On the drive home, sitting in traffic on 84, I try to talk to you. I read somewhere that babies like to hear voices, so I say out loud: “Well, we are stuck in traffic.” My voice sounds unsure in the quiet of the car, but I keep going, “Traffic is what happens when everyone is trying to get home at the same time. You’ll see.” And that makes me sad, to think that you will be born just so you can sit in traffic like the rest of us.
