At times Cheryl will tell you, with no small amount of frustration in her voice, that Beth is definitely my daughter. I lie here on Tuesday evening, finishing this entry with Beth at my side. She is busy with children’s television. I’m busy with one of my hobbies. We are both sitting mostly quiet, absorbed in our activity. But we are together, offering the occasional reminder that we are present: a question about something not understood or the sharing of something found amusing. It may not seem like much to many of you out there not reading this, but it is moments like these that I am stricken by how much I love my daughter. It is also times like these that I am stricken with the feeling that I have more in common with my daughter than I do with other adults. I know that you think this should be obvious, but you may not know what I mean. I’m thinking of the way I see myself. The evolution of my self image is stalled at big kid. I don’t live life thinking of myself as a working adult, parent to another human being. At the same time, the reality of having another child on the way is starting to settle. I find myself turning unfolding events in our lives into lessons for Beth, preparing her for a younger sibling. I hope they will be more than siblings, I hope they will be friends. I hope we will foster this development instead of hinder it. I hope my relationship with Beth will not suffer. I hope we will handle the pressures to come with grace and patience. I hope that there is enough adult in me to be a good parent, but enough child in me to make a real connection with my children. I hope I’m not hoping for too much.