The knock comes late in the day; Jim peeks through the blinds to see who it is, then opens the door with a "Congratulations, Papa!" Our neighbors have had a baby boy, and the new father is home momentarily to walk their dog. After getting the full update on the baby's name and weight, I head straight to the kitchen to start making them some food. I gather ingredients, and decide to make a big batch of carrot-ginger soup and bring it over in double-serving containers. Over the last few years, this has been what I always make for people to stick in their freezer after a new baby is born. It's not until midnight that I finally puree the ingredients that have been simmering on the stove, and as I look down at the soup curling away under the hand blender's blades, I realize for the first time that I should stop making this soup for new parents. Tonight I will show up on my neighbors' door step with several tupperware containers full of a smooth, orange paste that is the same color and consistency as the contents of their newborn son's diapers.

*****

I am only 29 weeks pregnant, but I'm already hobbling around like an old lady. I move slowly, I frequently let out small yelps or gasps or grunts as I try to stand up or sit down. It has something to do with my pubic bone separating, my obstetrician tells me, and if it gets any worse, I could get a walker. "Could I put tennis balls on the back feet?" I ask. Still, I allow myself one small bit of dignity: when I get to work, I slip out of my sensible shoes and put on a pair of high heels. I only wear them around the office. Yesterday, a woman standing behind me in line at the snack bar downstairs tapped me on the shoulder and then asked me whether I should really be wearing shoes like that in my "condition." Though a few minutes earlier I'd been wondering the same thing, her question still pissed me off. When I got up to the counter, I asked for a pint of scotch and a pack of smokes, and shrugged my shoulders disappointedly when they reminded me that they only sell snapples and sandwiches.

*****

So it's legitimately cold here. I saw dirty chunks of ice in the gutters on the highway overpass this morning. I found out I was pregnant during that time between spring and summer when it wasn't yet hot. At that time, just making it to August and the end of morning sickness seemed like it would take forever. But here we are, the last trimester, and I have to visit my doctor every two weeks now, where they are pumping Christmas music through the speakers during the hour-long wait. I'm at that point where the desire to hurry this whole thing up so that I can finally hold my son is so intense that it feels physically painful. I dream about him most nights, and every morning I'm disappointed when I wake up and remember we need to wait another two months to meet him. Admittedly, all this longing occasionally leaves me daydreaming and distracted. Two times in the last few weeks I've left the car key in the driver's side door lock overnight. Detroit is the car theft capital of Earth. My husband fumes and vents. I do feel silly, but being 29 weeks pregnant is kind of like having immunity from prosecution. I muster a few tears and say, "I'm pregnant! It's your job to make sure I don't do these kinds of things!" Then I smile into my palms.