Almost overnight, we discovered that we now have a new term for “infertility” in our house.  Oh yes.  Yes, Internet, it is now called “Fort Worth”.  (Thank you, foot-in-mouth Womens Ministry Lady.)

Last night we were sitting on the futon, which I hate and am dying to replace because it is colossally uncomfy, when I said, “I’m sorry I’m in Fort Worth.”

Joey snapped his head around and looked at me.  ”HEY,” he said.

“No, seriously.” I sighed.  ”Sometimes I am afraid you’ll wish you married someone else…someone who wasn’t in Fort Worth so then you could have kids.”

“Stop that right now,” Joey told me.  ”WE are in Fort Worth.  WE are.  Not you.”

I sighed again.  Because really that does bother me, it bothers me a lot.

“I don’t want to be married to anyone else, even if they could have dozens of kids.  I want to be married to YOU.  Even if that means we have to be in Fort Worth.”  And he squeezed my hand tightly.

“OK,” I squeaked.

A few moments later; “At least there are the Stockyards in Fort Worth,” I said.  (In the real Fort Worth, that is.)

Joey just laughed at me.  ”Way to think positive,” he said.

“And I do call you Cow already.”  (It’s true, I call Joey Cow because I like cows and I like Joey so…of course I’d call him Cow.)

So I guess we’ll do just fine in Fort Worth.  Since we have to be there.