Is jello four times a week overkill?

I don’t know but I don’t really care, because it’s the last thing I can think of to keep her distracted. We’ve worn out all other possibilities – already played baby dolls forty times, ran laps around the dining room table, watched Arthur. I’ve been a dog, a little sister and a grandma while we played house. Benny, the real dog, has been walked and worn out.

Our bubbling (almost) four year old, always the bottomless pit of questions, wonders why Mommy is sleeping when the sun is out and why doesn’t Mommy want jello? I tell her Mommy doesn’t like blue jello, pushing a curl out of her eyes as she shoves a cookie cutter star right to the middle of the pan.

Lucy goes to ballet at four and I can finally take a break from occupying a wiggle worm and go see Pam. She is newly pregnant, in the stages where morning sickness has become a constant companion. I’ve spent the afternoon substituting for Mommy but as I crawl to the dark bedroom, I want Pam and not “Mommy.” I want her to myself for one blissful second.

I sluff over the sheets and lay down next to her. She makes a little noise and rolls over to me, her face marked with pillow creases. She gives me a meek half-smile.

“Hey.” Her voice is traced with sleep; she squints even in a dim room. I kiss her forehead and we move closer, fitting like always, needing this contact of perfect synchrony.

“How’s Lucy?”

“Ballet.”

She closes her eyes. “Is it really after four already?”

“Yep. How’s the stomach?”

She chuckles humorlessly and runs a hand over the offending subject. “Solid for the moment.”

The room is dark, but with light creasing the edges of the blinds, reminds me of lovemaking in peaceful afternoons before our beautiful baby girl arrived. That girl who’s growing up too fast for me to catch up and tell her to slow down.

I fit my hand on top of Pam’s, on top of the small cluster of stars slowly taking root inside her. We let our feet tangle.

“I miss you,” I say. I wasn’t expecting to say it but it’s true. We haven’t had any time for each other lately.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, rubbing her hand across mine. Our rings catch. “I’m right here.”

She kisses my neck and I am reminded: some days I just need to have this us.

She lets me kiss her all over (avoiding lips), trying to absorb her ache. I leave a map of soundless kisses across her skin, following a trail to my favorite freckle by her ear. She presses her face into my shoulder, the smell of my shirt a familiar comfort. She’s wearing what she calls her “mom pajamas” – a matching shirt and pants set with cows dancing all over them. She says they make her feel about as sexy as a piece of lint. I think they’re cute.

“I love you,” she whispers, as my lips find the slow swell of her belly button.

Real life never picks a good time to interrupt. We’ve been laying wrapped up in each other and she suddenly unfolds herself.

“Oh god,” she says, and hurtles into the bathroom to throw up. Pam comes back after hacking and spitting and rinsing with toothpaste. Leaning against the door frame, she looks at me reproachfully and groans. I hold out my arms, discarding the sheets. “Baby, c’mere.”

And she does, whimpering, curling into a ball as I hold her in my lap.

“I hate you for this,” she says.

“I know. But we get another Lucy.”

She hits me too hard. “Try telling me that in eight months when you’re not feeling like shit.”

“Forgive me.”

It is only when Mia’s mom drops Lucy off and a tutu takes up room between us that she is reminded. Lucy, resplendent in purple, bumbles on about leotards and Oliver, a boy in ballet, isn’t that silly, that’s a girl thing, and about how Benny needs to go potty (why did we get her a dog?!) and we can have jello for supper or maybe – she whispers this one – some chocolate.

“I want something not nutritious,” she tells us through a tiny mischievous grin, the curls spilling out of her ponytails. Then she sees Pam with a head sandwiched between the pillows. She touches Pam’s foot. “Mommy?”

I hoist Lucy onto the bed between us.

“Hey, Lucy Goosey.” Pam holds out her arms.

“Lucy, you want to take your shoes off?” I ask, as she begins crawling across the blankets in scuffed Mary Janes.

“Shh.” She holds a finger to her lips, all business, all serious. “Daddy, be quiet. Mommy is sleeeeeping.”

Pam meets my eyes and smiles as Lucy cuddles up next to her, pats a little hand over her arm. Pam runs her thumb down Lucy’s nose and she giggles. Watching them together still does me in every time.

“Mommy, do you still feel yucky?” Pam toys with a curl that’s somehow managed to escape from one of the million sparkly barrettes tangled in Lucy’s hair.

“ I feel much better, sweetie.”

“But still yucky?”

“A little bit,” Pam admits.

I know where this is going. Lucy gasps, right on cue. “Don’t worry Mommy, I’ll make you allllllllllllll better! First a butterfly kiss…” She swipes her lashes gently across Pam’s arm and Pam chuckles. We know this routine. She pauses, the epitome of energy.

“Lucy, you could go get your doctor’s kit,” I suggest. It’s her favorite toy. We have to be sick a lot.

“Daddy, oh no, I think you are sick too!” She plasters her hand against my forehead before trying her hardest to shove me down on the bed. “You got a feber, young man,” she intones. “Lay down. Yes, next to Mommy.”

I comply, trying but failing to keep the amusement off my face.

“Stay here, I will go get my better bag! And some Sprite, and some jello.” She’s already zipping off down the hall.

“Lucy, just pretend jello, okay?” Pam calls after her.

She sticks her head back in the room, looking perplexed. “You can’t eat pretend jello. Silly!”

“Daddy or I would have to hold your hand down the stairs, remember? And I don’t know if we can walk all the way downstairs. We’re sick.” Pam emphasizes the last word for good measure. She is good. She’s always been good.

“Okay!” Lucy squeals, undeterred, tearing off to her bedroom. We lay quietly, listening to our daughter singing to herself in the next room.

Soon there’s a thermometer in my mouth and four Barbie band aids stuck to my arm. At least four. I’ve lost track. I’m busy being a patient but I sneak a glance at Pam, who’s quiet. She’s got an arm tugged across her front, hand drifting under her sweatshirt, face creased.

“How’s our patient?” I ask, sitting up. “Need something?” I wonder if she’s going to sick again.

“I’m fine,” Pam mumbles. She opens her eyes, glazed with tears, to meet mine. She’s watching me, watching Lucy. She smiles. There is something unspoken between us, that gorgeous connection of deepest understanding. She must be holding her stomach for a different reason. And then Lucy breaks the silence.

“Daddy, lie down!” She tries to push me back to the pillows and then, noticing where my attention has gone, turns to Mommy.

Lucy digs in her bag. “Here, Mommy, let me feel your heart!” The plastic is pressed to Pam’s chest, Lucy quiet for a brief and blessed moment.

“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” I ask.

“It’s beating!” she says with such enthusiasm that we all start laughing. Lucy throws up her arms in triumph, smile resplendent. She is exactly the right mixture of her mother and me. She is perfect. I want another one. We settle down, laughing at nothing, one big tangle of arms and legs and tutu.

Pam meets my eyes over Lucy’s head. “I knew there was a reason we were doing this.”

Yes, I think, winking at my wife. Too many reasons to count.