February 25, 2005
My upstairs neighbors are singing tonight. They've got a group of friends up there and they're all gathered around a karaoke machine singing "Killing Me Softly" and "Looks Like We Made It" and "Hotel California." Janice and I can hear the muted notes through the floorboards of our usually silent building, and we're smiling and joking and singing along.
"I think our neighbors are Hoos," Janice says, conjuring up long-forgotten memories of the large-hearted denizens of Hooville gathering in their town square to sing Christmas songs. Then, half-jokingly, half-wistfully, she adds, "If I could drink right now, I'd have three glasses of wine and go up there and join them." And she strokes her ever-expanding belly, stretched full with our son who has just eight weeks left today, and we both know that even though we're not upstairs drinking wine and harmonizing with people twice our age, we have plenty to sing about down here too.
Looks like we made it,