Watch enough science fiction movies and you’ll become too practiced in the suspension of disbelief to accept anything you see on a screen as part of reality. So the fact that we have seen the Peanut on screen doing backflips in his/her little water cave hasn’t managed to make being pregnant any more concrete. Sure, my belly is growing; sure, I spent three and a half months puking daily. But it remains too surreal to really fathom. Though I’m sure giving birth will probably clear up most of the surreality, it is possible that I will never really wrap my head around it, even when the Peanut is 18 and standing right next to me. Sometimes I can’t even fathom that I have hands or eyes or lungs—it all (our bodies, life, etc) just seems so beautifully, magically, perfectly improbable.
Making a kid. It feels impossible, like a miracle. It is strange and fascinating and exciting and insane. And yet it is the most common of events. Every single person you know was once an unfathomable bump on someone’s belly, and if you start to pay attention, you’ll notice that there are pregnant women everywhere.
The excitment, the surreality, and the sheer impossibility of the event lend themselves to smugness, to a feeling of having accomplished something. And yet what have you really accomplished? You’re a human, doing what humans do. Your pipes happen to function (which is always worth being thankful for if you want children), and you now have proof that you’ve gotten laid at least once in your life. This baby will be one of the biggest events of your existence, but its creation will only ever matter as much to a small handful of others. Like cooking it belongs in the realm of everyday magic: beautiful, sacred, life-giving, banal, everday, and completely, utterly normal.
Photo: Click Clack Gorilla at 15 weeks round, Peanut at 13. Please note the gorgeous sage plant that I have raised from seed in the background.