I place my hand on my stomach. I find myself doing this more and more, much to Adam’s amusement. He’s always said I was going to wind up being that person who rubs her pregnant belly, much as I deride the mothers who I see doing it. I always said that wouldn’t happen. As with most things, I’ve been proven to be full of shit. But I’m not really rubbing and I’m not feeling happily complacent the way most of these women seem to be. It’s more of an odd clash without conflict, reassurance without fulfillment. It’s a coming-together of sorts, but of what sorts I have yet to determine.