When we return home from St. John, Ben and I decide to take some time and think things over. Actually, Ben decides that's what we should do—those are his exact words. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that I have absolutely nothing to think over. He is the one who has radically changed his mind about something so fundamental in our relationship. So he's the one who needs to do the thinking. I fall into my normal routine, going to work and returning home to Ben at night, where I read and he sketches until we go to bed. Meanwhile, I try to convince myself that my husband is only going through a phase, a kind of reverse midlife crisis. Some men regret settling down and having kids early; Ben is simply questioning our decision not to have them at all. I tell myself that it is normal—maybe even healthy—to reevaluate your life. Ben will take some time and do all of that, and then surely he will come to his senses and reaffirm our choices.

I resist the urge to discuss the situation with my family or friends because I somehow believe that talking about it will solidify our rift. Instead I ignore it, hoping it will all go away.

It doesn't.

One Saturday afternoon Ben points to a fair-skinned, blue-eyed girl with strawberry-blond hair on the street and says, "She looks like you." Then, in case I missed his point, he says, "If we had a daughter, she'd look like that."

I just give him a look.

A few days later, as he watches a Knicks game on television, he says he wants a son because otherwise what is the point of all the useless sports trivia he's memorized since he was a little boy. "Not that I wouldn't teach our daughter about sports, too," Ben adds.

Again, I say nothing.

The following week he announces that having an only child could be a compromise of sorts.

"How do you figure?" I say.

"Because I'd like to have two and you think you don't want any," he says, as if we are six years old and deciding how many doughnuts to buy.

"I know I don't want any," I say, and then open my birth control packet at the bathroom sink.

Ben furrows his brow and says, "How about you stop taking those things? Can't we just see what happens? See if it's meant to be?"

I tell him that this plan of his sounds akin to the Christian Scientist approach to modern medicine.

He gives me a blank stare.

"I have a better idea," I say. "Let's hold hands and jump out the window and see if we're meant to die."

Then I take my pill.

The most egregious of Ben's remarks comes one Sunday when we are having brunch in Rye with Ben's mother, Lucinda, his two sisters, Rebecca and Megan, and their husbands and children. As we finish eating and move into the family room of the home Ben grew up in, I am thinking what I always think when we get together with his family: could our families—and specifically our mothers—be more different? My family is volatile; Ben's family is placid. My mother is unmaternal and quirky; Ben's mother is nurturing and vanilla. I watch Lucinda now, sipping her tea from a china cup, and think to myself that she is a complete throwback to the fifties, the kind of mother who had homemade cookies waiting when the kids came home from school. She lived for her children—so much so that Ben once pointed to that as a possible cause for his parents' divorce. It was a classic case of empty nesters realizing that they had nothing holding them together but the kids.

So, as it often happens, Ben's father found a new life with a much younger woman while Lucinda continues to live for her children—and now grandchildren (Ben's sisters each have two daughters). Ben is her clear favorite, though, perhaps because he's the only boy. As such, she is desperate for us to change our minds about having a baby, but way too polite to come right out and criticize our choices. Instead, she is full of seemingly breezy comments on the matter. Like the time when we bought our car, and she slid into the backseat, remarking, "Plenty of room for a car seat back here!"

I always have the feeling that she is directing her comments at me and that she blames me for our decision. Ben used to say I was paranoid, but now, of course, I'm actually right, Rebecca and Megan are both stay-at-home mothers and don't help matters for me. They show genuine interest in my publishing world, and frequently select my novels for their book clubs, but I know they wish that I would put my career on hold and give their baby brother a baby of his own.

So although Ben's family is perfectly pleasant and utterly easy to get along with, I dread spending time with them because they inevitably make me feel defensive. Of course, I feel even more defensive now that Ben and I are no longer a united front. And I have a gnawing feeling that they will sniff the situation out and seek to divide and conquer.

Sure enough, as the adults talk and watch Ben's nieces play with their Barbies, Rebecca says something about how nice a boy cousin would be to break things up a little. I make a quick preemptive strike by looking at Megan and saying, "Well, Meg, you'd better get busy!"

Megan's husband, Rob, shakes his head and says, "Heck, no! We're done!" and Megan chimes in with, "Two children is enough. Two is perfect. Besides… I wouldn't know what to do with a boy!"

Lucinda smooths her skirt and shoots Ben and me a demure, hopeful look. "So I guess it's up to you two to have a boy," she chirps innocently. "Besides, that's the only way to carry on the family name!"

I can feel myself tense up as I marvel at how she can care so much about a name that belongs to her ex-husband. But I just say, "I wouldn't know what to do with a boy, either… Or a girl for that matter!" Then I laugh as if I've just made a very clever joke.

Everyone joins in with a polite chuckle.

Except Ben, who squeezes my knee and says, "You'd figure it out, Claudia. We would figure it out."

The joy in the room is palpable. His family practically applauds, they are made so giddy by this comment from their only brother and son.

Lucinda leans forward and says, "Do you have something to cell us?"

Ben smiles and says, "Not yet."

I restrain myself until we're in the car alone, driving home. "Not yet?" I shout. Then I tell him that I've never felt so betrayed.

Ben tells me not to be so dramatic, that it was just a turn of phrase.

"A turn of phrase?" I say indignantly.

"Yeah," he says. "Jeez, Claudia. Chill out, would you?"

I decide right then that it's time to talk to one of my loyal triumvirate—either my two older sisters, Daphne and Maura, or my best friend, Jess. After some consideration, I rule out my sisters, at least preliminarily. Although they always have my best interest at heart, I am pretty sure they won't stand by me on this one.

Maura's motivation will have more to do with not wanting me to lose Ben than thinking I should have a baby. She respects my decision not to have a baby. She has three children whom she loves dearly—and whom I love dearly—but I think in some very quiet, introspective moments, she might nearly regret her decision to have them. Or at least have them with Scott. I have often heard her say that the biggest decision a woman can make in life is not who to marry but who should be the father of her children. "You can't undo it," she says. "It bonds you for life." Although the truth is, I think Maura made a bad decision on both fronts. She is a good example of someone caring too much about passion and excitement and surface appeal rather than being with a solid, good, honest man. I call it the "high school girl phenomenon." Most girls in high school discount the nice, quiet, slightly nerdish boy and instead seek out the flashy, popular jock. If they somehow land the latter, they truly believe themselves to be the luckiest creatures on the planet. They got the big prize. Yet when they return to their twenty-year reunion, they see the error of their ways. The nice, quiet, slightly nerdish boy has bloomed into the perfect husband, wholesome father, and loyal caretaker while the flashy, popular jock is off in the corner playing grabass with Misty, the slutty ex-cheerleader.

This is, more or less, the Cliff's Notes version of Maura's misguided relationship history. She dated a guy named Niles throughout her late twenties, and came very close to marrying him. But when Niles started asking her about rings, she freaked out and decided that he was "too boring and predictable." She said she couldn't marry someone who didn't give her heart palpitations on a daily basis. At the time I was very supportive of her decision. I was all about finding true love and not settling—which is something I still believe in wholeheartedly. But with hindsight, I really think Maura was confusing love with lust—and nice with boring. Niles treated her well and was eager to make a lasting commitment. Thus, she assumed he was somehow unworthy—or at least wholly uninteresting. Frankly, I also think Niles's looks factored into her decision, although she would never admit it. Maura was attracted to Niles, but he wasn't the sort of guy who other women took note of in a bar. And Maura wanted hot. Maura wanted to impress. So it wasn't surprising when her first boyfriend after Niles was tall, gorgeous, life-of-the-party Scott. And although I'm sure there are plenty of tall, gorgeous, life-of-the-party guys who are also true to their wives, I happen to believe that a disproportionate number of them are cheaters.

In any event, Scott is a cheater, and I think Maura's views on my relationship will be colored by the fact that she picked wrong. That, in Daphne's words, she went with "Suave Scott" over "Nice Niles." To this point, Maura has spent years being envious of my relationship with Ben, a relationship that is pretty ideal on the inside, and thus looks even more perfect from the outside.

She is never begrudging of my happiness, but Ben is still a constant reminder of what she could have had—and what she desperately wants me to appreciate and protect. So I am certain that she will tell me that I should have a baby in order to keep Ben. That I should do anything to keep him. And that is something I really don't want to hear.

Daphne's reasons for telling me to stay with Ben will have less to do with my relationship and everything to do with her baby obsession. It is the filter through which she observes the world around her. She and her husband, Tony, have been trying to get pregnant for nearly two years. They tried for a year the old-fashioned way: drink a bottle of wine, hop in the sack, pray for a missed period. After that, they progressed to buying fertility monitors, making ovulation charts, and bickering about peak times in the month. She is now taking Clomid and researching fertility clinics.

It pains me to watch my sister's monthly heartbreak, to see the way the struggle has changed her, how she has become increasingly bitter as her friends, one by one, all have babies. She is particularly resentful when other people have an easy time of it, and she went so far as to write off her girlfriend Kelly altogether when Kelly got knocked up on her honeymoon with boy-girl twins. When Maura told Daphne she should be happy for Kelly (which might be true but was certainly an unnecessary comment), my sisters got in a huge argument. Daphne hung up on Maura and promptly phoned me, trying to enlist me to her side. Then as Maura beeped in on my other line, eager to share her version of the spat, Daphne yelled, "Don't you dare answer call-waiting!" and then frantically argued her point. She insisted that the fallout with Kelly had nothing to do with her blessing of twins, and everything to do with Kelly's proclamation that she was naming her daughter Stella. "That's my name," Daphne must have said ten times. I resisted the urge to crack myself up with a, "No, your name is actually Daphne," and instead assured my sister that I wasn't a big fan of alliteration in naming anyway (Daphne's last name is Sacco). I told her Stella Sacco sounded like a stripper—and that if I received a "Stella Sacco" resume at work, I would instantly toss it aside and never even see that she was a Fulbright scholar. A long conversation about baby naming ensued, a topic I find to be ridiculous and tiresome unless you have a nine-month deadline in the works. Discussing baby names when you're not even pregnant is almost as ridiculous as laying claim to a name. Of course, I shared these observations with Maura when I finally called her back, but told her that we should nonetheless try to support Daphne. I am very accustomed to brokering a delicate peace between my sisters, although they might say the same. Perhaps that's just the natural dynamic of three sisters. We are all very close, but we are frequently two against one and the alliances constantly form and re-form.

So, anyway, the mere thought that my sisters might side with Ben, and try to talk me into having a baby, is just too much to bear. I need an unconditional, unwavering supporter. Someone who will put aside her own bias. That's where my best friend, Jess, always comes in.

Jess and I met our freshman year at Princeton when we bonded in our distaste for our respective roommates, both strident theater majors named Tracy. One night right before Thanksgiving break, Jess plied the Tracys with vodka and cranberry juice and talked them into a roommate swap. She was so effective that she made the Tracys think it was their idea. My Tracy even wrote me a note of apology—in calligraphy. The next day Jess schlepped her clothing, books, and comforter across the hall in plastic crates and garbage bags, and we ended up living together for the next fourteen years (nearly as long as we lived at home), throughout college and then into our first crummy Manhattan apartment on Ninety-second and York.

We upgraded several times over the years, until we nabbed our spacious, sunny loft on Park Avenue South that, due to Jess's kitschy style, drew many comparisons to the apartment on Friends. We each had a few boyfriends along the way, but none that we considered ditching the other for.

Until Ben came along.

Jess and I were both teary the day I moved in with Ben, and then joked that our separation felt like a divorce. We continued to talk every day, sometimes several times a day, but there was a definite change in our friendship. In part, it was just that we saw each other less. We no longer had those late-night and early-morning chats that can't really be duplicated over the phone. In part, it was an inevitable shift of loyalty. Ben became the person I talked to the most, the one I turned to first in crisis or celebration. I've seen married women put their girlfriends over their husbands, and although I admire this brand of female fidelity, I also believe that it can be a dangerous dynamic. Certain things should stay sacred in a marriage. Jess and I never discussed the changes in our relationship, but I could tell she understood. I think she also pulled back a little herself, out of respect for my relationship and perhaps as a point of pride. She cultivated a new circle of friends—all single women in their thirties, all searching for love.

There are times when I have a nostalgic pang when Jess is meeting the girls out for sangria in the Village—or doing all the things we used to do together. But for the most part, I do not envy her position. We turn thirty-five this year, and I can tell the benchmark birthday stresses her out. She's not desperate to marry, but she does want children someday. And she's all too aware that her eggs have a sell-by date (her words, not mine).

Which makes it all the more frustrating when I watch my best friend repeatedly star in what would make the perfect Jackie Collins novel. She consistently gravitates to unavailable types—shameless players, married men, or West Coasters who refuse to even consider living in Manhattan. In fact, she is currently embroiled in a two-year relationship with a guy named Trey, who is all of the above. I know, it's tough to be a shameless married player, but Trey accomplishes the feat with great flourish. In Jess's defense, Trey didn't tell her he was married until after she developed feelings for him, but she's had at least a year to digest the news and move on.

Bottom line, Jess has abhorrent taste in men and always has. Even in college she'd go for the frat boy with attitude, the kind of guy you can totally see being brought before honor council on date rape charges. It's odd, because in all other facets of her life, Jess is completely in control. She is confident, funny, and the smartest woman I know. She graduated summa cum laude from Princeton without studying much at all and then got her M.B.A. at Columbia. Now she's an investment banker with Lehman Brothers, kicking ass in a male-dominated world and making money I thought only professional athletes and movie stars could make. On top of this, she looks like a model. With short, blond hair and a tall, willowy build, she is more runway model than underwear model, which my sister Maura highlights as Jess's problem. "Men don't like the runway look," she says. "Women do." (Maura has a whole collection of superficial relationship theories. Some of her gems: the more attractive one in a couple always has the power; women should marry men at least seven years older than they to close the aging gap; short, bald men had better be well endowed.)

In any event, I decide it's time to confide in Jess.

So the next day we meet for lunch at a deli halfway between our respective offices. We order sandwiches at the counter, then pick up bags of Baked Lay's and bottles of Evian and sit at an open table by a window. There are five construction workers sitting behind us, and after one gets up to go, Jess remarks that he has "the perfect ass." She reminds me of a guy in her unabashed commentary on body parts of the opposite sex. I check out his Levi's-clad backside, agree with her that it is a mighty nice one, and then tentatively launch into my dilemma.

Jess listens intently, her expression sympathetic. It has been a long time since I have needed any real relationship counseling from her. I can tell she welcomes the distraction from Trey's latest angst-causing stunt as she says in her Alabama accent she has not shed despite years in the Northeast, "You and Ben will work this out. Do not panic."

"I'm not panicking yet," I say. "Well… maybe I am just a little bit… After all, having kids isn't really something you can compromise on, you know?"

Jess nods and recrosses her long legs. "Good point."

"So I'm hoping it's just a phase," I say.

Jess lifts the bun of her chicken salad sandwich and tucks a few chips inside. "I'm sure it's just a phase," she says. "A little something he's going through."

"Yeah," I say, staring at my turkey sandwich. I haven't had much of an appetite since our return from the Caribbean.

"Remember his guitar?" she asks, rolling her eyes. Jess loves to make fun of Ben, and he does the same to her, which I only take as a sign of their fondness for each other. She laughs and says, "Ol' Benny Van Halen was hot to trot for a few months, wasn't he?"

I laugh, recalling the day that Ben and I wandered past a little shop in the Village called the Guitar Salon. It was tucked inside a charming brownstone, all lit up and inviting on a rainy day. So we went inside and looked around, and after a few minutes, Ben decided that he just had to own a vintage guitar. It was literally the first time he had shown the slightest interest in any musical instrument, but by this time, I was used to Ben's sudden interest in a wide range of topics. Ben is one of those people who manages to be an enthusiast for many, many things—astronomy, films, collecting old watches, you name it. So I watched him fondly and waited patiently as he asked the owner a slew of questions. Then he took his time sampling guitars, running his fingers over the strings and even attempting to play. An hour later, he was spending a small fortune on a 1956 Spanish guitar made of spruce rosewood, along with a package of lessons taught by someone of moderate fame in the New York classical guitar world.

For months, Ben practiced with an endearing fervor, quickly mastering the basics and acquiring impressive calluses. On my birthday he serenaded me with a perfect rendition of "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You"—a song that, I sheepishly confess, makes me melt, especially because I've always maintained that Ben looks a little bit like a young, sandy-haired version of Elvis.

But a short time later, Ben lost interest in his new hobby and retired his guitar to a dusty corner under our bed. Recently, he posted it for sale on eBay. Jess reassures me now that his current fixation on fatherhood will be just as short-lived.

"Only problem is," I say, "Ben actually owned a guitar before abandoning the idea of becoming an accomplished musician."

"That's true," she says, scrolling through e-mail on her Black-Berry. Jess is a masterful multitasker. She furiously types a reply with her thumbs as she says, "And there's no way to temporarily own a child, is there?"

"That's where Ray and Annie's baby could come in handy," I say, thinking of the week-long stays at my sister Maura's house after she had each of her three babies. All three visits were initially thrilling as there is nothing quite as meaningful or special as meeting a new member of your family. I also loved spending such quiet, intimate time with my sister, who is usually so frenetically busy with her many Bronxville social obligations. Maura and I have had some of our best talks in that cozy new-baby aftermath, both of us in our robes and slippers with our teeth unbrushed. Still, the nighttime feeding duties I would volunteer for were always brutal, and I would leave her house with a bone-tired weariness that verged on actual pain. I honestly don't know how so many women keep that up for weeks and months at a time.

"Was the kid born yet or what?" Jess asks.

I smile at her wording. For someone desperate to be a mother, she's going to have to soften up her vocabulary.

"Any day now," I say. "So let's hope that this is nothing that a few hours with a real, live infant can't cure."

As if on cue, Raymond Gage Jr. arrives the following afternoon, following fourteen hours of labor and a last-minute emergency C-section. Ben calls me at work with the news.

"Annie and Ray want us to come right over," he says excitedly.

The hospital invite surprises me. Annie and Ray are our close friends, but I didn't think we were that close. I thought we were more "Come see the baby as soon as we take him home" level friends. Still, the current controversy notwithstanding, I am looking forward to meeting their baby.

So after work I take the subway to Roosevelt Hospital where I meet up with Ben in the hospital gift shop. He has already picked up a couple of Mylar balloons and a card that we sign on the elevator ride up to the baby wing. We make our way to Room 1231. The door is adorned with a big, pastel blue stork holding an it's a boy! banner, as are approximately half of the doors on the corridor.

Given Annie's rough delivery, I am expecting a subdued gathering, but there is a full-on, raucous party inside. The room is filled with flowers, gifts, and at least a dozen friends and relatives who are snapping photos of the baby and clamoring to hold him.

There are even a few bottles of champagne that Ray hides behind his back whenever a nurse stops by.

Ray and Annie beam as they retell the details of Annie's water breaking, the cab ride to the hospital, and their fight right before Annie got her epidural when Ray admitted he had left the video camera at home. We laugh and listen and admire Raymond Jr., who looks exactly like his father (and I'm not one who can normally see such resemblances).

It is a good time for all, but I am very aware of the effect the celebration is having on Ben. He is swept up in emotion and clearly thrilled for our friends, but I can tell that he is also uneasy and wistful. Not quite sad, but as close as you can get to being sad without actually being sad. His expression reminds me of a single bridesmaid at a wedding as she listens to the twentieth toast of the night.

Just as we are about to take turns holding Raymond Jr., a lactation consultant stops in, and Ray asks politely if everyone would please leave. I'm surprised that Annie, who would have been burning bras had she been born a few years earlier, cares a lick about her privacy, but then again, don't they say a baby changes everything? We give Annie and Ray our final congratulations and tell them we'll be in touch soon.

As we ride the subway home, I am hoping that Ben understands that the party only lasts so long. That once you bring the baby home from the hospital and a few weeks pass, the champagne-and-casserole flow stops, and you're on your own in the middle of the night.

In case this point is lost on him, I let a few weeks pass and then call Ben and innocently suggest that we offer to babysit for Annie and Ray. Give them a chance to go out alone. Ben thinks it's a great idea. We conference call our friends who graciously accept.

So the following Friday night, Ben and I take a cab over to Annie and Ray's and climb the stairs to their third-floor walk-up (as I comment on how hard it will be to drag a stroller up and down the steps). I am hoping for a set of haggard parents, a messy house, the stench of sour milk commingling with the odor of dirty diapers. But Ray comes to the door clean-shaven and chipper, and I notice with dismay that their apartment is spotless. Neil Young's "Good to See You" is playing a bit louder than you'd expect in a home with a new baby, who is sleeping angelically in his car seat.

"Where are you all going tonight?" I ask, eager to move them on their way. Leave the baby with Ben and me. Shine a light on our grand incompetence.

"Change of plans," Annie says briskly. I note that she looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon, and she still has that pregnant glow.

"What? Too tired to go out?" I prod.

"No. We're all going out. Table for four at Pastis awaits us!" Ray says.

I silently curse my choice of nice jeans, a basic black top, and flats. I can't very well protest on the grounds that I'm wearing babysitting garb. Not that my friends would likely accept an "I'm wearing sneakers" sort of excuse.

"Are you sure?" I say. "We wanted you to have some time alone."

"No! We miss you guys!" Annie says, hugging me.

"So who is watching Ray junior?" Ben asks.

"He's coming along," Annie chirps.

"Seriously?" I ask.

Annie nods.

"He sleeps all the time. He'll be fine!" Ray says, lifting his son's car seat up as if to prove the point. "Hey—you guys wanna hold him before we take off? We have a few minutes… It won't wake him up."

"Sure. Let me wash my hands first," I say, remembering my sister's obsession with germs after her first baby was born.

I walk over to the kitchen sink and scrub in, considering my strategy. Should I jostle him a little and try to wake him? Should I feign an awkward cradle, proving that babies aren't my thing? I dry my hands and decide that such stunts might be too obvious. So I gently take the baby from Ray's outstretched arms. I cradle his tiny head with my free hand and sit on the couch next to Ben. We both gaze down at Raymond Jr., who is wearing a white cashmere onesie and matching cap. He remains sound asleep, and I can tell right away that he is going to screw me and play the role of perfect baby.

After a few minutes of conversation, Ben says, "May I?"

Annie beams. "Of course."

Ben is a natural, completing my handoff with ease. Raymond Jr. opens one eye and peers up at Ben. Then he yawns, tucks his knees up against his chest, and falls back asleep. Ben looks smitten.

"Don't they look precious together?" Annie says.

I nod, feeling annoyed by my friend's use of the word precious. It is the first sign that she has changed. The old Annie would never have used a word like precious—unless doing so disparagingly.

Ben runs one finger gently over Raymond Jr.'s cheek. "I can't believe how soft his skin is."

Of course he can't have a little eczema or baby acne, I think.

Ben keeps gushing. "Look, Claudia. Look how tiny his fingers are."

Raymond Jr. clutches Ben's thumb, and I wonder how I'm supposed to compete with a stunt like that. The kid is good.

"Does he ever cry?" Ben says.

Annie says, not too much, he's a very easy baby.

Naturally.

"We're really lucky," Ray says. "In fact, we have to wake him up at night for his feedings."

"That's highly unusual," I say, glancing nervously at Ben.

Everyone ignores my comment as Ray whisks his son up, bundles him back into his car seat, and leads the charge down to the street where he flags a cab almost instantly. I am hoping that the baby counts as a fifth person—over the legal limit in a cab—but our driver doesn't protest.

The rest of the evening continues smoothly, with Raymond Jr. snoozing peacefully in the noisy restaurant. Our conversation is normal and fun, and I almost forget that there is an infant sleeping under the table. When all else fails, I find myself rooting for an unsavory boob out on the table, but Annie produces a discreet bottle of formula, explaining that she's decided breast-feeding isn't her thing.

So short of the word precious, I have nothing on Annie or Ray or the baby.

On our way home that night, Ben asks what I thought of Raymond Jr.

I say he is really cute, very sweet.

"But?" Ben says, because my tone suggests a but.

I start rambling about how rare it is for a baby to sleep so much. I remind Ben that my sister's kids all had colic, and that even short of colic, most babies fuss a lot more than Raymond Jr. My monologue is not exactly subtle, but neither is Ben's rebuttal: a sales pitch centered on lofty and impractical offers to take "full, nighttime responsibility" for our baby should we somehow produce the difficult kind. It is as if he believes that the only thing keeping me from having children is my desire for a full eight hours of slumber. He follows that up with a speech about his firm's liberal paternity-leave policies and the appeal of being a stay-at-home dad.

"A stay-at-home dad?" I say. "You love your career."

Ben shrugs. "I'd love our baby, too… The point is, you wouldn't have to change your schedule at all, Claudia," he says. Then he repeats the statement, with the same emphasis on you and all.

"I heard you the first time," I say.

That night, around three a.m., I find myself wide awake and worrying. I strongly consider shaking Ben and saying, "Your turn to get the baby, honey." After all, it's one thing to talk about getting up in the middle of the night. It's a very different thing to do it when all you really feel like doing is sleeping.

But I decide against this tactic. After all, the way things have been going for me lately, Ben would likely get up, whistling and brainstorming baby names.