Yesterday, The Husband and I shuffled to the hospital for another photo session with The Kid, i.e. ultrasound, to check on both his and my condition. We got a good report, meaning he’s likely to stay put for a few more weeks. Though if he wants to arrive, say, three weeks early, it wouldn’t hurt our feelings. I’m completely aware of the fact that a new era of sleeplessness awaits us upon his debut, but once he’s not renting space in my belly, I’ll at least have my body back–and not be subjected to the joint pain and limb numbness that plague me now. Also, I could celebrate Jesus’ birthday with some serious cocktails.

TK decided to show us his face this visit, and he continued to display his affinity for breathing practice and toe-holding. Then the ultrasound tech pointed out his hair and I almost lost it. I’m watching him become a person inside of me, and that process has me considering the kind of person, the kind of mother, I’m going to be in response.

Oddly, that consideration was recently reflected in my online search for a diaper bag. I ascribed weighty significance to finding the perfect accessory: I’m not a bells-and-whistles type who compares customer ratings with product details to discover this season’s most innovative product; I just wanted something that didn’t scream MOMMY. For over thirty-three years, after all, I haven’t been one, and I’ve managed to cultivate an identity apart from that important and imminent dimension of my Self–and I plan on continuing to be more than Mom once I become one. Was it too much to ask to locate a bag that reflected that goal?

Not according to Target.com. I found a gray number that was equal parts diaper bag and purse, function and fashion. As I chose it, I thought about all the baggage that these things carry. And I’m not talking baby wipes and butt paste. I’m talking about the competitiveness that we women have thrived on since elementary school, when we compared Keds colors on the playground and traded scrunchies in the bathroom (no wonder there was a lice issue at my school). Then we got older and stole each other’s boyfriends and lunchroom seats. Then we outdid each other’s weddings and judged each other’s career moves. Now we post on Facebook about what we made for dinner (guilty) and how far we ran and long we nursed. If we’re not careful, these bags carry everything we are–until we ditch them and shift all that baggage onto our kids’ backs, depending upon them to boost our self-esteem and show the world what a great job we did. No wonder moms get so little sleep–we’re exhausted by all this role-playing.

Thankfully, I reached a point in my life where I could no longer pretend to have it all together because it was so painfully evident that I didn’t. So now I get to write about how imperfect I am: how each day of this pregnancy has come with its own bipolar tendencies, how I have neither given up caffeine nor totally ditched alcohol, how it took me awhile to look at the image onscreen and feel something real. I’m not going to be a perfect mother any more than I’ve been a perfect mother-to-be or any more than I’ve been perfect, period. When I think about all the ways I’m going to screw this up on a daily basis, all the reasons I’m going to give that little one cause to stop grabbing his toes and start noticing my flaws, it’s enough to drive me to the boxed wine waiting on the counter. Then I realize that the sum of a mother, of a person, is not in whether she banked cord blood or bought the highest-rated stroller. The one thing that bag will always have room for is grace: the grace that sent me to New York rather than to the wrong person; the grace that lifted me out of my deeply-bred insecurity and people-pleasing and set me on more spacious ground; the grace that reminds me daily of how far I have to go but also, that I never again have to be where I was.

The other day I gazed lovingly upon the bookcase that TH had assembled the night before, then realized that the charger for my computer had been displaced by this new piece of furniture. I hate displacement, but I tried to stay calm and texted him, asking where said charger might be. Seconds later, he replied that he had cut a hole in the back of the bookcase so that my charger would have a perfect place to fit–and stay where it was. Sure enough, I opened the cabinet and found my charger right where I had left it, a home created for it by the one who looks upon my flaws and is somehow filled with love anyway. Maybe his son will too. Grace, after all, makes room for everything.