It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve, 2002. Sarah and I were at her parents’ house. The party was over, and I had eaten far too many cookies, as usual. I was lying on the floor like a beached whale, watching the end of Holiday Inn, also as usual.

When the movie ended, we made up the pull-out couch in the office and crawled in. I snuggled close and wrapped my arm around her. I whispered in her ear, “Merry Christmas, honey.”

Then my eyes snapped open. “Oh, my God. You’re pregnant!”

“Now, honey,” she said. “Even if I am, it’s too early to tell. And it might take us a while. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” But I just knew.

A few days later, we went to CVS to buy a pregnancy test. I picked up a single pack. Sarah said, “They’re cheaper if you buy three.”

I smiled. “We don’t need three. We don’t even need one. I already know you’re pregnant.” She laughed, and we bought the single pack.

Seven months later, and she was as big as a house. We were going sailing with Sarah’s parents. We were in the dinghy, on our way out to the boat, when I was struck by the same cosmic lightning that had hit me on Christmas Eve. “We’re having a girl,” I said.

Sarah turned and looked at me. She peered into my eyes.

“Baloney,” she said.

Happy birthday, Nathaniel.