My brother, Ranger, sent Leta The Foot Book by Dr. Seuss for her birthday. Ever since I called him and thanked him I’ve been referring to Jon as Ranger. I keep catching myself saying, “Ran-JON!” And Jon answers, “Not again, you didn’t just call me by your brother’s name AGAIN.” All of Jon’s brothers and sisters have relatively normal names, which is remarkable when you consider that he was raised in Utah where LaVelle and Parley are totally acceptable names for males or females. I challenge anyone who has a brother named Ranger to lead a normal life, one in which you refer to your husband by his right name all the time.

This morning we were sitting on the bed with Leta and several books. Those 30 minutes or so every morning when we're all still waking up together are one of those things that makes this all worth it, for those of you who have asked me. She sits between us reading books to herself, and sometimes she'll look up at me and her eyes reflect mine and the feeling is STUNNING. I have created this force that sits here, I have released it into the world. Will she do good or evil, will she be loving or judgmental, will she grow up and want to wear matching pantsuits?

Jon pointed out the foot book to Leta and he kept repeating foot over and over again to try and coax her into forming the sound. She'll repeat mama and dada and wow and ROB on command (for Grandpa Rob, he who will never forgive me for using his razor to shave my legs), so Jon kept saying, "Foot foot foot." After about the fourth or fifth foot Leta let out a fart that blew a flaming hole into the sheets. Jon stopped in the middle of, "Foo..." and said, "Faaaaaaarrrt. Fart, fart, fart."