Our son was born in the middle of the night and had a golden hue. An “X-Files” fan, I wanted to name him Fox but stopped myself. Oh, how I loved him. My love for him poured over me, a thick honey of adoration. I got lost in that love and gave him Tom’s middle name, but I was still hoping Tom would grow weary of me and fade into the past.

I was in the hospital for six days. Each day, Tom arrived with a renewed smile, shrugging off my glares and despair. One day, he came after mowing the lawn, wearing a ratty T-shirt, and I gave him a look that said, “Is this the best you can do?”

The next time I saw him, he was in pressed khakis and a polo shirt.

By Day 5, I was moving around the hospital room but not enough to jar free my stubborn heart. I stood over the bassinet, lost in the playful snores of our baby, and I felt a hand on my back. It must have taken such courage for Tom to approach me.

“I hope we can be friends,” he said.

I gave him a half hug but didn’t say much. I’ve since wondered if he had been thinking about kissing me then.

As stubborn as I was trying to be, it didn’t take long for Tom’s persistence to soften me. By the time our son was a month old, Tom and I were once again inseparable. My anger at him, which really had been anger at myself, was overtaken by the giddiness of being young and loved.

When we married, I was 23 and he was 26.

My belly has swollen with two more pregnancies since then, and today three rowdy boys rule our house. It can get loud and chaotic, especially at mealtimes. None of the boys like the same food, or will sit still long enough to eat, or keep quiet enough to allow us even to think. Sometimes the household chaos makes me feel trapped and claustrophobic in all the ways I had feared, and I think: “This is it? This is my life now?”