So there’s a baby coming. He or she — we haven’t asked, gives us something to look forward to — is due in April some time, probably later than sooner. And the family will get larger, and the house will get smaller, and the third row of the van will get more use, and my memory will continue to wear and fray around the edges and creases. I am, after all, nearly 50.

So maybe now is the time to start writing again. I won’t remember this stuff forever. If I don’t write it down, I rarely remember it for longer than a week.

Sarah, for what it’s worth, is doing well. She’s uncomfortable, but she looks more lovely than she did on our first date, which is saying something. The kids couldn’t be more excited, even if they don’t know what they’re getting into. Mia wants a little girl that she can mold and dress. Max wants a girl too — someone who won’t take his stuff. Whatever, they both want a little something — a new toy. Could even top the pet that Mia’s been begging for.

Yeah, time to start writing again.

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