Pregnancy has transformed my body into an odd and foreign land. Once I knew its customs, its language, but now find myself a stranger here, and lost. The very contours of my body, once so familiar now confuse me, leading me to scrape against doors and collide with furniture. I am often breathless, or stopped short by sharp, shooting twinges and cramps. My fingers are swollen plump, my ankles unrecognizable. I am round and unwieldy, and like a turtle, all but helpless if left on my back. My feet look like puffy cartoons, like Fred Flintstone's feet, and feel, by the end of the day, as though they might explode. They make me giggle when I see them. I feel immense and slow, not in a majestic sort of way like say, an elephant, but rather, like an old bus, lumbering and awkward. Some women say that pregnancy made them feel incredibly beautiful and sensual. I would be lying if I said that. I feel like a bloated old sow. I also feel like a privileged spectator at a miracle.

Pregnancy was one of those things that I always watched from distance thinking, someday. But deep down, I suspected that it would never happen for me. Having children was something that seemed possible only for the very certain-minded. I was never that sure of things. There was always one reason or another to put it off, good reasons. I saw the end of my first marriage coming long before the shouting started and knew that it would be wrong to bring a child into that unhappy mix. When that marriage finally did end, I feared that my chances of ever having a baby died with it. Being inclined by nature to melodrama and extremes, I figured that it would take years to meet a suitable man with whom I could have a family, and by that point it'd be too late, and besides, who would ever love me that much anyway? (This sort of thinking is best accompanied by tremendous quantities of red wine.) Having a baby alone was never an option for me: I know my limits. I look at women who have children alone and think, where do you find the energy? Plus - and it's very corny, I know - I wanted the whole package: a happy little nuclear family, complete with a mom and a dad. Something I hadn't had myself, but had seen enough on TV to know that it looked pretty good. Add to this my concern that my own upbringing would prevent me from being even a reasonably competent parent and you begin to get a sense of why I chose dogs over kids for so very long. Dogs are just a lot more tolerant of mistakes.

But then, just like everyone says, you meet the right person. And suddenly, what seemed so impossible and terrifying begins to seem obvious, doable. It begins to seem natural. And so, after what seemed like a hundred years of taking the Pill, a million nights of rotating that circular plastic dial to the correct day of the week, of swallowing the little tablet before brushing my teeth, I stopped preventing what I'd always feared and began seeking it. This was a peculiar sensation. I'd never had unprotected sex in my life. I thought that it might seem different somehow, more wild and reckless. It did a little, I guess, but not dramatically. It did feel more grown-up and purposeful. We began to think of it that way too. My husband was disappointed when I didn't become pregnant immediately, but I figured that all those years on the Pill may well have confused my body into thinking that I wasn't really a human female at all, but some sort of ornamental creature, like a spayed poodle. I guessed it would take a long time, if it ever happened. When it did, I had no idea. I'd imagined that I'd be one of those women who'd know from the moment of conception, or some nonsense like that. Hardly. I was well into my sixth or seventh week and suspecting that I had food poisoning before I ever took a home pregnancy test. When I did, and the stick turned pink, I promptly took three more, convinced that the results were in error. Then I went to my doctor, argued with her, had an ultrasound, and discovered that there was a tiny being who very much resembled a beagle puppy gestating in my womb. It was months before I really believed that it was true, and even now, at full term, I still wake up in the middle of the night and check to make sure that it wasn't all a dream.

Being pregnant, I've learned, is at once the most personal and universal of experiences. Certain things that I was warned would happen, like strangers touching my belly, haven't. Instead, I'm constantly badgering the guys I work with to give it good poke, to see for themselves how hard and bowling ball-like it is. Complete strangers have told me their labor and delivery stories, some of which sounded pretty horrific, but I've been pleased to hear them. I'm not squeamish, and isn't it better to know what's possible than to be surprised? In the locker room at the Y, the grocery store, at the gas pump even, women have shared their experiences and offered their support. Next to feeling the kicking and tumbling of the baby growing inside me, that's been the very best part of my pregnancy. Despite the extremely extroverted way in which I make my living, I'm a bit of a loner and a little shy. This connection that I've felt with other women has been a lovely and unexpected fringe benefit.

There are other things about being pregnant that I want to remember. Like the afternoon I spent sitting on the couch between Eric and his friend, Victoria, watching "Chicken Run" on DVD. Both kids had a grimy hand on my tummy, feeling the baby hiccup. Or the first time that my husband made the baby kick just by talking in a silly voice to my belly button. It will do me good in the future to recollect the day that I strapped on my maternity truss and trundled along my former jogging route, sighing at the women who were sprinting past me, knowing that I used to be one of them, but doubting that I'd ever be that fast or sleek again. Humbling. Yet this feeling of surrender, after a lifetime spent goading and corralling my body, sweating it, starving it, feeling the burn, has been very pleasant. Eat when you're hungry. Rest when you're tired. Say "no" more often. Put your feet up. Excellent advice for anyone, and doctor's orders for the pregnant. A little vacation from the near-impossible standards that most American women set for themselves. I know that once the baby is born, I'll slowly revert to my old ways. I'll cut way back on carbs, resume my running, and study my blocky little knees in the mirror with disgust. I'll fit back into my regular clothes - clothes I now stare at in wonder thinking, "What little minx ever squeezed into that?" In other words, I'll go back to the daily harsh scrutiny and self-loathing of my physical form that passes for female self-esteem in 2001. But I'll know that for ten months, my body did exactly what it was designed to do, and for once, function mattered more than form. Somehow, we've made a new person. And now all that's left is to welcome him or her into the world.