would grit her teeth, slam her coffee cup down, and look as if she wondered why it was that God seemed to hate her so.   In time, I learned it was wiser not to say anything.
    Then, of course, there is the fact that having a child transforms the basic marriage relationship. No longer are you simply husband and wife, you are mother and father as well, and all spontaneity vanishes immediately. Going out to dinner? Have to find out whether her parents can watch the baby, or if another sitter is available. New movie playing at the theater? Haven’t seen one of these in over a year. Weekend getaways? Couldn’t even conceive of them. There was no time to do those things that had encouraged us to fall in love in the first place—walking and talking and spending time alone—and this was difficult for both of us.
    This is not to say that the first year was entirely miserable. When people ask me what it’s like to be a parent, I say that it’s among the hardest things you’ll ever do, but in exchange, it teaches you the meaning of unconditional love. Everything a baby does strikes a parent as the most magical thing he or she has ever seen. I’ll always remember the day each of my children first smiled at me; I remember clapping and watching the tears spill down Jane’s face as they took their first steps; and there is nothing quite as peaceful as holding a sleeping child in the comfort of your arms and wondering how it’s possible to care so deeply. Those are the moments that I find myself remembering in vivid detail now. The challenges—though I can speak of them dispassionately—are nothing but distant and foggy images, more akin to a dream than reality.   No, there’s no experience quite like having children, and despite the challenges we once faced, I’ve considered myself blessed because of the family we created.   As I said, however, I’ve just learned to be prepared for surprises.   At Anna’s statement, Jane jumped up from the couch with a squeal and immediately wrapped Anna in her arms. She and I were both very fond of Keith. When I offered my congratulations and a hug, Anna responded with a cryptic smile.   “Oh, honey,” Jane repeated, “this is just wonderful! . . . How did he ask you? .
    . . When? . . . I want to hear all about it. . . . Let me see the ring. . . .” After the burst of questions, I could see my wife’s face fall when Anna began