I am no longer allowed to park next to other cars. This is not a doctor-issued directive like the one I received about exercise; this rule is self-bestowed. Remember my mirror smash from last week, and the good times that ensued? The light reflects beautifully off of that mirror, by the way–like a magical prism. Although it’s quite possible that I’ve blinded several drivers behind me recently and caused some minor collisions. But this week, I headed to an OB appointment and pulled into the parking deck. A space was open next to a Suburban, but it was a bit tight. I was running slightly late, though, so I coached myself through it: cut hard left, slowly, slowly, and…SQUEAL. I didn’t yell the F word this time (I muttered the S word instead); then I whipped my head around to determine if anyone had witnessed the incident (still, after thirty-four years, my first reaction in any moment of weakness). Once my car was safely parked, I checked the Suburban out for damage. Thankfully, there was none (and I mean really none, not “I looked for two seconds with one eye closed and didn’t see anything” none). Apparently, I had polished my neighbor’s tire with my bumper. Things could be worse. But I still choked back tears as I rushed into the doctor’s office, feeling like a danger to society. That’s when I started having visions of dropping my baby. A lot.

I talked to The Sis afterward, who mentioned the parking-away-from-others suggestion and assured me that weird things happen when you’re off-balance due to pregnancy (last summer I had to drive thirty minutes to let her into the house she had locked herself out of; she was sitting in the 90-degree heat on her front stoop when I arrived and I only laughed a little). Despite assurances, though, it’s pretty discouraging to feel so out of place in your own body. To be so careful and methodical yet still hear crashes. To have visions of accidentally leaving the baby strapped into his car seat while I go shopping at the mall. A lot.

There are so many problems I wouldn’t run into if I never left the house, never crossed my comfort zone of couch and coffee. But then I wouldn’t find out that Starbucks has pumpkin spice lattes again and that the ladies there recognize me now; I wouldn’t get the note of encouragement from an agent that makes all the rejections fade away; I wouldn’t get honest stories from other people that acknowledge weakness and make me feel less alone. Sometimes it takes those crashes to open my eyes to the gifts: the gifts of laughter and forgiveness and dreams in which I don’t drop my baby or leave him in the car, but manage him expertly and feel, even in my sleep, the love I have for him beginning to take off.

There is something to be said for comfort zones, though–for having a place to call home. Like yesterday, when I was immersed in that couch and coffee, and looked up into the neighbors’ yard to see a deer staring back at me. She stood stock-still for a few moments, letting me take her picture, then loped off to her own home. She clearly knew the way.