"Did you have fun the other night?" she asked as I stood at the sink, helping with the dinner dishes.

"Yeah," I said with a naughty little grin.

"Are you ready to have fun for the next 18 years?"

We'd been married for only six months at that point, so we never got to frolic on faraway beaches during the years-long honeymoon we dreamed of. Instead, we frolicked at home and I got a crash course on pregnant women.

For instance, I learned that women who are with child are always hot. LaVeta routinely cranked the air conditioning up until I looked and felt like a fudgesicle. I learned that pregnant women are hungry, too. I once hesitated while passing the meatloaf and I still have bite marks on my arm.

Pregnant women are also self-conscious, which is really weird, because if you're a husband, there's nothing more beautiful than the sight of the woman you married carrying your child. They have a certain glow about them. Then they deliver, the glow disappears, and suddenly, the truth comes out.

On the morning of Oct. 18, 2001, the truth was named Eve. I'd like to say her birth was beautiful, but childbirth is never pretty. There's lots of screaming, straining, pushing, and other nasty stuff I won't discuss here.

By the time LaVeta pushed Eve into the world, the delivery room was a mess, and my mother-in-law, who'd done her duty by staying with us for the blessed event, had seen enough.

"Do you want to go down and get breakfast?" LaVeta asked her when it was over and Eve was in her arms.

"You didn't see what I just saw," my mother-in-law said.

Eve, on the other hand, wasn't disturbed by the spectacle. She carefully observed everything and everybody in the room, and I knew, as I watched this inquisitive little girl, that I would love her forever. I also knew, when she displayed her ravenous appetite, that I needed another job.

In the moments after her birth, Eve latched onto LaVeta and refused to let go for a year. Well, that's not quite true. She let go long enough to cry constantly and for no apparent reason. At least that's the way it seemed at the time.

As the years went by, however, I learned that Eve's crying, like everything else, had a rationale. She was crying because she had a lot to say, and wailing was the only way she knew to say it. I can remember wishing that she would learn to talk. When she did, I wished that she would learn to stop.

At the ripe old age of 1, Eve saw the Ford F-150 on a commercial and insisted that it was her car. At 2 years old, she went up front to sing with the children's choir at church and pushed another girl away from the microphone. It didn't matter that Eve didn't know the song. The mike was hers, and no one was going to take it from her.

Things have remained that way over the years. Eve has talked all of us into submission with stories of imaginary boyfriends ranging from R&B singer Charlie Wilson to Disney star Corbin Bleu. She's composed songs that make no sense whatsoever. She's written a book and is contemplating starting another.

But even as the words tumble out and the crown of her head reaches nearly to her mother's shoulder, even as her face matures and I see hints of the young woman she'll someday become, there's one more thing that will never change.

Just as I did when I saw her for the first time in the delivery room, I know that I'll love my little girl forever.

Solomon Jones' column appears every Saturday. He can be reached at sj@solomonjones.com.

Solomon Jones will sign his new novel, "Payback," at Border's Express, Willow Grove Mall, 2500 Moreland Road, Willow Grove, from 1 to 3 p.m. today. For info: 215-659-5399