It does happen.

Another doctor's visit today. Weight gain slight (that's good), blood pressure good, baby heartbeat strong and audible. Eighteen weeks along tomorrow.

And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.

It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?

Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.

Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.