Three years ago my wife became pregnant, and was ordered to spend almost seven months in bed. The doctors warned her not to fudge, not to sneak around the apartment or take furtive walks. If she did, we might lose the child. And even if she didn't, we might lose the child, which gave the whole ordeal an atmosphere of futility.

We were miserable. She despised staying in bed and having me wait on her. I despised her staying in bed and having me wait on her, and I also despised myself for despising a situation so completely beyond our control. None of this made for a happy household, and as the months passed, we grew desperate for consolation -- food, mainly, and friends. But what saved us in the end was "All My Children."

Neither of us had been very big on soap operas before. When I caught a glimpse of one, I always laughed at the wooden acting, the ridiculous plots, the terrible clothes. We latched onto "All My Children" as a last resort, and because my wife's sister liked it. But our ironic detachment from the show evaporated within a couple of weeks. We found ourselves tuning in at one o'clock every day, surrounded by root-beer floats or half-consumed dishes of scrambled eggs, humming the theme song.

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