On Monday, I watch George W. Bush address the nation and the world; he gives Saddam Hussein 48 hours to pack himself and his sons and leave Iraq to avoid war. I half-listen to the president while feeding my 20-month-old daughter her late-afternoon snack of grilled cheese sandwich cut into bite-sized pieces.

I feel terrible averting so much attention from Alyssa to watch a directive replete with doom.

On Wednesday, with Saddam hunkered down in one of his many royal bunkers, the United States chooses to go to war, and an air campaign over Baghdad begins. The Bush administration assures the country the war will take weeks, not months.

On Thursday, my husband meets me at our obstetrician's office, where we have a routine visit and hope to hear our second baby's 14-week-old heartbeat on Doppler. When the OB doesn't hear the rapid whoosh-whoosh of the fetal heartbeat, she grabs the ultrasound machine and pops its magic wand on my belly.

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