It was recently pointed out to me by my dear observant friend Daphne that when talking about this pregnancy with her, I haven’t once said anything about the fact that there will soon be two new little beings around here (knock on wood) and that I will be their mother. I think the reason for my reticence lies snug inside those two parentheses: knock wood.

I am not, in general, a superstitious person. My grandmother, an orthodox Jew who would have been 100 last week had she lived just two more years, believed in the evil eye. Before getting pregnant, I neither knocked on wood nor spat three times (the Jewish equivalent) when mentioning a hope or a dream. And yet I’ve been a bundle of superstitious tentativeness when it comes to talking about the life forms I’m gestating as real people who will one day exist outside.

Why?

My mother, a therapist, says it’s obvious: “Self-protection, honey,” says she. And it’s true. I’m of advanced maternal age and I’m carrying twins, which automatically throws me into categorical high alert. But I’ve been carrying this unfathomably wondrous primordial soup in my uterus now for almost 27 weeks, and all has unfolded, so far, according to plan. When, I wonder, will I allow myself to hope, to dream, out loud?

I have never, ever wanted something this much. Well, that’s not completely true. I wanted a husband, and then, when the first one didn’t work out so well, I wanted another. I wanted a book contract, and later a second and a third. I achieved those things. I’ve been blessed (if you believe in that sort of thing), and I’ve worked hard to realize my desires. But with pregnancy, it feels different. We did everything in the book—and then some—to get to this point, but from here on in, it’s pretty much out of our hands.

The universe is encouraging, helping gently to push me along. Last week Daphne sent me an envelope in the mail with a note scrawled on the outside: “the first of many hand-me-downs from me!” Inside were two little sets of newborn-sized socks. The gear amasses. My mother-in-law sent baby shoes. A friend from childhood, herself a twin, gave me two matching onesies with images of the Dr. Seuss creatures, “Thing 1” and “Thing 2.” My aunt corralled a gently used double stroller from her physical therapist. My cousin has offered me her breast pump. Soon it will be time to get the babies’ room, currently full of boxes from our recent move, in shape for its forthcoming residents. I’ve been calling it “the second bedroom.” I can barely even say “babies’ room.”

Don’t get me wrong—I’m moved beyond language at the thought that there will be babies. When I see newborns on the street, I choke up. Just thinking about those teeny socks makes me cry. It’s just that somewhere between the concept “babies” and the reality “my babies,” or rather, “our babies,” my thoughts get lost in translation. Lost in gestation, maybe.  (Have any of you, I bet, I hope, felt this way?!)

For now, it’s easier to think of these inexplicable creatures that rumble in my belly as my own private primordial entourage. They’re in there doing their thing, and I’m out here doing mine. I wonder if I should be talking to them more. I try to get my husband to put his mouth near my belly and sing. But we both have trouble, it seems, relating to them as people who can connect to us as “Mom” and “Dad.” It will be different, I know, when we’re all out here living on the same side.

For now, they’ll remain a mystery. They’re abstract to me, but I can’t wait for them to become concrete. Yesterday my friend Kathy suggested I write them a letter. And maybe I will. This is how it might start:

Dear Baby Things (1&2),
Keep cooking. I’m here for you, waiting. You may be my entourage, but I’m your number one fan.
Love,
Your Mama-to-be