Somebody has a scrapbook.

A very long time ago, my mom, who's always been amazingly crafty, got caught up in a stamping, scrapbooking, and card-making craze. She'd tell me about her latest crafting group session every time we'd talk, and I'd get more personalized hand-made cards in the mail than I could have occasions to merit them.

When I went home for the holidays, she invited me to come with her to a stamping party. Restraining an eyeroll, I agreed. If nothing else, I thought, it would be a nice bonding opportunity for us.

Except it turned out that I got totally caught up in it, too.

For a while, every present – Christmas, birthday, just because – from her to me was something to add to my own collection of craft supplies. And living my student life of (comparative) leisure, I put that collection to good use.

The last time I touched it was over eight years ago. I'd just finished graduate school and had two weeks to myself before entering a professional world that would leave me with neither the time nor the desire to exercise the other side of my brain.

The last time, that is, until Saturday night. Gilles and I had been invited to a good friend's birthday celebration at a nearby restaurant. Then we found out it would start with a guided tasting of local microbrews. I decided to skip that part and join the group later, for dinner. Then I came down with a vicious cold, which only added to the general malaise I've been feeling lately, and decided to just stay home instead. (And yes, lounging gear was indeed involved.)

There are a few little things that I have not necessarily collected, but gathered, at least. A slender little pee stick, two pink lines present and accounted for. A label from a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Our first photo together as "three." The ultrasound printout.

I also have some empty scrapbooks that my mom has given to me over the years and that I never got around to filling. One of them is simple yet pleasing: black pages and a plain brown kraft paper cover, bound together with black metal rings. A perfect place to guard mementos of a new life just beginning.

So on Saturday night, I started a scrapbook for the baby that just might be here in 33 weeks, if it's not tempting fate too much to say so.

It made me so happy to put it together. I wanted to do something that would make me happy, to enjoy this moment, as so many of you have suggested. I know it's still a risk. We haven't even seen a heartbeat yet. But what else could I have done with that night alone, sat around thinking (or worse, writing, again – yet again) about how anxious and fearful I am that there is no heartbeat, that there will be no baby?

Anyway, if we find out the worst on Friday, there will doubtlessly be other, more pressing regrets that will haunt me more than having devoted an evening to pasting a pee stick (yep) and other related memorabilia into the pages of a scrapbook ... like missing out on an awesome beer-tasting party, for example.