Most members of my clan would say at this juncture that 2012 has been a cursed year. There must have been a crack in the sky and rather than the open hand reaching down, as Bowie would say, there was a tight fist that punched, pummelled and pounded relentlessly. We still don’t know if the attack is really over of course; remember we are only six months into the year. I feel as though stress has broken out and spread like an oceanic oil spill all over my life. And just like the environmental clean-ups that follow a natural disaster like the tragic and life-suffocating oil spill, you know that after it is all said and done that the affected ecosystem is never, ever the same. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but I’m here to tell you that the inclusion of the factor of distance weakens that whole social construct.

I was always told that bad things come in threes. A few weeks ago after bad thing number three passed by and four was waiting around the corner with a switchblade, I started to surmise that bad things, much like the design principle, come in odd numbers. So, what was I in for possibly, five maybe seven horrendous occurrences, spots of ugly news, or moments of family anguish? By the time we received shot six, seven, and eight to the ball sack I thought, “Shit, bad things are like 6-packs or 12-packs of cheap beer. You down them just to be rid of them, but then you’re stuck with a week-long hangover.” Probably my best analogy of the year, I just wish I wasn’t right about it. The accountant in me, tallied up the score and sure enough the results were in the universe’s favour and not mine, mind you I didn’t know the universe had challenged me to a fight. Though inevitably, at some point I crashed on my couch with a spot of hot tea and started to rehash all the events that had befallen us since the beginning of the year and came up with the fact that I stated in my opening line. There can be no argument that this year had been cursed and there was “nothing for it,” as my literary best friend would utter in support. Yes, that is a nod to the fact that I lean on my imaginary Samwise Gamgee in times of need. I probably sat for quite some time reviewing my list of grievances because by the time I had my second sip of tea, it was cold. Perhaps it was this jolt of spoiled tea that ignited a new thought in my brain because suddenly I realised the one thing this year that hadn’t been cursed was probably one of the most important. My little Mexi-bean.

Besides the rocky beginning when I didn’t believe I was pregnant, spotting and flipping out – this pregnancy has been easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy since it got comfortable and stuck a flag of conquest in me after month three. Somehow I managed to not gain 75 pounds of pregnancy poundage (like I heard Jessica Simpson gained – oi vey.) I’ve gained less than ten pounds well into my seventh month, and I’m praying I read a horrible lie posing as fact somewhere that told me most women gain an extra 10 to 18 pounds in their last trimester. Considering this, thank goodness I haven’t contracted Gestational Diabetes … and I was convinced it was going to loom over this pregnancy like ominous rainclouds do Vancouver, but so far – no rain. My baby kicks me nightly to let me know it’s still surviving, and that has come to be a comfortable reminder that I’m managing this whole situation pretty well. And it has to be said, that to me that seems like a frigging big deal because really, I am in this alone. It is me and me alone that is responsible for the success of this pregnancy, and being a woman of course I put pressure on myself. An amount of pressure that would crush most men. You read those mommy books, or those supposedly helpful pregnancy guides and you think to yourself how little you know about what’s going on in your own body or you start to list the ‘suggestions’ you’ve neglected to do for you and the tiny succubus (for me, it was those darn folic acid pills. It won’t shock you when I say I just suck at taking pills. Apparently regardless of how important they are.) But forget all that, what we should be telling ourselves is to read the pages where the authors list everything that can go wrong in your nine month gestation period. Everything from late miscarriages and stillborns to syndromes, diseases and defects. You know, I got to the end of that chapter, fell to my knees and thanked whoever was listening that so far, I had been kept far away from that kind of possible tragedy. Suddenly a little heartburn, some irregular pooping and shortness of breath were in other words the easiest pregnancy in the entire world. I’ve got a little miracle angel in this huge boulder belly of mine … I shouldn’t be sweating the small stuff.

I’ve got so little time to go in the grand scheme of things before my child becomes a realization of the real world. For now, the house is so quiet it breeds self reflection, and I used to fear the time when that silence would be obliterated. A few weeks from now this place will hum with activity, love and joy. How can you fear a trade like that? Something I know for sure is that when I am busy with life, especially my new one, it might make it harder for that crack in the sky to catch up with me and pound me into the ground emotionally. My life is the reverse of the old adage that there is always ‘calm before the storm,’ and I just remain hopeful that by August the tide will turn and carry with it all the heartbreak this year has seen. And frankly, one good thing can alleviate the hurt of any number of bad things.

Note to self: chin up.