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The odds are not good. It is unlikely that we make it to be born with every­thing even remotely intact. I won­der if the num­ber of cor­rect things that have to hap­pen to make a life, is known. We talk as if two peo­ple lov­ing each other is enough. That is short­hand for the bil­lions of algo­rithm check­points that have to be met, the untold num­bers of ”deci­sions” (no one is mak­ing them) that have to be made cor­rectly. It is some­thing we don’t under­stand. By we, I mean sci­ence. I don’t under­stand it one bit. I don’t under­stand the love really or the sci­ence, which proves you don’t have to know much to make some­thing unbe­liev­ably complex.

I saw our baby’s arm mov­ing on an ultra­sound yes­ter­day, saw it flip over, saw the heart­beat. I felt my heart beat in a way I have not felt before. It is true, every­thing is dif­fer­ent. It is liv­ing an unlikely life already, call­ing home an unlikely place. It drinks ”water” (its own urine really) and grows on that. Huh? It is draw­ing sugar out of Rose’s blood to make all those meta­bolic deci­sions. Etc. The won­der of it is infi­nite, I guess.

It is mak­ing its own home now. Even before it really makes a brain, it makes a nest. Shel­ter, food. These things are its work for­ever now. We will help, but still. Three times a day or more or less, we stop what­ever we are doing are refuel, we stop to pee, we have to sleep, we stretch, move our bod­ies, get them clothed, wash them, groom them, tan them, oper­ate on them, fill them with drugs, herbs, smoke. We stroke them, and gen­er­ally do what­ever it takes to keep them run­ning. Between all that we do other things that we think are important.

If I get real about what I am sup­posed to be doing, I think that tak­ing care of this lonely ves­sel I call me should be the top of the list. Rest. Be. Expe­ri­ence this life in this body. Right this minute. And also, who is that is look­ing back at this body of mine and won­der­ing about the per­son liv­ing in it. When does our baby get that part? For now, its heart is clip­ping along at about 160 beats/minute and it is lit­er­ally rac­ing into life, inevitably, perfectly.