Just because it's history doesn't mean it needs to repeat itself.

Eleven months ago, we spent a beautiful cold clear winter's day with friends at their home in a small village not very far from here. Their baby slept and his toddler brother played quietly on the floor while we dined. They'd lived a few years in the US, and although I was happy to see that the wine was poured into nice American-sized glasses that had accompanied them back from their travels, I was newly pregnant and refused with a wink at Gilles.

(On the sizing: wine here is served by the deciliter in vessels that resemble shot glasses. Upon arriving, I was initially pleasantly astonished at the price of a glass in restaurants. Then I learned how much you actually get for that price and my astonishment turned to the unpleasant variety.)

After eating, we all bundled up and went on a walk through the village and neighboring fields. "This will be us next year," we whispered disbelievingly to each other, looking at the baby being pushed along, cozy in his bassinet. "This will be us in two years," we whispered, again, watching the toddler laughingly admire cows and chickens and pigs and other rural Swiss backyard animals. So many beautiful little families walking towards us, on the same path, walking behind us, like ghosts of our dreamed-for future ... "This will be us!"

We were so happy.

Then the next day we had our first prenatal visit and all those dreams – those shameless, foolish certainties – were shattered.

So that is why I felt a little trepidatious about today's 16-week appointment after having spent yesterday, another beautiful cold clear winter's day, sledding and snow-fighting with other good friends and their own little ones, Gilles and I taking a break from the joy and cheer only to whisper disbelievingly to each other, "This could be us next year." And then we did some math and thought about taking what would be a four-month-old sledding and reconsidered, whispering, "Well, this could be us in two years."

The "will" had turned to "could," but the hope was still there, along with the fear, that now-constant companion, that the "could" might be snatched away at any moment, as the "will" was before it.

Even if it is to be – snatched away, that is (and isn't it, for all of us, one day?) – it won't be today. Baby is still there, still living, still thriving – quite well, in fact, if those measurements of head and legs and other baby morsels that showed corresponding gestational ages of 17 and 18(!) weeks mean anything. (Pictures here, soon.)

I'm not religious, but I have made my fair share of demands to the pregnancy gods in the last few months. This wonderful appointment can't be credited to them, though. Given that this weekend we made our first major purchase, financially if not emotionally – an Internet order of a baby carrier that doesn't usually go on sale but that was part of a special site-wide promotion, hence the irresistibility – this seemed more apt: "Please, retail gods, don't let me have to return this item."

The item is still ours, for now and hopefully for years to follow.