The older I get, the more skittish I am. It seems I’m figuring out that I have more to lose these days than I did during the wanderings of previous years. So what I’m saying is, it’s not likely you’ll find me hanging from another bungee cord anytime soon. Even the rise and fall of a plane ride, which I used to love, has become more a source of anxiety than thrill: the jet hits an air pocket and I’m seeing my life flash before my eyes, oxygen masks falling from the ceiling all Lost-style, hands sweatily gripping the armrest. The Husband and I flew to Chicago last weekend for a wedding (“Let this be your last flight of the pregnancy,” the doctor advised when I told him), and the cons of the flight were the tiny old plane and the fact that it was operated by American Airlines; the single pro was that we had our own two-seater row. (I don’t like strangers in general; the ones with whom I’m trapped in a small traveling space seem especially unbearable.) Our modicum of privacy was the diamond in the rough of our journey, and it allowed me to sit by the window without enduring the trauma of climbing over people I don’t know to race to the bathroom.

Sunday morning was gray and rainy, but we lifted off the runway and into the dripping sky without trouble. Then came the moment when we barreled through the blanket of clouds blocking the sun. The plane shook a bit, and our view of the Chicago skyline was blocked. Our view was blocked, period, replaced by impenetrable vapor. Then we began to emerge on the other side of it, and I remembered what would come next, the seeming miracle that transfixed me when I was a child: the fact that there was light above the clouds, that it never went away no matter how things appeared at ground level. I turned to TH and whispered: “It’s about to get sunny again!” Around that time, the light poured through, and a blanket of white soon unfurled beneath us.

I thought about vantage points, and the default assumption that mine is best; about the negativity I encounter from others and myself that, left untended, creates a thick haze over my head; about what life would look like if I didn’t go by just what I can see from ground level. I felt the gratitude known only by those who have been knocked around and picked back up enough to finally find rest in a wisdom that flies higher than theirs. After awhile, the clouds disappeared altogether.

I hadn’t realized how soul-starved I was for some positive feedback. The encouragement I receive from family and friends is priceless to me, and I treasure it (literally–I keep it in a gmail folder labeled “Encouragement”). But when you’re actively pursuing a professional opinion on your work, a string of rejections coupled with positive words from those who know you can leave you feeling a bit like the girl on prom night who gets a corsage from her parents because she doesn’t have a date. Yes, the flowers are lovely, but I still feel like a loser, thanks.

So this week, when I heard from two professionals who read people’s words for a living and their answer was something other than “thanks, but no thanks,” I was riding high. Gratitude, at times like these, comes a little too easily–I don’t have to look for it. And I basked in the meaning of it all, the signs that I might just be onto something here. That I might not be chasing a whim. I followed up on the encouraging emails and went back to my latest project, and the words flowed like water. It was a good day.

Then, yesterday, the cable and internet went out. And just like that, it all went to shit.

I don’t speak the language of technology–instruction manuals make my skin crawl, and I shut down recently when my email was hacked, forcing The Husband to step in and redeem the situation. But when technology fails me–well, then it is ON. I shout, I cry, I pound the air with my fist, I feel wronged in a way no one has been wronged before. It is an ugly, ugly scene. My first-world problems never fail to get the best of me.

So yesterday, when I was forced out of the house and down the street to Barnes & Noble, it felt like I was admitting defeat. But I figured that if I transferred to a public location, I would (a) not be allowed to pout like a little brat; and (b) maybe even be productive. The drive there, though, was a reckoning.

The trash poured into my head: What’s wrong with you? Why do you always do this? Why are you so ridiculous? Why don’t you ever make any progress? And that’s when I held my finger up, the “Oh, hell no” stance of the white girl, and said, “No more.” I recognized that I was under attack, and whether you want get all spiritual and call it warfare (I do) or psychological and call it low esteem, it was real. And I decided I was not having it. One of my favorite authors calls it “making agreements” when we listen to this garbage, and in my life, I’ve been way too agreeable. I knew what was going on: there are all too many voices in this world who will do whatever it takes to steal our joy, to leave us robbed and empty, to thwart our progress. Wherever they come from, they speak misery because they are miserable. They preach barrenness because they are barren. They speak hate because hatred is their currency. And only too often, we let them speak loudest. So I told them to shut the hell up. There is way too much unhappiness in this world–I refuse to be recruited to its side.

I didn’t immediately feel lighter than air, or even joyful for that matter. But I knew that I was now dealing in truth, and there’s a quiet certainty in that knowledge, and sometimes the only way forward is one small step. One “yes” to the truth and “no” to the lie. I walked into B&N and sat down and started to write. Each word was a step forward, an act of faith. Later, I walked around the block and had to stop and admire the way the light fell on a green field, the way that what had been sewer covers the day before now looked like stepping stones on a path toward the sun.

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.

You can’t ride two horses with one ass, sugarbean.     –Earl Smooter

On Saturday, I rode in the backseat with The Niece as The Sis drove us to Babies ‘R Us. I’ve always been put off by places that intentionally spell words incorrectly, as well as venues centered completely around products like breast pumps and musical swings. In the past, when I’ve shopped for friends’ shower gifts, I’ve browsed and clicked online, safely ensconced in a baby-free apartment. Now it’s time to delve right into this strange new world and familiarize myself with all its accoutrements. Luckily, I have The Sis, who was always just as turned off by this realm as I was until The Niece came along. Now she navigates it with precision and a minimum of gushiness–just my style. There is no part of either of us that gets weepy over Hooter Hiders (although I will admit, some of the onesies were pretty cute). So when the customer service rep handed me a booklet that opened up to read, “Thanks for becoming one of us,” I had to laugh and think, The hell I am. But then she passed me a scanner gun, and I was on board. The Sis and I worked our way around Babee Wearhaus or whatever it’s called, The Niece cooing in her stroller in front of us.

There was a time about a decade ago when I would have given anything to have a ring on my finger and the baby scanner in my hand, and I would have had absolutely no idea what I was getting into. Dear God, it would have been a train wreck. Now, thanks to the fact that this time in my life was gracefully delayed past my preference and that those who have gone before me can serve as my own personal Yodas, I know a lot more. Enough to be scared, in fact, and to openly admit and battle ambivalence. The Sis celebrated her birthday with a friend and me over lunch last week, and I felt flooded with relief (and envy over their glasses of Prosecco) as they described their own delays in the bonding process with their children; the fact that it didn’t occur the day they discovered their pregnancies but was, in fact, closer to the time infants were placed in arms and this whole pregnancy period was a thing of the past. Because for all the warmth with which I am flooded when I see The Kid bouncing around on the ultrasound screen or elbowing me in the gut, the idea of his existence is still layered in shades of gray and uterine lining and separated from reality by months and pee breaks. The other day, The Sis and I were at the park pushing The Niece on the swing when a fellow mom arrived with her toddler girl. She asked how far along I am, and when I told her, her eyes took on a glazed and wistful look as she waxed nostalgic on all things pregnancy and labor-related. “I miss being pregnant and having babies,” she lamented as her beautiful daughter sat pumping her legs unproductively on her own. “I loved every part of it. I loved going through childbirth. Just loved it.” I jokingly told her, “You can do mine for me,” then The Sis and I exchanged a look that said, “Let’s get the eff out of here,” and did just that.

As I go through the weirdness that is the next few months, I remember gratitude. I am thankful that I’m experiencing this now and not ten years ago. I am thankful that I’m paired up with the right partner for it. I am thankful that I don’t have to love being a fluid factory to love my child. I am thankful that I am allotted an amount of time to take all this in and embrace it; that I am becoming, constantly, who I was meant to be. I am thankful that a life of faith can feel like always being in between two spots–where I was and where I’m going–even as I am, in this exact moment, exactly where I’m supposed to be. Because there is an infinite amount of peace that comes with declaring an end to fighting the details and deciding to open the hands to Now–not next week or next year or last year, but Right Now. And whether now involves waiting for Mr./Ms. Right to show up, or waiting for grief to subside, or waiting for unpreparedness to give way to mastery, I am thankful to know that in the seeming stillness, I am being given all that I need–so that I can be right here.

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.

I like to take stands on matters, even (especially?) when I’m under-qualified to do so. A lot of the conversations between The Husband and me start when I voice a vehement opinion on something–That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!–after which he gently explains the other side of the story, the side I never bothered reading, and I see how much more complicated that story is than I first thought. And just like that, he has helped me down from the ledge.

I took a stand early on about maternity clothes. As a conservative, I should be all about corporate greed, but I wanted to resist an industry built on manipulating women into buying clothes they can only wear for a few months. They won’t trick me! I planned to buy as few new clothes as possible, opting instead to wear my empire-waist dresses and leggings and voluminous shirts and see how long I could get by. (This is admittedly easier to do when you don’t have a job.) The one concession I did make was to allow for the purchase of maternity jeans, and as coolness edged into the air this past week, I walked into Target. I was high on the promise of fall and a stranger’s recognition of my bump, and I walked over to the maternity section. I found my jeans.

When I brought them home, I slid into them and they fit like a glove. I pulled the top layer of stretchy fabric over my belly and paraded back and forth in front of the mirror, imagining all the places where I could wear my new jeans, all the outfits that now opened up to me, the world of options at my disposal. I reasoned that they would come in handy even after The Kid comes out, when TH and I will go to the Mexican restaurant and I won’t have to unfasten the button on my jeans on the way home because I have my stretchy-belly pants. More chips, please.

My good mood lasted until that evening, when The Saga of My Former Employment had a new chapter added onto it–a chapter in which my name is trashed and my reputation threatened so that someone else’s may be spared–and I felt, suddenly, like I was under attack sitting there in my living room. The obvious perpetrator being persistent injustice dealt by someone else’s hand; the insidious sneak attack following, creeping into that place where only cold, hard honesty can uncover it–a spotlight on long-held insecurities.

I shrugged off TH’s attempts to comfort me and folded into myself instead, wrapping up in an isolating blanket of self-pity (my favorite kind of pity) and seething through angry tears. Then came the voices that unravel that blanket, that force me to unfold. First, TH speaking reason, reminding me of truth, talking me down from yet another ledge. Then, the truth itself.

What if you–and I’m just spitballing here–what if you, I don’t know, actually started BELIEVING what you say you believe? What is supposed to be bigger than all this crap that other people throw around? What if your faith, if grace, was your first resort instead of your last? What would that look like?

It would look like taking to my knees rather than climbing onto ledges. Like expecting much, rather than balling up and hiding. Like wearing pants that make room for all that’s to come, rather than trying to squeeze into what I can see.

I released my grip on myself and headed to the other side of the couch, under TH’s arm. And I felt it–the loosening of all the stakes I’ve placed that marked the limits of my faith. The borders where I allowed grace to end and fear to begin. I felt them scatter and disappear, and faith flowed freely, unbound. I felt a different kind of pity: pity for those who, like I did, choose to live in smallness. I stretched out, unhindered, as TH rested his hand on the bump in the center of me that won’t stop growing.

I love a routine. I thrive on order and stability, and when my carefully laid plans get upset, so do I. I tend to regard such upsets as interruptions and intrusions, things to be fixed–though I am learning, with time and age and grace, to look upon them more invitingly. To see a designing hand in the midst of what looks like chaos.

But my love for a schedule intrudes even upon those times when I’m not supposed to have one: namely, vacation. Now don’t get me wrong–the itinerary doesn’t have to be packed to be satisfactory; in fact, I prefer it not be. This is one of the (many) reasons The Husband and I are perfect for each other: our idea of the perfect vacation involves a beach, a book, and the following routine: lift bottle to lips and drink. But I tend to get antsy if I’m sitting in one place too long, even if it is in front of a blue-green ocean, so I impose some predictable transition: read two chapters, go for a swim, towel off, reapply sunscreen, get a drink, begin again. Lather, rinse, repeat could well be my mantra.

TH and I went to Seaside this past weekend to celebrate our one-year anniversary. I’m so thankful for this trip, planned well before my untimely work dismissal and nonrefundable, and for the way vacations reset our clocks and teach us to re-appreciate one another. From the time we crossed the bridge on 331 and caught our first glimpse of water, my heartbeat slowed down and peace invaded my soul. Other than the spot between the Pitons in St. Lucia where we honeymooned (which is much less accessible), this beach is my favorite in the world. And spending it beside my favorite person? Heaven.

Our first night, we had dinner at the venue where our wedding and reception were held. We happened to be passed by our wedding coordinator, the venue’s event planner, on our way from the parking lot across the street, and she gave us a ride to the restaurant in her golf cart. The last time we were in that cart, we were being driven away from our reception, he in his tux and I in my dress, as our guests waved sparklers in the night. This night it was just us and the sunset and our baby kicking away (that kid loves a champagne toast).

The rest of the weekend was spent eating and sitting on the beach, with dips in the crystal-clear water thrown in. Our last morning, we picked up coffee in “town” (i.e., a two-minute walk from our cottage) and camped out one last time in the floury white sand. The early-morning water was calm and glasslike, with an occasional rolling wave. I felt the water rock me and the breeze sweep my faace and was reminded yet again of what it feels like to know we’re not alone in this world–to be able to look around at the beauty and know it has a source, to see devastation and know it will be answered. To feel the nail marks in his hands and touch his side.

I needed those moments more than I knew, because life goes on even when you step away from it and expects you to jump right back on the wheel when you return. And when I went to the OB yesterday and met the midwife (trust me, not a hippie thing–she’s legit), I was warned of a complication that could lie ahead–of numbers that will be closely monitored, of activity that needs to be lessened. No more elliptical workouts or spin class for me (I’ll miss you, Zach!) My routine reduced to dust, I drove to Target and comforted myself with a stop at Starbucks–where the barista asked what I was having. I almost angrily repeated my order (Vanilla latte! It’s not rocket science!) until I realized she was looking at my belly, marking the first time a stranger has asked about The Kid. That was when my smile returned.

Then, this morning I turned to my new, low-impact workout and suffered through thirty minutes of yoga (maybe I am becoming a hippie…) and it turned out that The Kid loves it. He’s flopping around like crazy in there hours later. This new low-impact living is not what I would have chosen, but sometimes these moments of slowing down are bestowed as blessings, not provided upon request. Sometimes a greater wisdom interrupts the work and workout schedule and steps in to wipe off the lens and calm the waters so that you can feel them rocking gently, even from hundreds of miles away.