Yesterday, The Husband and I went to the doctor to have The Kid’s picture taken again. It was an important visit, one that would tell us if I was worsening into High-Risk Pregnancy territory or improving into the Healthy Pregnancy zone. Not to mention the fact that every time we see those tiny arms and legs flopping around on screen, I feel a palpable relief at knowing that things are going well in the body apartment where The Kid lives, rent-free, for now.

The ultrasound technician pointed out kidneys, bladder, and stomach. Then we watched as TK jabbed an elbow out, and I felt it instantly. He kicked a leg, and I felt that too. Then he touched his toes, and I nearly applauded–best show I’ve ever seen on TV (including Felicity. Yeah, I said it). Our doctor came in and took a look and pronounced everything completely normal, then told us how to make Chicago-style pizza (it made sense at the time). And as we left, I had to laugh: both in relief, and at the idea that this whole pregnancy thing could ever be called normal.

I sat across from a new friend and her four-month-old boy at lunch this week and we commiserated over the weirdness that is childbearing. About the weight gain, the peeing, the psychos who call the whole thing “magical.” There was nothing magical about the way I sideswiped the garage on my way out this morning, hearing a sickening crunch as the glass in my side mirror shattered. Three thoughts popped into my mind: (1) I really need to stop yelling the F word as a gut reaction, especially after The Kid arrives; (2) I’m going to disappoint TH; and (3) he’s also going to be totally understanding about it. In a Not Me, who-freaks-out- over-cookie-crumbs-on-the-floor kind of way. So I called him, and sure enough, thoughts 2 and 3 were correct. And as I rued the fact that this accident would have been much more convenient had it occurred when I had a job, he assured me that mistakes happen and I was reminded of how thankful I am that he’s the one with whom I’m raising this child.

Then I called the Bro-in-Law, who has considerable experience in car body repair because he’s married to The Sis. Although I rear-ended three cars the year I got my license, my sister (whose birthday it is today; HB, RD and this is your present) holds the rare distinction of getting in a wreck on her way to the dealership to get her car repaired from her last wreck. Somewhere, The Dad is laughing at the baton he has passed to TH and the Bro-in-Law.

But–(there always is one, isn’t there?) despite the lack of income and presence of wrecks, one thing I am doing right is growing this little boy inside me, and while I refuse to use the word magical to describe the process, it is pretty amazing–feeling him practice what TH is certain is his superior kicking ability, looking at the car seat brought over by the Sis-in-Law the other day and knowing that in a few months it will be occupied. And though The Sis and I are only partly joking when we talk about a time-share arrangement wherein The Niece lives with us part-time and The Kid lives with them part-time and we convince them they’re siblings with two sets of parents…I know that ambivalence is a feeling that doesn’t stand a chance against love, and like my friend told me at lunch the other day, “when you see that face, it will all be worth it.” Let’s hope TH feels the same way after he gets a look at my mirror.