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There’s something about a pregnant belly that acts as an advice magnet. Women seem to want to share their thoughts on best practices on everything from prenatal nutrition (the dangers of soy; the benefits of powdered gelatin) to how to pick a preschool.

It must be testament to the incredible women who surround me that so far, all the advice I’ve received has been helpful or, at the least, mostly free from judgment. (What advice, good or offensive or ridiculous, have you heard?)

The other day my boss recommended I bring a bottle of my favorite beer to the hospital when I go into labor. There’s nothing like cracking open a cold one after the arduous work of delivery, she said,  especially after nine months of teetotaling. And supposedly the barley used to make beer stimulates milk production. Although I have to double-check this with our midwife, I’ve been having fun fantasizing about which of Oregon’s renowned microbrews I’d bring. (I’m thinking an amber… anyone have suggestions?)

At the baby shower my mom threw me, my mother-in-law advised me to let Peeper get dirty and eat worms. As I skew toward the hippie side of the scale, this won’t be a problem for me, but her wishes that her grandchild be a bug-eating, dirt-smeared kid made me love her all the more.

The best advice I’ve received so far, though, came from another writer whom I interviewed for a story in Glamour. Gabrielle Glaser’s forthcoming book Her Best-Kept Secret made her the perfect source for my article, and she regaled me with researched anecdotes about Prohibition and her time as a reporter for The Oregonian. She wrote me an email the other day asking how my pregnancy was coming along and shared this story:

“When I was nine months pregnant I lived in London and was waddling to the pool every day. Women felt compelled to tell me their horror stories. A lovely Jamaican woman listened quietly as they carried on, then came up to me and said, ‘Don’t you worry, darlin’, you’re going to have an easy time.’ I was so happy I hugged her in my wet suit. And it dawned on me: Everyone in this musty locker room was born. Everyone everywhere has been born!”

Everyone everywhere has been born.

EVERYONE EVERYWHERE HAS BEEN BORN!

I’m thinking of making this motto into a poster and packing it, along with clothes and camera chargers and a coming home outfit for the Peeper, in my hospital bag. I can hang it in the room where I’ll be delivering. When labor is toughest, when I’m most scared, when my mind can’t get around the insane physics of birth, I’ll remember Gabrielle’s revelation.

Somehow, Peeper will get born. Precisely how doesn’t matter. And that is immensely comforting.

Last week, my coworker Stephanie and I were at David Douglas High School recruiting sophomores to apply for the college access program where we work. Even when it’s not being thrown at us (seriously, this has happened to both me and Stef), the lunches tend to horrify me. Students eat corn chips with a mountain of orange cheese-goo or nothing but chicken nuggets and call it a square meal.

As time wore on, and it got farther and farther from the last time I ate, the smells wafting from the industrial kitchen became sublime.

I smelled tater tots.

They looked tasty, too, all crunchy and golden in their tiny paper boats. I wanted to nab one from the students or ask the super-nice lunch ladies for my own serving.

I didn’t join the lunch queue that day, but my craving didn’t subside. So when some friends came over Friday night, I decided to whip up some homemade tots.

The internet let me down in terms of recipes, so I made one up. (Well, as much as you can call my laziness in terms of measuring a “recipe.” I tend to just dump in a bit of this and that.) The quantities below would make about one sheet of tots – enough for 2-3 people, probably. I doubled it and the four of us ate almost all the tots. (Well, two of us were pregnant, but still.) I served it with these amazing black bean burgers.

So. Go, make these. I dare you not to nom them like a pregnant lady.

Catherine’s Not-Cafeteria Tater Tots

Ingredients:

2 large potatoes
A few dashes of milk or milk substitute
Cheddar cheese – about ½ cup grated
Salt and pepper to taste
1 egg
Panko bread crumbs (about 1 ½ cups should be enough, but have more on hand in case you need additional)
Nutritional yeast (approx. 1/8 cup)
Seasonings – I used a Mexican spice blend, but you could just as well go with chana masala and cumin, or an Italian blend. You could also mix up the basic potatoes by adding diced jalapeno, for example.

1. Cut the potatoes into 1-inch chunks and boil until fork-tender. Drain. Mash them with a splash of milk but leave them a bit dry – don’t let them get soupy or overly smooth or else you’ll have a hard time forming them into balls. Let the potatoes cool.
2. Grate the cheese coarsely. Mix in the potatoes. Salt and pepper to taste.
3. Break the egg into a bowl and whisk it until the yolk and white are blended. In a different bowl, mix the panko, nutritional yeast and seasoning. Spray a cookie sheet with oil and set aside. Preheat the oven to 350.
4. Scoop about a tablespoon of potatoes (I use a melon baller for this and it’s perfect!) and roll it between your palms, making a ball. Dip the ball into the egg to coat. Roll the ball in the panko mix to coat. Place the ball onto the cookie sheet.
5. Continue until you’ve used all the potato mixture. You might need to mix up more panko crust.
6. Bake at 350 for 20-25 minutes, flipping the tots halfway through. Then eat up!

With some of the requirements for medical visits during pregnancy, I want to remind the practitioners who they’re dealing with: namely, pregnant women. (Case in point: When I went in for each of our two ultrasounds, the nurse told me to drink 32 ounces of water an hour before the exam—and. not. pee. Trust me, the fear of accidentally wetting yourself puts a slight damper on the excitement of seeing your baby for the first time.)

Another example: the glucose tolerance test, which screens for gestational diabetes. When I went in a few weeks ago for this test, I was asked to fast so they could draw my blood at the beginning of my three-hour appointment to check my fasting glucose levels. It’s dangerous to get between a hormonal, hungry pregnant lady and her meals, so I’m surprised I don’t hear of more confrontations over this.

After skipping breakfast and my usual mid-morning snack, I chugged a small bottle of artificial juice that had enough sugar in it to give Michelle Obama conniptions. It tasted like the fruit punch we used to drink at elementary school birthday parties—the kind that comes in clear gallon jugs and stains your upper lip a color found nowhere in nature.

So it’s little wonder that I nearly fainted during my second blood draw. I get light-headed and weak-kneed just thinking about that first prick (or really anything taking my blood—mosquito bites swell up huge on me and take weeks to heal, and I battled dozens of land leeches sucking at my ankles when I went camping in Thailand). But after eating no food, then drinking more sugar than I’d have in a week, that second vial nearly did me in.

As I sat with my head between my knees, I began to cry. It seemed absurd that tears would be my reaction. I was embarrassed. When I finally wobbled back to my seat, I hoped no one noticed my watery eyes and the Kleenex crumpled in my palm.

Later, after a lunch at the Whole Foods next door, I still felt out of sorts. I felt depleted, like blood wasn’t the only thing I’d lost.

I realized that the screening test wasn’t the only overwhelming part of my marathon midwife visit. During the appointment, a midwife, social worker and facilitator encouraged me and about ten other pregnant women to discuss different concerns that come up late in the second trimester.

How will breastfeeding fit into your lifestyle? Hopefully not painfully.

Have you selected a pediatrician? Baby isn’t born yet. He needs a doctor already?

Who will join you in the delivery room? Oh man, I have to make sure my mom and mother-in-law don’t take their lack of an invite personally.

What sort of contraception will you use after the baby arrives? I have trouble imagining what life will be like in another few weeks, let alone months from now. You’re asking me to think about condoms and IUDs?

I half-expected them to ask which preschool we’d be sending Peeper to.

I felt swamped by enormity of the steps we needed to tackle yet had hardly considered. I was unprepared to confront such important topics that seemed a lifetime away, much less on a brain buzzed with artificial sugar.

My friends, with and without little ones, have kindly reassured me that trepidations of having an actual baby (as opposed to a cute bump) are normal. Thank goodness for their support and understanding.

Yet I wonder why it should be so hard to imagine life with Peeper. Eric and I thought and talked for years before making the decision to start a family. We both want this so much that words fail. But making the transition from pregnant lady to mother short-circuits my imagination.

Since that sugar-hazy day at the midwife’s, the questions they posed make me less panicky. I haven’t felt like fainting since then, either, thank goodness. But completely reasonable inquiries from friends and family, like if we’ve set up a crib yet, have a similar effect: I start to sweat and the periphery of my vision goes a little dark. We haven’t figured these things out already, a fast-talking whisper staccatos in my brain, so what if we completely forget something important? What if we don’t do all the must-dos the books and web sites list? What if we don’t even realize we’re supposed to do something?

What if?

This week, which marks the beginning of my third trimester, has sent me a clear message: Our baby will cry, for good and unreasonable reasons alike, and often there will be little we can do about it.

The other day I came across an article in The Oregonian in the back of a coworker’s car. Tears and an ear-piercing wail are the baby’s best way to communicate and get what it wants—food, comfort, a dry diaper. That part is intuitive.

And it turns out that expecting an infant to cry it out simply won’t work because his brain is “the most neurologically immature of all the earth’s primates,” the author writes. I learned that even babies born at 40 weeks, full-term, are only functioning at a quarter capacity in terms of their brain. Neurons are there, but the synapses—the connections between brain cells—haven’t formed yet.

And how we respond to an infant’s cries can help form those connections for the better. Even when you’re bouncing and shushing and humming to no avail, “the infant is getting this message: Even when no one can figure out why I’m crying, they love me enough to stick it out with me.”

Of course, this crying doesn’t end with the culmination of the so-called fourth trimester, the first few months of a child’s life. I laughed at the random and completely irrational explanations why a little boy was captured throwing a fit in the pithy Tumblr Reasons My Son Is Crying. (“We wouldn’t let him drink whisky.” “We wouldn’t let him open the hotel door and run naked through Times Square.” “I wouldn’t let him drown in this pond.”)

I laugh realizing that our time will come, too. There will be plenty of moments when Peeper’s onslaught of tears will come from reasons so ridiculous (“The milk isn’t juice”) that humor will be the only way to stay sane.

Now if only we can remember that when we’re sleep deprived and half-deaf from the screaming in our ears.

I’ve been reading aloud to Peeper on and off for the last trimester or so. I picked one of my favorite young adult books, Hounds of the Morrigan by Pat O’Shea, which tells of two young Irish protagonists who embark on an adventure to prevent the Great Queen from destroying everything good in the world.

Although Peeper probably isn’t picking up on the plot (even with my laughable attempts at an Irish accent), our baby can hear me—and may even learn the rhythms of this particular book. A now-famous study by the University of South Carolina’s Anthony DeCasper found that when mothers read Dr. Seuss books to their babies in utero, their children later preferred the sounds of Seussian silliness to other kids’ books.

The fact that Peeper will learn to recognize my voice is reason enough for me to read out loud—even if I probably sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher, according to a Penn State psychologist. But the roots of my reading extend further than science.

I’ve been looking forward to reading to my kids ever since I decided I wanted to have a family. My parents read to me growing up, but the strongest memories I have are of Beth, my older sister, reading to me and my younger sister, Amy.

She started a tradition during the summer when I was about 12. Our mom had just been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and my world had been turned inside-out. One day, Beth suggested reading to us while Amy and I cleaned our room (probably as a way to get us to undertake the detested chore). We picked up clothes and toys as Beth began reading The Hobbit.

I lost myself in Tolkien’s tale. Sure, it was a welcome distraction from taming the disaster area of our room. On a deeper level, though, I think the fantasy provided a much-needed escape from the horrors of chemotherapy, surgery and the uncertainty that my mom could die.

Beth continued reading to us even after the end of Bilbo’s quest, and after my mom was finally declared cancer-free. We tore through The Princess Bride, The Last Unicorn, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and my beloved Hounds of the Morrigan, among a whole shelf of others. Later, we read all seven Harry Potter books aloud—including one over Skype when Beth lived in Singapore and Amy and I lived on opposite coasts of the US.

So now, before I go to sleep, and especially if I’m stressed, I’ll crack open Pat O’Shea’s novel and read a few pages to Peeper. The practice won’t turn him or her into a baby Einstein, as some products claim to do. But perhaps it’ll provide some comfort and spark a later love of stories. I can’t imagine a better gift.

As I type this, I’m distracted by my green, pink and yellow fingertips. I easily get impatient with those metal dippers that come in a Paas pack, so at Easter, the eggs aren’t the only things that end up dyed.

I spent a sunny Easter morning with friends, and the hostess’s 5-year-old daughter, Aria, and I got some quality time in decorating eggs. It was one of my favorite activities as a kid, so I was happy that my enthusiasm matched Aria’s.

The day also got me to thinking that this is our last Easter without children. Granted, it hasn’t been a particularly important holiday for me and Eric, but I have a feeling it’ll become more central once a little one’s around to delight in the Easter bunny and chocolate eggs. As a colleague wrote to me, “While it may be difficult to imagine on a day like today, every Easter from here on will be brighter, more colorful and even more full of joy (albeit not always as serenely quiet).”

When we have our own family, we’ll get to start traditions or continue the ones we’ve inherited from family. When I was growing up, my mom would hide our baskets around the house. So to get our plastic grass-filled baskets, we’d scour the closets and pantry and even the oven. I loved the search and the reward (Peeps!) in the morning—something I hope to pass along to our tiny one.

Traditions can start later, too. When we lived in Berkeley, a small group of us threw an Easter party, intending to finish with a game of croquet on the lawn. The weather rained out that plan—but not to be deterred, we simply brought the game inside. We smacked the brightly colored balls around household obstacles like garbage cans and table legs to hit improvised wickets—in this case, post-it notes.

That afternoon was so fun that we began a Friday croquet league all through the spring (though we moved it outdoors), and memories of our silly and smack-talking croquet matches remain some of my favorites from our time in California.

With holidays being a blank slate for our soon-to-arrive Peeper, the possibilities are exciting. We get to shape the rituals that Peeper will look back on years from now. The beauty of choosing how to observe a holiday lies in blending treasured family traditions, recently adopted activities and the new practices that will surely pop up once the kiddo joins us.

I wonder—what are your favorite holiday traditions? Which ones do you want to pass to your family, and which ones could you do without?

Actresses like Emily Deschanel and Alicia Silverstone are catching flak for steering clear of the moms-to-be stereotype of pickles-and-ice-cream cravings, or at least the ice cream part. They are among the celebs who don’t give up a vegan lifestyle once there’s a baby on board.

“A woman’s body—and what she puts into it—are generally regarded as fair game for public speculation. Throw in a fetus and it’s open season,” writes Mary Elizabeth Williams on Salon.com. Both vegan and veggie women in the spotlight are criticized for endangering the life of their unborn child by avoiding animal products or meat.

Many people have asked if I’m sticking to a vegetarian diet in my pregnancy, which I am. Thankfully, I haven’t had to confront the kind of vitriolic judgment veggie or vegan pregnant celebrities have; most friends are supportive.

(An exception: When I spent most of my days in the first trimester trying not to puke, my brother blamed it on the lack of meat. “Baby wants steak,” he told me. But he was joking. I think.)

When I asked, my midwife concurred with researchers and doctors: A vegetarian diet is perfectly safe for a developing baby, as long as you are careful—just as meat-eaters have to be. I get plenty of protein and probably more of the important vitamins and other nutrients baby needs. (And, for the record, little ones can do just fine on meatless meals, too, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics. Eric and I haven’t decided what will be off-limits for Peeper yet.)

I’ve been lucky that my cravings and aversions have (mostly) kept me on the straight and narrow. Before morning sickness really hit, all I wanted was salad. I’d make a big one with all the fixings—pear, tomato, cuke, bell pepper, strawberry, red onion, nuts, topped with this amazing dressing, which tastes a lot like Yumm sauce—and end up eating the. Entire. Thing. It got to the point where my brother-in-law suggested we name baby Kale. (Mmm. Kale.)

More recently, my veg cravings are back (among the occasional “need” for fries or a milkshake). My favorite is a lettuce-less salad of avocado, bell pepper, cucumber, onion and tomato drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Try it tonight—I promise you’ll love it, whether you’re carnivorous or not.

I’m fortunate, too, that I live in a place where no one startles when I tell them I’m vegetarian (or am seeing a midwife instead of an OB, or that I plan to give birth without medication). In many places in the country, it’s much more difficult to get by with an “alternative” lifestyle. So I’ll keep fixing my salads, keeping Baby Kale nourished and enduring the relentless stream of Portlandia jokes. That I can do all this in relative peace is just one more benefit of not being famous, I guess!

If I had a dollar for every time I heard a reference about that scene in Alien, we wouldn’t have to worry about the sticker price for off-road strollers or non-VOC crib mattresses. Yet the Ridley Scott horror clip has become curiously appropriate now that we can see Peeper kicking and practicing backflips in utero.

A few nights ago Eric was waiting with his hand on my belly (Peeper had turned shy and still the last few times he’d tried it) when he noticed he could feel where the baby was—in this case, all the way to my right side. I lifted my shirt up to see and that’s when our cage fighter-in-training  pulled its best xenomorph impersonation.

The undulations and jabs beneath my skin were mesmerizing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Now whenever Peeper’s having a particularly active few minutes, I try to sneak a peek.

Eric is still feeling the effects of my bump’s resemblance to the Alien scene, though. “I could watch this all day, but it kind of creeps me out,” he said.

Sure—but in an amazing way.

Here’s hoping Alien-Peeper and I have a better outcome than the crew of the Nostromo.