In December of 2005, I became stuck in marshmallow fluff. Or so it seemed at the time. Grayson was engrossed in a movie, Rob was changing the oil in the car, and I was going to spend the afternoon embracing the holidays. I had constructed the perfect gift wrapping station for myself: a large square table in front of the couch, tape and scissors within arms reach, and "Holiday Inn" on the TV. Perfect. The movie had just started - I don't think the opening number had ended. I hadn't even wrapped a single gift when I thought I heard the first call from outside. "Janice!" I relunctantly pushed away from my perfect gift wrapping station and hauled my 5-month-pregnant self off the couch with an eye roll. Before I was on my feet, it came again. "Janice!" And I knew. I don't know how, but I knew from the sound of Rob's voice that something was terribly wrong. I knew with such absolute certainty that I immediately started shaking, and stumbled