“It’s fun being a girl,” my obstetrician said as she handed a peach-colored tissue to me.

I nodded and snorted and hoped all my teary blinking was repelling the mascara from my eyes. A minute earlier, I hadn’t been crying.

I heard Mr. Baby’s heartbeat gallumping in the high 150s. Blood pressure was excellent at 106/54. Weight gain: Yes. Oh, yes. Passed my glucose screen at the last appointment with flying rainbow sparkly colors.

Before my appointment, I had an ultrasound which showed decent fluid and a balled-up baby, sitting breech at the moment. All the news points to a healthy little guy in there. He is measuring 1 week, 4 days ahead.

But I can’t shake the worry. It’s a battle I struggle with on a daily basis. When the OB breezily suggested I could wait four weeks until my next appointment, I fell apart. A different OB, who I had seen at my previous appointment, said I’d start coming every two weeks. I was counting on that. I need to check in on Mr. Baby in an official capacity. Two weeks felt reasonable. Four felt like prison sentence.

So I cried, which surprised me. It surprises me that it surprised me.

It’s fun being a girl, she said.

My life is strange right now. I have a daughter who will be a teenager one month from today and I also have a new baby on the way. Straddling these two worlds is difficult, humbling, amazing. By the time Mr. Baby is choosing his eighth grade electives, I will be so mellow.

I wrote about a recent battle with Aidan over her eighth grade electives. I pushed for the sensible and rational choice. She pushed for the exact opposite. Will she be speaking Spanish or creating abstract sculptures of dachshunds?

Go say howdy over at Mile High Mamas, home of the mamas who live where oxygen and patience are thin.