The sodden bullshit of the idea of correct pregnancy belies one of reproduction’s most difficult components: Pregnancy entails a near-total loss of control. My body aches despite my best efforts to keep it stretched, rested, and nourished. I cannot predict my energy level on any given day any more than I can predict my ability to sleep at night. The urgent need to eat consistently outpaces any desire I might have to maintain a socially acceptable body. Most terrifying is the fact that — short of trying to ingest some nutrients and avoid huffing whippets or cocaine — there’s only so much I can do to ensure the health of my baby. It’s not even possible to assess the “success” of pregnancy by its resulting in a healthy baby or mother, because this would imply that people who suffer pregnancy loss, have babies born with complications, or those who die in childbirth have somehow failed.