I confess that I have had some worries. Worries that I would end up the loud, horsey sort of woman who forgets her children’s names (or child’s, as thank goodness, Tyrant is a solo swimmer) and leaves them to the good will of Simons, nannies, dorm mothers, etc. That I would be off sipping martinis while my children suckle at the teats of wolves for lack of maternal care. That I would resent this baby, because my life is quite full enough, thanks very much.

Yesterday was the big ultrasound, and although Tyrant is only the size of a six-inch cantaloupe, I have discovered a sense of wonder in the fact that it is MY six-inch cantaloupe, with little legs that look just like Simons’ (I’m not imagining this), and little hands, and the darlingest little face with a nose that is turned up because apparently his/her face is wodged up against my uterus. Let us hope that it doesn’t stick like that.

I have been studying these pictures like they hold the answer to some eternal question. It must be a lot like Match.com, where people stare for hours at someone’s profile, wondering is he for you, what that smile means, what your future might be.

I look at the whole, I look at the parts, and I think, “I made this.” I gaze and gaze at that little face, just wondering–not even asking a question, just wondering. Twenty-four hours ago, I knew I was having a baby, but I didn’t know know. It was just a beer belly and some amorphous something-that-will-happen-in-January.

So even though I still think puppies smell better than babies, I think Tyrant and I are going to do all right. Know how I know? Last night, I had my first craving, which was not for pickled beets or potato soup with truffles or red velvet cake or even champagne. At 10 o’clock, just as Project Runway was coming on, suddenly I needed a hot dog and some baked beans with such electrifying intensity, I nearly crushed the dog sprinting for the door. Anybody who truly know me is aware that I can hide my white trash tendencies under Pâte Brisée for just so long before Simons lures me out the door with promises of baseball vendors, Hebrew Nationals, Rosamund’s… “Are you sure you don’t want to go to my fraternity reunion full of skinny tennis wives and Republicans? Because there will be hoooot doooogs.” That boy is wily. Last night, the urge was primal, like I could already smell them cooking, and if I didn’t have them in my mouth in 14 seconds, all hell was going to break loose.

Clearly, Tyrant and I are meant to be.