Just now I read an email that made me cry (in such a very good way), and earlier today I sent an email that made me cry while I wrote it. None of this has anything to do with the impending conclusion of "Six Feet Under" even though the last three episodes were eerily familiar in the sense that Jon asked, "Are you ghostwriting for them? Or at least a script consultant?" If you're a fan, think back to when Ruth yelled to George, "I ALREADY HAD LUNCH. A HUMONGOUS SANDWICH!" And that right there is the mid-day conversation I have everyday with my husband who only wants me to be able to poop on a regular basis, that's all.

I want to thank everyone who wrote to me to tell me to hang in there with my medication switch. I tried and I gave it my best, but Saturday morning I called my doctor and told him I couldn't live like this anymore. I liked it better when being a mother wasn't killing me every minute.

And isn't it funny, I feel better already, even though Leta is sick and acting like such a man. Ha! I'm kidding, and yet, maybe I'm not! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW. Or will you?

Whatever she's got she gave to me, and it's just a matter of time before Jon joins us in the hourly nose-dump of snot that prevents us from breathing enough oxygen to make us act like reasonable human beings. Tonight Jon called us from the freeway to let us know that he was on his way home and I said, "Both Leta and I are blowing our noses into our shirts. You have a lot to look forward to when you get home."

And then he walked in the door and Leta squealed, and all that fucking bullshit you hear about how eternally wonderful it is to be a parent seemed, if only for a brief moment that seemed to last, my God, eternally, like it totally made sense.