Henry was in bed just now, reading, and he came out of his room and said, "I feel sick to my stomach." I asked him whether he had to throw up and he said he didn't know and then he went into my bathroom and I sat down here at the computer to read Frank Rich.
And then there was an earthquake. The big, halting, jolting kind. Seconds of shaking when you feel it and question it and deny it and know it.
Henry came out of the bathroom and calmly asked me whether he needed to go get under a table. I stood up and moved toward Sophie's room where I sat, on the edge of her bed, my heart pounding. Henry came with me.
I hate earthquakes and haven't felt one in a really long time.
Henry said that he felt better and could he go back to bed. So he did.
And now I'm here, my heart still pounding wondering how it ever happened that I gave birth to a boy from Southern California. Actually, two of them. Oliver is sleeping soundly next to his quivering cowboy nightlight.