Jude was asleep in the car seat as I pulled into the parking lot this morning. In a spot of sunshine, I would wait for him to wake up in time to make it to my stroller-mommy workout.

I listened to him breathing deeply, his fingers gripping a teething ring. As I watched his motionless face, his eyes closed so tight and his mouth open in surrendered slumber, my mind traced a random line back to the final days of my pregnancy.

It was a beautiful, whole and healthy pregnancy that I loved and would do again in a heartbeat. But those last few days of waiting were torture. You see, I had it in my head that Jude would come early (so much for motherly intuition). So when he still hadn’t come by his due date, I was angry, sad and a little worried.

In the waiting days, Jason and I did all sorts of things – some crazy, some sane – to pass the time. We made rosaries and painted model cars. We took walks. We blew up an air mattress and slept in the living room with all the windows open for nearly three weeks. We watched movies and ordered gluten-free pizzas. We did our best to keep our minds off the waiting, but as each day passed without a sign of Jude’s arrival, I couldn’t ignore the growing ache.

I knew I couldn’t be pregnant forever, but as 41 weeks of pregnancy came and went, I began to wonder if I may be the world’s first perpetually pregnant woman.

For me, Advent is something like that. There’s so much promise. So much beauty. So much good just on the horizon. But it can seem to stretch on and on and on as we wait for what’s coming. And we really don’t know exactly what’s coming. We think we know. But we really don’t. And no one can tell us entirely. We just have to wait. And see. And we do all sorts of things – some crazy, some sane – to pass the time.

But there will be a birth. There must be. We – all of us – and creation cannot groan forever.

Cold glass of water.

DVR episode of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.

And the silent rhythm of pre-labor contractions, my breath and the life inside.

We’re getting close, little Jude. Just a few things left to do. Your birth day is almost here.

I sat in my car rubbing my pregnant belly, watching the man like a hawk. He couldn’t have looked more benign, more friendly, more well-meaning. But it didn’t matter. I had become momma bear.

I’ve heard that this is a state of being not uncommon to pregnant women. Toward the final days and weeks of pregnancy, an overwhelming desire to nest and protect take over the most rational thoughts and turn a perfectly normal woman into an aggressive, untrusting creature.

If I’m like that at our apartment in the confines of my locked car with a harmless maintenance man, just imagine me out in public. I am a beast. From insane drivers to the strange man at the gas station who keeps looking at me to the nice cashier at the grocery store who reaches out to touch my belly, it makes no difference. Everyone is a threat. In momma bear world, there is no distinction.

One article I read said, “One of the most dangerous bears that a human can encounter is a mother bear protecting her young.” Another article reiterated that by saying, “A mother bear with cubs is at her most aggressive state.” And finally, Bear.org found that, “attacks by defensive mothers account for 70 percent of human deaths from grizzly bears.”

I’m not sure what the remedy is for momma bear syndrome (MBS). Maybe there is no cure. Maybe it’s chronic. Maybe even when I have little Jude in my arms, the MBS won’t go away. And I suppose that’s not a terrible thing. It’s just maternal instinct, a really good urge that helps us protect our children, even if sometimes we end up protecting them from harmless dangers.

But one thing’s for sure: I have undeniably contracted the MBS bug. And it doesn’t seem to be going away. So the singing maintenance man better watch his back.

I caught a glimpse of myself – my 24-weeks-pregnant self – in the mirror this morning while getting ready. And I started crying.

Because it is beautiful.

The curves.

The ever-growing bulge.

The soft cocoon that is housing my most precious gift.

It is beautiful, this place where he lives and breathes, where his heart beats and legs kick.

Yes, I love my pregnant belly. How could I not love this place that is home and haven to my sweet baby?

“Oh, then you just feel great now, don’t you?” the stranger said as I rested my hand on the growing bulge above my hips. “These are the golden days of your pregnancy,” she said, patting my arm and walking off.

I don’t remember how or why I would have begun talking to a complete stranger about what trimester I’m in, but it must have seemed appropriate at the time. But as I walked away, I couldn’t help feeling that there was something wrong with me.

It seems everywhere I turn, magazine articles, pregnancy books, and random women are telling me that I have now entered the most favored three months of pregnancy.

You’re showing, but you’re not too big yet…

The nausea is gone and now you can really enjoy those cravings…

You’re energized, your hormones are balanced, and you get that pregnant glow…

You’re out of the danger zone; there’s nothing to worry about with the baby now…

Well, if these are the golden days of pregnancy, then somebody please take me back to the dark days of nausea and fatigue in my first trimester. So far, my arrival into glorious second trimester-ness has only allotted me more fatigue than ever, gut-wrenching acid reflux and heartburn, sharp ligament pains, whacked-out hormones, and one quasi-emergency trip to the midwife office to make sure the baby was okay.

Some golden days.

“Maybe there’s a lesson you can learn in all this,” my dad said today. He’s right. There is a lesson. It’s the same damn lesson I’ve fought my whole life to learn. A lesson about expectations.

I live far too much of my life in fear of what others expect and what I expect of myself. If the second trimester is supposed to be golden, well then poo-poo on me if I’m not fully golden… if I’m not feeling what other women felt in their second trimester… if I’m not glowingly energized and dancing a jig. All these expectations for me, for my pregnancy, for my life, must be right. And I must be wrong as I double over from another acid reflux attack.

But what pregnancy, and life, is teaching me is that expectations have absolutely no value. They are good for nothing except increasing pressure and perfectionism while stealing confidence and identity.

So, here’s the deal: Thus far, my second trimester has left me feeling like, well, mustard-green projectile baby poop. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love my precious baby beyond belief. It doesn’t even mean I don’t love being pregnant. It just means that I don’t feel the way everyone (including me) thinks I should feel right now. And that’s ok.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my fourth nap of the day.

As I embark on my tenth week of pregnancy, few things have really surprised me along the journey so far.

I knew I would feel nauseous and tired and irritable.

I knew I would have to endure the uninvited advice of women who choose to share only their horror stories of pregnancy, birth and parenting.

I knew I would have to tolerate the annoying “It’s going to be hard” gazes of weary parents, to which I long to say, “If you think you’re the first person who’s told me parenting is to going to be hard, get in line.”

Most of all, I knew I would love this child before I ever saw his or her face. I knew I would cry when I saw the little heart beat on the monitor. I knew I would read and sing to him or her before ears were even formed.

But what I didn’t expect, what I could have never anticipated, what surprised me most were the men.

“Watch out, there. The weight’s easier to put on than it is to take off,” one acquaintance chuckled as I passed by him at the grocery store.

“And remember, you’re not really eating for two…that’s a myth,” another said as I hovered over turkey and mashed potatoes one evening.

There have been other comments – infuriating, moronic, dimwitted comments – by male strangers in regard to how big (or not big) I should get as well as how often and what I should be eating.

Now thankfully, having fully recovered from anorexia and after dealing with many of my body image issues, these asinine comments don’t leave me one bit insecure about my beautiful pregnant body, my healthy eating habits or my current weight (especially since I haven’t weighed myself in almost two years).

What their comments do is leave me enraged at the expectations men – in general – have for women. Their flippant statements about my body, my weight, my eating habits are quite telling and clearly reflect a bigger issue: the unreasonable standard set for women – pregnant or not.

Unfortunately, Western culture idolizes the stick-figure, paper-thin, two-dimensional women on magazine covers and movie screens. Somehow we have come to worship the airbrushed, perfected, concave stomachs and non-touching upper thighs of 88-pound models and celebrities. But, get this: 100% God’s honest objective truth be told, women were not created to look like porn stars and emaciated supermodels.

Believe it or not, this unrealistic and unrelenting expectation has crept even into pregnancy, where it is actually good and right and beautiful to have extra curves and changing shape and, yes, even an increased appetite (heaven forbid).

I don’t have the answer to this issue. I don’t know how to change the course our appearance-crazed, waiflike-obsessed society is on. I just know one thing: I love my pregnant, growing body. It is absolutely gorgeous. And you know what else I love? I love the new foods I’m trying, foods I haven’t eaten in years simply because I got in a rut of eating familiar favorites. Foods like avocados, Idaho potatoes, sunflower seeds, green olives, chopped walnuts, black beans and brown rice. Yeah, with healthy, vitamin-rich foods like that in the cupboard I’m gonna blow up as big as a house, aren’t I, fellas?

Here’s a deal for you, guys…next time you’re pregnant, let’s talk about your eating habits. About how much weight you shouldn’t gain. About how full your shopping cart is. About your cravings. About how you’re not eating for two. Yeah, we’ll do that.

Next time you’re bloody pregnant.