"I feel guilty," I told Jeanette, "about treating your family as an ordeal and mine as a refuge." It was Christmas, and the two of us were driving from our annual dinner with my in-laws back to my parents' place.

"Bob, you think of my mother as a self-centered, nasty woman. Don't you?" Well, yes.

"And you don't?" I asked.

"Heavens no! That's much too mild a description. You can't -- no one raised in the Brennan family could -- imagine how evil she is." Well, she is evil enough that merely phoning her gives my brave wife the willies.

"Anyway," she continued, "I treated your family as a refuge even before we were married."

Jeanette's mother insists on having us to a Christmas dinner with what friends she can gather. Most people prefer to eat with their own families that day, but she wouldn't count that as a party. This year her sons couldn't (or wouldn't) attend. I'm never sure about these dinners; should I protect Jeanette from the pain by demanding that she not go? It would be a favor in some ways. On the other hand, this is all the family -- aside from one of her brothers -- that she has left.

My family has moved the Christmas feast to the 26th to accommodate them, but we still had our ceremonies. We had shared the tree and read "King John's Christmas" that morning with my parents and my sister Kathleen, who was home from Johns Hopkins med school. They waited supper until we got back.

We joined them. Jeanette had a glass of milk; I had some Christmas cookies. After the grace and the first talk about the food, I cleared my throat. "Jeanette and I have an announcement to make."

"That's nice," my mother said. "And, dear, I'm glad that you told your mother first." That comment was directed to Jeanette; and no, we hadn't.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Kathleen said. So much for our great surprise.

"You knew?" Jeanette asked.

"The first morning I was home, I was about to try for the bathroom when you rushed in first. From the hall, I could hear your vomiting. Then Bob came out from your room and walked downstairs slowly." I hadn't seen her at all. "Now I might not have graduated, but I do know something about medicine. Bob should have been pounding my door for help for his sick wife; so that nausea wasn't due to illness. Getting nauseated by Bob is perfectly natural, but it would be rather late for you."

Before I could respond to the last, Dad popped out: "Jeanette was sick, and you weren't even concerned?" Leave it to him to put the worst construction on the data.

"Russ, let him make his announcement, dear."

So I did. "Jeanette is pregnant. We expect a child in June." At least Dad looked surprised; they all looked pleased.

"I still don't understand how Katherine knew," said Jeanette.

"It's the initials," said my father. Mom is Katherine Grant Brennan.

"Dear, the two of you have been looking smug this entire visit, insufferably smug."

"Dad," Kathleen put in, "I knew that Bob would over-react if Jeanette were sick. He wasn't blase' because he was indifferent. He was concerned, but he said nothing because he knew the cause. And was trying to conceal it."

"Oh."

"And," I said, "Jeanette has consulted doctors. But this is our absolutely first announcement to family and friends." Mother raised her eyebrows, but kept her mouth closed.

"Well," said my father, "we are honored. As well as overjoyed."

Kathleen got up, rounded the table, and hugged Jeanette's shoulders. Jeanette and Mom got up, and the women did a lot of hugging.

"Well, Vi," said Dad, "you'll have to graduate on time, now. There is another Brennan in the queue." Kathleen Violet had used her middle name for more than a decade at home, and then changed back early in med school. Who could keep track? There had never been any question about her graduating on time.

"Actually, Dad," I answered, "although anything can happen, I think that we have the immediate financial problems covered." We'd been trying for a baby for some time, and we had started trying when we could just about cover the expenses. We had more in savings by the time of that conversation than I ever expect to have again until long after all the children are in school. And we both have medical insurance.

"I've brought our tentative budget with me," Jeanette said. "I'd appreciate it if you would look it over for me, sir. I keep being afraid that I've left a glaring hole."

"But," said Mom, "have you counted the costs of spoiling one's first grandchild?"

"With one room for Legos and another for teddy bears," Kathleen chimed in, "your rent bill is going to go through the roof."

"And then we'd probably have to pay for the roof repair as well," Jeanette said. "So keep the spoiling to a minimum. Okay?"

"The best present," said my father, "never made it under the tree." There were various murmurs of assent.

"Besides, Jeanette never even drank milk in her coffee," said Vi.

"That's true. Do you want to be excused from the feast preparation, dear?"

"Now, Katherine, you don't have to pamper me. I've gone through that with your son already. I'd like to keep away from the turkey itself if possible."

"Take it from a woman who bore two, dear. The pampering is only your due. Take as much as is offered."

"Anyway," Jeanette said, "I like the conversations in the kitchen." These are monologues, but Mom keeps them entertaining.

"A man," Dad said, "died and was taken to a luxurious room. The bed made itself and gourmet meals shimmered into being on the table whenever he got hungry. After a week, he started to go stir crazy. 'What is there for me to do?' he asked.

"Voice came from the wall: 'There is nothing for you to do. Everything will be done for you, forever.'

"'That's crazy. I might as well be in hell.'

"There was a long pause. 'Where did you think you were?'"

"Exactly!" said Jeanette.

Jeanette was employed full-time, she had primary responsibility for a house, was preparing for (and carrying) a baby, and translating bureaucratic French. (She had decided that she would not take another night class until sometime after the baby came.) I didn't think that she was in imminent danger of having too little to do.

"Well," I said when we were alone in our room after the Dylan Thomas record, "Dad was surprised."

"Yes. I don't mind your mother and sister knowing. Am I really smug?"

"You have a right to be." Mom had said it about both of us.

"And that's over for a year." She wouldn't have to talk to her mother until Mother's Day, and only by phone then.

Even so, she was tense when she came to bed. I had to pet her and talk to her until the last worries flowed away.

By then, she was purring and arching into my strokes. I shut up and put my mouth to better use. Her breasts were rather sensitive, so I didn't suck hard there. But I licked them and nipped very gently with my lips. She writhed when I blew across the nipples. On the way, I stopped to kiss her belly where our little atom was growing.

When I arrived, she was awash in her acceptance of our love. I swear that she tasted different during her pregnancy, sweeter somehow. I licked that sweetness off her lips until she grabbed my hair. Then I concentrated on her bud while she stiffened and shook. Her climax is the most erotic sight possible. And I had led her there! I reveled in it until her hands pushed my head back.

Then I climbed up over her and into her. I could still feel the aftershocks. But I kept my weight off her while she caught her breath. When her legs wrapped around me, I let myself move.

I shifted so that my hands could reach her breasts. With half my weight still on my elbows I stroked in and out. She began to respond again, moving against me as I advanced into her, falling back as I withdrew. I pressed into her all the way and moved my hips to rub against all her sensitive places. Her belly was definitely hardening by the time I resumed my strokes.

I tried that three times more, feeling her torso firm under me and her legs tighten around me. The breath was hissing through her lips even on the inhales. She managed to gasp, "Bob. Now!" I sped my strokes, driving harder. Her nails dug into my shoulders. I felt her rise into a firm arch under me. Then her warm tunnel clutched around me. It gripped me again and again. I erupted.

The two of us shook there in silent delirium. I managed to fall sidewise when I collapsed.

Later, I cleaned up and straightened out the sheets. We hugged. "I love you," I whispered. "Oh Jeanette!" We kissed good night in preparation for the spoon position.

"Let me hold you," she said. Usually it is the other way around. I turned my back to her, and one hand snaked around my waist. I held it in both of mine, brought it to my mouth, and kissed each finger before we fell asleep.

Jeanette had figured out that working, being pregnant, and giving up coffee was going to be too big a load. So she had given up the coffee as soon as we got back from France. It was an ordeal for her (and somewhat of one for me). There was probably some superstition involved: "We have to act as if a baby is certain, and then it will be." If so, the superstition worked.

But that had really changed our mornings. I showered quickly and went downstairs to breakfast alone. Mom was fixing bacon and eggs. "Aren't you getting a plate for Jeanette?" she asked.

"She isn't up yet. And breakfast won't be the first thing on her mind. I'll get her cereal if that is what she prefers."

"Oh yes!" She smiled. "I suppose that saying how happy I am is inappropriate when the subject is morning sickness."

"Well, she's happy about the baby most of the day. But these days I don't bring her coffee in the morning. Look, I know you are mostly on her side; but keep this secret, will you."

"What dear?"

"Well," I explained "since she quit coffee, she doesn't really need a husband. I used to make her coffee every morning. She really wasn't in shape to make it before she had a couple of cups. Now, I'm completely superfluous."

"I doubt that she thinks so dear."

"Thinks what?" My sister had come down late but fully dressed.

"Bob is afraid that Jeanette thinks that he is superfluous. Or so he says, dear."

"Nonsense." I waited for the rest of it. "Jeanette almost always thinks in French these days. She must think of him as de trop."

"Really, Vi," I said, "you must have been breathing too much ether at Johnny Hop. That's the weakest barb from you in years."

We were well into it when Jeanette came downstairs. One look at her face killed any idea of offering breakfast. "Can you two stop fighting for a bit?" she asked.

"Truce?" I said to Kathleen. If she wouldn't, I'd simply not respond.

"Truce," she agreed.

The women were soon hard at work preparing the feast. My mother would have felt that she had betrayed me, much less my future wife, if she had sent me off into the world unable to cook some meals. On the other hand, the women of her family gathered in the kitchen on feast-preparation days; men weren't, and aren't, invited.

I told Dad that this was one custom which was not being passed on to the next generation.

"Well, I'm not feeling guilty," he said. "I'm her audience when you kids are gone, but it's clearly not the same. Your mother is such a modern woman, and then she is more like her grandmother than like her mother, sometimes. But holidays and feasts do that; we like to go back."

That struck a chord. "You know how Victorian women covered their entire bodies? They were tainted if a man should see their ankle, let alone their collarbone?"

"Yes?"

"Except at a fancy ball. There they wore the styles of their grandmothers, which showed decolletage which some women today wouldn't wear. Our wives, for example." Jeanette owns maybe one bra which doesn't cover more than the dresses from that day would.

"Well, Jeanette doesn't really have to cook here, you know. Especially now."

"Sir, Jeanette enjoys these sessions. I know what she likes and dislikes. These sessions, she actually likes. Mom apparently imparts the wisdom of the ages to the kitchen crew. I can't imagine that she really likes other household chores, but she loves being part of the family. She hates morning sickness, after all, but it's a price she's happy to pay."

We got on the subject of the stock bubble. "What drives me mad," Dad said, "is that otherwise-intelligent men talk about 'the immense amount of wealth creation' that has come out of the market.

"The industrial base of this country is a form of wealth, and it has grown somewhat. But the wealth of nations, to coin a phrase, is not twice as great because the market will value some claim on it at twice the price."

At that point, Jeanette came in. "You're wearing shoes," Dad said.

"Your son got there first ... and second, and third," she replied. I doubt if there is one variation of the "barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen" joke that Jeanette hasn't heard since I ambushed her in our kitchen a few hours after her home- test turned blue.

"Have I mentioned how happy you have made us?"

"And your wife said that I should be pampered," Jeanette said. She plopped face-down onto the sofa. I walked over and started to massage her shoulders. This ritual actually predates her pregnancy; Jeanette works far too many hours sitting in a chair. On the other hand, she had never before asked for a backrub in public.

Dad picked up a magazine and wandered off quite soon. I kissed Jeanette's ear before letting her up. "Bob!" she said in that pleased/embarrassed way that is such fun to invoke. She went back to the kitchen while I went upstairs to do a little work.

We were translating (Jeanette) and editing (me) century-old documents from the French Foreign and Colonial Offices into a couple of books. We'd brought some rough translations with us, and I lost myself in those.

On the days of our family feasts, the women change their clothes in relays. Mom released Jeanette first, and she and I had a little snuggle while she was upstairs. She couldn't see the necessity of changing her bra, so I kissed her belly instead. When she was fully dressed, she forbade a rumpling hug; but she did allow a long kiss of tongues playing with tongues. By the time that I had donned dress shirt, tie, and sports coat, I was perfectly presentable.

Dad mentioned "Jeanette's happy news" as the last point of the grace. Then we passed food and commented on its looks and smell. When everything had been complimented, Dad asked me if I wanted some sweet potatoes. He knew the answer.

"At least there's one thing on this table which isn't what Bob wants," Vi said. She ignored the fact that everyone but she was eating the stuffing. That and mince pie were my favorites.

"You lose, Kathleen." Technically, that name meant that I was keeping the truce. "Jeanette loves sweet potatoes. I'd have asked for them if there were any question. Happy Jeanette, happy Bob."

"And are you happy?" Dad asked. That was directed to our side of the table; since Dad would never ask that question of me, Jeanette answered.

"I think that is a much better word, Sir."

Mom laughed. "You two didn't invent parenthood, you know."

"We invented this parenthood," I pointed out.

"I'm serious," Dad said.

"The short answer is yes," Jeanette said. "If you want a longer answer, may I wait until after dinner?" He nodded, and we got into a little bit of my sister's experience over the last quarter and into every last thing that Jeanette's obstetrician had ever told her.

"Just prepare to be surprised dear. Kathleen behaved much differently than Bob did, much less matching some mythical standard baby."

"That's because I was human." I ignored her.

"I thought you had promised a truce," Jeanette said. If I hadn't known that she blushes at nothing, I would have thought that my sister blushed at that. I snuck my left hand under the table to my sweet wife's thigh. She had to put down her glass before she could push my hand away. Her color did heighten. I gave her hand a squeeze, and then I let her get back to eating.

Jeanette, Kathleen, and I cleared the table; then Jeanette went back to join my parents. When the dishwasher was full and running, I left Kathleen in the kitchen and found everyone else admiring the tree. Jeanette gestured me to the end of the couch and then lay down with her head in my lap. In minutes, I was hardening. Luckily, Jeanette completely shielded Mom, at least, from the sight.

"Happy," Jeanette said out of the blue. "Sometimes I stop what I'm doing, hug myself, and say, 'I'm going to have a baby!' I'm that happy. In our first years of marriage, I used to be like that. I'd look over at Bob studying or something and say 'I'm married to Bob.' It was a joy every time, and yet I was so scared then."

"Bob." Dad had formerly used that tone of voice before a spanking. Leave it to him to conclude that Jeanette had been afraid of me.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jeanette said. "I'm hogging the conversation. I thought you wanted to hear." It was her lightest and sweetest tone. Dad didn't know that this tone was a danger sign, but he shut up anyhow.

"The thing is, that there wasn't much Bob could do about it. If Mommy had done something overt, Bob would have tried to protect me. But my fear was that she would do something, something unspecific. And all he could do about that was to hug me." I gave her shoulder a light squeeze to demonstrate.

"I didn't know that you were in so much fear," I said.

"How could you? Neither did I. I'd lived with that dread so long. Anyway, you did hug me, lots."

"Poor thing," Vi said, having just entered the room. "How could you stand it?"

"I think Jeanette has the floor, dear."

"No, I do," Kathleen said. She turned 180 degrees without shifting her feet, ending up sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa. She has a nasty mouth, but even I'll admit that the girl is graceful. "Continuez, ma soeur."

"So formal! You're hardly in a position to evaluate Bob as a husband, are you? I don't make any claim for his virtues as a brother.

"Anyway, your father asked me if I were happy. I have much higher standards than I used to have for happiness. Bob has to do something these days before I remember that I'm happy that I married him. Anyway, the answer is still yes. I get sick, and I get angry, and I get tired. But more often than not, I'm happy. And, sir, Bob is a lot like you; but his job isn't at all like yours."

Mom, eager to give Jeanette the floor a minute ago, changed the subject. "I just have to know, dear, have the two of you been thinking about names." I laughed.

"It's been more of a game than anything else," Jeanette said.

"Don't name it after either of you," Kathleen put in. "Give him or her a name all their own."

"Was it so horrible, dear?"

"Not at all, mother. Jeanette, I'll tell you the truth when you next call."

"Would it be worse than naming a girl after the founder of the inquisition?" Jeanette was stretching it.

"Bishop Ximenes did not found the inquisition," I said.

"Are you sure of your baby's sex so soon, dear?"